Here's to Happy Women...

How can it be that a woman writing about her first hot flash in “ Beware the freezer burn! ” can be accused of being a cougar? Not of the four-legged variety—but an urban cougar, which is loosely defined as a savvy chica who enjoys the company of younger males. That’s right, yours truly just heard that someone, a pot calling the kettle tarnished , warned the sweet girlfriend of a handsome young man about little (and apparently) not-so-old me! It seems that I was on the hunt and stalking my prey, or rather hers. Of course, this is funny in a sick way. My alleged prey is like a nephew to me. My friends, including the Husband, think this is hilarious. The woman who issued the warning is definitely not a friend, nor does she know me—or even have the slightest idea of whom I am or what makes me tick. If she knew me and made this accusation, then I guess it wouldn’t be as funny. As it is, this really made me laugh when I heard about it…after my first, initial “ICK!” Why do people ma...

I believe that English is o ne of the most difficult languages to learn for non-natives. It’s not because of the conjugation of the verbs. After all, Spanish has the subjunctive conjugation, such as, “If I were a rich woman.” It’s not the exceptions to the rules ei ther, as in, “‘I’ before ‘e,’ except after ‘c’…and a host of other h ei nous examples that we don’t learn about in grammar school. And it’s not because of the different regional accents and nonstandard colloquialisms that are sprinkled in local dialects, state to state, and country to country. Do y’all get my drift? I ain’t aiming to confuse. Why then, do I believe that we have a difficult language to learn? To begin with, to err is human, but to receive riches as an h ei r to a fortune is as divine as breathing clean, clear air on a sunny afternoon. Get it? Err, h ei r and air? And an “e” before “i” without a “c” in sight—or do I mean site ? Whew…that was close . Should I close now and go about my business,...

My father taught me many valuable life lessons... including t he pitfalls of debating politics or religion with friends, telling how much you paid for something, or boasting about how much you earned. When I was five he taught me how to ride a motorcycle—reinforcing the benefits of always looking forward . He also taught me how to fish, or rather the patience to not catch fish. All of these lessons have served me well through the years, but there is one thing my father taught me that I hold closest to my heart. He taught me how to play cards. This may seem an odd choice as a favorite, but card-playing taught me how to read people and how to bluff. Having spent most of my adult life in advertising, reading people and bluffing are the tools of my trade. Thanks to my father, I am well equipped. A year ago, I surprised everyone (including myself) and went on an extended sabbatical to become—just what the world needs—another writer. When I found that I missed some elements of the ad g...

‘Tis the season for laughter, yelps and squeals. ‘Tis the season for echoes of “Marco Polo” and belly dives into the community pool by the neighborhood children. ‘Tis the season for remembering when we were young, and our children were young, and others who were not so young (and those without children) weren’t tolerant of the laughter and yelps and squeals that echoed off the chlorine-saturated water…resonating with gleeful abandon the uninhibited joy that only those so young can experience on a hot August afternoon. It’s all about tolerance and understanding. There wasn’t much of either at my community pool the other day. Youngsters playing in the pool inadvertently splashed my friend and me. I laughed at their antics, but my friend…not so much. She got up in a huff, threw a few dirty glances and left. It seems that she didn’t want to get wet. Yet she was sitting and reading poolside. How does the saying go? If you don’t want to get burned, stay away from the fire? I say, “If you ...

I think that whoever invented the bra should be punished…or at least forced to wear a bra for 18 hours. Since I’m sure that the actual person who invented the bra has already left this world, my point may be moot, but I trust you get my drift. As for the true inventor of the bra, there has long been a debate, fueled by rumor, myth and the wonderful songstress, Bette Midler. Was it Mr. Titslinger or Mr. Brassiere who came up with the idea that we needed to manhandle our bosom s into these contraptions? I’m guessing it was Mr. Brassiere, thus the wonderfully descriptive name of the “bra.” If it was the industrious Mr. Brassiere who invented the brassiere, I give him one nod of appreciation—going “bra”-less sounds much better than going “tit”-less. Regardless of the name, I’m betting the inventor of the bra was a man. I am as sure of this as I am that the inventor of the seatbelt was also a man—and possibly related to Mr. Titslinger or Mr. Brassiere. I refer to the shoulder harnes...

I’ve recently decided that life is too short t o have a grocery basket that won’t turn to the right —regardless if I am picking up groceries for the week or it’s just a quick stop for milk and eggs. Sure, I used to suffer through with the status quo, but not anymore. Just the other day, I signaled to the store manger and asked that he help me transfer my food to another cart—one that wasn’t a constant source of irritation and a danger as I couldn’t get out of the way of the mother who was quickly bearing down on me with three children in tow and enough groceries to feed an army. This was an epiphanic moment for me. It was one in which I consciously gave way to my subconscious—that little voice that’s been whispering “quality versus quantity chica” for the past three years. When I was working 95 plus hours a week, all I could think about was a safe and secure retirement—knowing that with the California lifestyle I would most probably work in some way or another for the remainde...

There’s a good reason the saying, “Different strokes for different folks” has been around for a long time. It’s true—especially when it comes to affairs of the heart. The dynamics between men and women have been analyzed since the beginning of time—and yet they continue to mystify. What works for one couple apparently doesn’t work for all couples. Sure, there are similarities, but some couples relate and communicate in what I can only describe as a foreign language—complete with foreign customs. Foreign to me, that is. That’s fine, because what works for someone else doesn’t have to work for me. It’s not my business, not my life. So it goes that I have my own pat answer at the ready whenever someone says, “I would never put up with that, would you?” I respond consistently with “It works for them.” Now, whether or not it actually works for them, I’ve no clue. Every couple has different boundaries, different rules, and different sensitivities. There are the “don’t sweat the s...

I’ve come to the realization that some people are born complainers. Not born to be wild, but born to whine. They complain and whine about everything. If they have to work an extra few hours, they complain. If they have to work on a weekend occasionally, they complain. If they don’t have enough work to keep busy, they complain. If it’s not sunny enough outside, they complain. If it’s gloriously sunny, it’s “too” sunny. If it hasn’t rained in a while, they complain. If it rains a lot after a long dry spell, then it’s raining “too” much. Everything is an inconvenience—or injustice—that they take to heart, as if meant specifically for them. What amazes me about complainers is they complain about things beyond their control—or anyone’s control for that matter. The things they complain about which are in their control, they do little about—except, of course, complain. These are the folks that are lucky enough to go on a nice vacation and then come back and tell you all the ba...

Recently, I inadvertently sent my son contraband. The custom officials confiscated the forbidden goods, but I’m certain they didn’t just toss it away, unless it was while tossing a nice green salad—a nice big and expensive salad. I was trying to give our youngest a little taste of home—home, home on the ranch. He’s in Australia for a semester and won’t be back until the end of July. Needless to say, he’s having the time of his life, but once in awhile he gets a twinge of homesickness. Not so much for us folks back home, but for the flavor of home. When I spoke with him a few weeks back, he said he was missing Mexican food—more specifically, salsa and tortillas. Then he said he was missing his favorite salad dressing—Ranch dressing. As his birthday was coming up (and Easter), I decided to send him a care package...knowing it would be expensive. I justified the cost by telling myself that at least he would eat a few greens with his Fosters. So off my husband and I went to...

Why is it that we have some friends who make us feel good about ourselves, and then we have other friends who always tend to bring us down? And just like a marriage, for better or for worse, we hang in there with the downers for as long as possible. Faithful until the end. These days, many friendships outlast marriages. This makes me wonder...do I make my friends feel good about themselves? Or am I a downer friend? After all, I’m opinionated, pragmatic, and if you ask me a question, I generally tell the truth…as I believe it to be. On the plus side, this means that I will always tell my friends when their mascara is smeared or if they have a poppy seed or a piece of spinach in their teeth. But honesty is not always popular, and sometimes difficult to maintain— especially when a friend is going through a rough time. When friends have a problem, they generally want you to tell them only what they want to hear—and that’s usually what you do, because you don’t want to cause them mor...