Is There Such A Thing As Kosher Hamstrings?

I cannot help but notice that for the last two weeks the media has been reporting more than usual on the state of celebrity bodies in this country.

Not the G-20 Summit, not so much other acts of "compassionate capitalism" to quote the Huffington Post, not the drowning auto industry, not the staggering unemployment numbers many states are experiencing.

But check the cover of every magazine papering the check out line in your local supermarket and you will see exactly what I mean.

Some of us more shallow folk are totally obsessed with various forty year olds with perfect bodies, and twenty somethings that-gasp!-had their cellulite airbrushed.

Poor Kim Kardashian! I personally love her, we're both Middle Eastern girls that love our dramatic eye makeup and shopping. We also have the same body; except mine is fast forwarded about twenty years. That's actually all we have in common, but as far as I'm concerned that's enough for a good relationship. She's my non-lesbionic girl crush and is totally perfect as far as I'm concerned. Cellulite and all. If you have booty; you have cheese. It may be a little; it may be a lot, but it's a fact of life after a certain age.

Somehow some photos of her were released without the airbrushing, and they showed that she has some dimply skin on her outer thighs. She handled it way better than I would have; she just sort of shrugged it off. I would have had a full blown nervous breakdown. However, she does have more practice with this sort of scrutiny. She's lived through having a sex tape released to the public. Now don't everyone get all moral on me, you know as well as I do that y'all didn't buy those expensive cameras to record your family vacations and holidays. There's only so much footage you can handle of your three year olds birthday party. And how many times can you re-watch that?

After looking at Kim's before and after shots, I once again thanked God that I was not famous. I hope to be famous one day, but I promise you that all you're going to get is my head shot and maybe an autographed copy of my book. The bikini shot of that one post is the last time I will probably put on a bathing suit this decade. A good writer is one with a fat ass from all that sitting at a computer composing their magnum opus. A great writer has earned enough for liposuction. A popular, bestselling author has made enough to remake their entire image. Not mentioning any names, Mary Higgens Clark or Nora Roberts.

I was inspired to write this post today because I have suddenly become aware of my hamstrings. You know that muscle on the back of your thigh, the one that is supposed to curve out in a gentle "C" shape. Now I go to spin class and weight training, dance, run, or whatever it takes to stay in shape. However, there is a girl at my gym with the most perfect hamstrings ever. If by chance you are that girl; I apologize for staring at your butt right now. I swear I'm not some middle aged trolling gym dyke, but I am a total fan of your backside. I aspire to have one just like it; it's like the Gucci "Hysteria" bag of bootys. It is perfect and looks exactly like a mixing bowl attached to your lower back. I watch you lunge with your healthy knees across the gym floor in total envy; my knees don't have enough collagen in them to bend more than a few times. They scream in protest after five squats. However, if they come up with a shot for that, I'm sure I'll be first in line to get filler for my knees as well.

So I've spent the last few days researching ways to build my hamstrings and glutes up, without lunging or squatting. I'm trying to do knee friendly exercises, though when I'm at home alone I do lunge through the house. If I waver and fall here, no one can see me. If by chance you are a neighbor; this explains all the bobbing up and down you may be seeing through my dining room window. P.S. Mind your own damn business.

I don't bother with the anti-cellulite creams anymore, as far as I'm concerned they're a waste of money. I did however get a seaweed wrap and followed it with a spray tan today to make my legs look a little better. My spouse is getting ready to come home this Thursday for his bi-annual conjugal visit, and I try to look really cute for him. I've never spray tanned before as I normally tan naturally. I'm one of those people that can get a tan in about twenty minutes and my normal skin tone is much darker than most people's. I can stand in front of the open refrigerator door and walk away with tan lines. But that comes with a high price; the dreaded melasma that I have been treating for the last year. Now that I have my spotted skin under control; I avoid real and artificial sunlight like a vampire.

So I went to Endless Summer, one of Valdosta's tanning salons. It amazes me that anyone actually gets in a tanning bed anymore. I should have taken a "before" picture of my skin and made a flyer of it to leave in tanning salons. I've had to spend an enormous amount of money to fix the damage I created by reckless tanning; an amount so large I will only tell it to you if you privately email me, because my husband reads my blog and would SHIT himself if he knew the exact figure. All those years of being complimented on my deep, dark tan don't even begin to touch the efforts that my dermatologist and aesthetician have made to fix all the damage I did. But as we all know, tanned fat looks slimmer. Normally I would rub in some self tanning lotion, but I wanted to be tanned everywhere and not have the Cheeto-colored palms or streaking that announce cheap self tanner to the world.

Spray tans are yuccky! Why didn't anyone tell me this? I'm all sticky right now and smell strongly of soy sauce. Of course I ran into someone I knew at my weekly trip to the Wal-Mart, and she looked much cuter than I did with my sticky, smelly self. I gave her an air hug and she commented on my "odor". I also wish someone had told me to wipe out the inside of my nose with a Q-tip, as it was crusted with drippy brown tanning spray. I'm still waiting for my new golden color to develop while I'm working on this. I just checked the back of my legs and I still see lumps. Know that this evening while you are relaxing in front of your t.v, I will probably be lunging up and down the length of my porch in an effort to create those perfect hamstrings that I crave.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post. I have more beauty rituals to attend to before my spouse arrives on Thursday. The final count down is on!

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

The Little Black Dress

Back when my I was still dating my kinder half I made the mistake of asking him the most loaded question any woman can ever ask a man. No, no, not “Do you love me?” or "Does my ass look fat in these pants?" Like most women I was curious what his ultimate sexual fantasy was, at least one he would be willing to say out loud to me anyway. Remember, at this point we were still dating, so there was the remotest possibility that I might fulfill this depending on how depraved it was. He's never been much of a talker, so he had to think carefully about what he was willing to reveal since we were still in the embryonic stage of our relationship and he didn't want to scare me off. He finally was able to get out that he fantasized about being seduced by a woman in a rubber dress and tall leather boots. I was a bit disappointed as I had actually been fishing for something we could do in the next few moments, if it wasn't too weird or anything. I did have some boots, but sadly no conveniently handy rubber dress. I briefly considered a black garbage bag; I'm good at accessorizing and perhaps with the right belt it might have worked, but decided instead to go look for the correct outfit instead as there is nothing I love more than clothes shopping. Okay perhaps shopping for fetish wear was something new, but shopping is shopping.

He then deployed the next week to Iraq; it was to be the first of many deployments over the years and I began my shopping exploration for the perfect little rubber dress. As small as our town is we do have a lingerie shop that stocks such items; it's hidden on a small street near our only mall and only patronized after dark by local residents. I parked my car at a restaurant nearby and walked through the back way to get there like every other resident of my gossipy little village does. Sure enough they did stock an entire wardrobe of rubber clothing; obviously my new love was not the only freak in town. For $49.95 plus tax I purchased a pantyhose sized package featuring a rubber clad seductress on the front, plus it came with a bottle of roll on “rubber shine” to give it that “wet” look. The salesgirl told me to apply the shine potion after I got the dress on. She stressed that part, and later this would come in handy. I drove home and threw the package in a drawer and waited for my sweetheart to get home.

In June he arrived home safely. I gave him a few weeks to rest up before I sprung my surprise on him because though I'm willing to get a little freaky; I don't want to seem too eager about it, as that is trashy. Finally the designated night arrived. The Teenager, who at that point was still the Pre-Adolescent, was at a friend's house for the weekend. I made sure I didn't eat any bloating sort of meals that day so my stomach looked slightly flatter than usual. It was time to debut my new dominatrix look. I hadn't figured out what I would do with my hair yet, dammit I should have bought a wig or something. I was sporting a chin length bob and it looked really cute with headbands, but when I mentally put my head on the package model's rubber clad body it didn't quite mesh.

I slipped into our bathroom while he was involved with the History channel, dress and boots tucked under my arm. Quietly locking the door I opened the package and was instantly assailed by the strong smell of rubber; it smelled just like a new shower curtain. I opened the window to attempt to air out the odor before I put it on. Pulling the dress from the bag was the next big surprise; it was about the size of a a bicycle inner tube and had a thick, rubber band like strap that I guessed went around your neck. I looked at the picture of the model again and tried to figure out how in the hell she packed all her junk in this little tube of rubber I was holding. The dress came with instructions, which should have given me an idea of how bad this was about to get. The directions warned me to make sure that my skin was completely dry and that I should remove all lotions or oils and then should apply talcum powder to all of my exposed skin. I got a towel and buffed off all the glitter lotion I had just liberally applied, then patted baby powder lightly all over my skin. Then I made my first attempt to get in the dress by stretching it over my head. Damn, why did I wait to try this thing on five minutes before I planned on launching it? Why didn't I do this months before, it's not like I had anything else to do while he was gone. I managed to get it over my head without pulling out too much hair as it felt like a giant rubber scrunchie, but then I got it stuck mid chest. I managed to get an arm down and reached for the baby powder to apply in an effort to ease the transition. The dress had rolled up like a vacuum cleaner belt around my chest and was squeezing off my oxygen. I was beginning to go from red faced to blue and that dress was not going to budge an inch farther down. I managed to escape and decided to bring it up from the bottom instead. I stepped in and started easing it up a centimeter at a time, pausing to powder myself liberally every few inches or so. At this point I was starting to resemble a breaded cutlet and the powerful rubbery stench of the dress was making me dizzy and nauseated. I got it up enough to where I could stretch the halter strap around my neck and turned toward the mirror in excitement to view my new dangerous and seductive rubber clad persona.

I did not look one thing like the girl in the picture on the package, in fact I was probably the most sexually unappetizing person I had ever witnessed. She had curves; I was completely compressed into a dusty black rubber tube with my now crazy and static filled hair sticking straight up in the air. Turning to the side was not much better; my boobs were not flattered by being squashed downward by rubber and my rear end was now even with my back. I looked at the picture again for inspiration as I fluffed, puffed, rearranged, and nothing was moving. Plus there was powder all over this horror. Time for the “rubber shine”; maybe that was what was missing. I screwed off the top and started to roll the shine over the dress. It smelled like Armor-All and turned the powder to a greasy grayish sludge. This was not going anywhere like I expected, but there was no turning back now. I was now sweating from the exertion of wrestling on the dress, covered with baby powder and lemon scented silicone. I fixed myself up as best I could, slipped on the high heel boots, and exited the bathroom to go seduce my man. What I then learned was that any step caused the bottom of dress to snap up like a broken window shade, landing around my waist and compressing any stomach and rear fat into a bulging horror. Pulling the hem down as hard as I could with both hands, I began to glide toward the living room like a bound foot geisha. I made it to the bedroom door and knew I did not dare to try to get any further.

I posed in the frame of the doorway and cleared my throat loudly to get my man's attention. He had better still be awake after all I had just gone through. He turned around in his armchair, coffee cup in hand and gasped with what I hoped was lust, though it may have been confusion at the rubber tube I seemed to be encased in. He got up and started heading toward the bedroom, and I backed up as quickly as possible and flung myself backward onto the bed before the dress attacked again. I then arranged myself on the bed holding on to the hem with my greasy hands; trying to get a deep breath in the constricting dress. He flopped down next to me, and ran his hand down the front of the dress. “What is this greasy stuff?” he asked, wrinkling his nose as he wiped his hand off on his jeans, “And what’s that smell?” “Never mind that” I purred in what I hoped was a seductive tone, “How does it look?” He answered by trying to pull me closer without actually touching the dress again or touching any part of his body to it.

It was then that the sultry heat of the moment was shattered by the embarrassing sound of a huge ripping fart. It was the dress. It formed an air bubble between my ribcage and naval that expelled an explosion of sound every time I moved. I pushed him off of me and pressed the bubble that had formed over my abdomen again. FFFLLLAARRPP! went the dress. I began to laugh hysterically. I had spent over fifty dollars and an hour in the bathroom to purchase the world's largest and loudest whoopee cushion. I amused myself for several minutes making the dress expel air noisily and laughed so hard I began to snort and lose consciousness. My husband looked sadly disappointed, as the moment for him was most definitely gone for the evening.

“Why do you smell like a tire?” he asked. “Never mind” I answered “Let me get this thing off, I've got to have a shower”. “Need help?” he offered hopefully, still trying to salvage the mood.

I struggled out of the dress almost as much as I struggled to get in it. I have never perspired as much in an exercise class as I did getting in and out of that damn dress. It then was wadded up and thrown into the garbage. I'm sure I probably could have found a use for that awful thing, maybe to patch the garden hose or a scooter tire. We never discussed the abysmal end of my husband’s poor fantasy either, as there was just no need. I had killed it dead in that dress. It turns out later that he had never seen a dress like that on a “real” woman, only in a magazine and that explained quite a bit. I thought about explaining the art of airbrushing, and that they probably cut the dress up the back to mold it to the model in the photo, but that was just stabbing the already dead horse and I hated to destroy all his fantasies. I did find out many years later that it wasn't a rubber dress he found sexy. We were in a store once and he hopefully showed me a dress he thought was really hot. It short, black and was constructed of Lycra, Spandex, or some other hideous material that should never be seen on any woman outside the confines of a gym. I smiled politely at it and pointedly turned back to the rack of cute Milly dresses I was perusing.

I have enough little black dresses for now.

Please Pass The Purple Drank

God I miss Lil' Wayne. And you're surprised why? Don't profile me; just because I'm a middle aged, suburban housewife doesn't mean I don't roll with Lil' Weezy. I probably know most of the lyrics to all fifty billion songs he has released in the last eight years and have the Carter trilogy on my IPod, as well as several tracks he's collaborated on. Remember I have the Teenager to drag me kicking and screaming into all the cool music he and his friends listen to. Whether I wish to be dragged or not is another story.

I became aware of Lil' Wayne last spring after the Teenager got his learner's permit. We would go out every evening around seven or so to practice his driving skills. In the beginning I did the traditional driving lessons; both hands on the wheel, no music, heavy utilization of the invisible passenger side braking system. Eventually I relaxed, the Teen turned out to be a natural driver. It must have been all those years of driving games he and my husband played on their various gaming platforms. It was like he had been born in a car, perhaps it was observing me driving him to his various activities all those years. Anyway, he's a great driver.

Once I relaxed, we started to have a good time driving around our little town every evening. Remember, I live in a place where there are large stretches of literally nothing, you can drive for miles and not see any signs of civilization. So I finally relented on the music, obviously he wasn't going to spend an eternity driving in silence or or listening to my local NPR affiliate. Which is how I discovered the phenomenon that is Lil' Wayne.

I don't care for rap or hip hop. I was just too old when it started to really blow up, and I never really have gotten it. I went to see a few up and coming acts at the Fox Theater on New Year's day with a very young date. Nothing like loud music to soothe your New Year's hangover. It was the longest three hours of my life, but I had promised this guy I would go with him. He was eighteen, I was around twenty-seven. He was the younger brother of one of my good friends and had the balls to ask me out in front of his teen buddies. I wouldn't have made him look bad in front of his friends for anything which is how I ended up in the equivalent of musical hell. That was the last time I listened to rap for the next seventeen years.

Which leads us to 2008 and Lil' Wayne, or Lil' Weezy, as he is called sometimes. A quick bio is necessary here. He's from New Orleans, is around twenty six or so, openly smokes lots of marijuana, and has written and produced about a billion songs, all of which are huge hits. If you are under the age of twenty five, you probably know the words to most of them. Especially if you are a young middle class white male. All the little boys in my neighborhood became "hood" in 2008; nothing like driving a group of boys to golf practice knowing they are throwing "gang signs" out the windows of my station wagon.

Also, I apologize if you pulled up beside us at a traffic light last spring. As the air conditioning went out in my wagon around 2007, we rely on power windows to cool us off. Nothing like sitting at a light with the salacious lyrics of "Lollipop" pouring out. Yes, do call me and I will make it juicy for you. Seriously, that was part of the chorus of one of Lil' Wayne's biggest hits. I won't print the rest of the lyrics as they are just too much even for me, and I grew up with Two Live Crew (remember "Me So Horny"). They sure seem tame now compared to the dreadlocked Lil' Weezy.

Lil' Wayne songs became the soundtrack to my life last year, though I give the Teenager some credit for taste and discretion. He would fast forward through some of the songs that were especially offensive or apologize if he forgot to. Thankfully, I did not understand exactly what Lil' Wayne was saying most of the time and could tune him out. Unfortunately, like everything the Teenager likes, Lil' Wayne became an obsession. When the Teen is into something, it takes over all aspects of his life. He eats, drinks, walks, talks, and purchases everything that has to do with the object of his passion. He learns everything about it and educates you as well. Over the years I have become an expert on dinosaurs, Pokemon, Dragonball-Z, Little Big Planet, Habbo Hotel, skateboarding, expensive cameras, air soft guns, and now finally Lil' Wayne. I should probably be glad he speaks to me at all, as most parents don't know what their kids are into.

During our rides we would talk about his day while listening to this horrible music. Driving up and down I-75 for hours. Occasionally we would bring air soft guns so that we could do drivebys on street signs, nothing like a little suburban gang action. I'm probably one of the few women in my circle that has ever hung out of an open car window shooting plastic pellets at signs while listening to The Carter III, all while wearing a really cute Lilly wrap around skirt and pastel polo. Truthfully it is a rather healing experience for stress and I recommend it highly. I bet people looked from their windows in fear when they saw the loud bass pumping wagon cruising past their houses at night. Nothing like a little street credibility to amp your reputation in a golf/swim community. I did draw the line at Purple Drank though, at least for the Teenager. Purple Drank is a mixture of codeine based cough syrup and Sprite, with a few Jolly Rancher's mixed in. Apparently it enhances your rap listening experience. I personally prefer Absolut and soda with a lime in a tall glass, and found I could hold my drink between my knees when I needed both hands on my BB gun. Without spilling a drop.

But like all good things, even Lil' Wayne had his day and the Teenager has moved on. His next musical transition has not been quite as exciting. He's into Dave Matthews these days, and I must say Dave seems a little lame compared to our rap glory days. Dave only vaguely insinuates he would like to see your genitals; remember "Crash into Me"? Somehow "lift up your skirt and show your world to me" doesn't even compare to the lyrical boldness of "Mr. Carter". Plus, the Teenager is now into the whole Dave Matthews/Grateful Dead/Phish lifestyle. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he expressed a desire to attend Burning Man, and right on schedule he started researching the alternative arts festival. Burning Man is a festival out in the wilds of Black Rock desert, which is about 120 miles north of Reno, Nevada. It is described as a "temporary community dedicated to radical self expression and radical self reliance". In real people language this means it's a place where liberal arts college majors go to drop acid and use Port-A-Potties for a week, while being scantily clothed and under bathed. Burning Man is another thing that needs to be added to the "Stuff White People Like" list. Nothing like radically expressing yourself while peaking on 'shrooms and dancing naked under the hot desert sun.

I just hope he remembers to hydrate, use sunscreen and to bring his mom a t-shirt. Ahhh, youth.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

It's Hard To Be Me

No one really understands how complicated women's lives really are. If you should find some time for yourself in the near future, make a point to read "Spent" by Dr. Frank Lipman. I don't think it's available as an Mp3 download yet; so you may actually have to find time to sit down and read it. That is if you can stay awake that long.

Apparently we are a nation of spent and exhausted women; rushing from home to job and then enriching our children's lives with weekend and after school activities. We have multi-tasked ourselves to the point where we don't even enjoy all these activities anymore; they have become just one more mandatory task in our harried lives. I see this in every woman I know and suspect that is why most of us are on anti-depressants and/or anti-anxiety medication. They don't help with the exhaustion, but at least you aren't worried about being tired anymore.

I don't know what your Friday looks like, but I'm going to share my schedule for today:

5:45 am. Get up and check blog for reader statistics. Suffer extreme stress when I see the figures have dropped overnight. I can't believe people don't sit up in the middle of the night to read my blog.

• 6:00 am. Wake up the Teenager.
• 6:10 am. Go back and wake up the Teenager again.
• 6:15 am. Yell loudly at the Teenager to get the hell out of bed because I don't have time to drive him to school.
• 6:20 am. Already exhausted just trying to get him out of bed. Flop on couch with cup of coffee.
• 6:30 am. Give the Teenager positive reinforcement about his fashion decision. He immediately goes to his room and changes clothes. The process starts again; I approve, he changes.
• 6:40 am. Shove him out the door just as the bus is pulling up. He has trained the driver to beep for him; but since he has earphones in, he can't hear it.
• 7:00 to 8:00 am. Scan national blogs so that I can back link to them. Take first phone call of the day from my BF as she is on her way to work.
• 8:00 am. Start my own post.
• 9:00 am. Finish blog. Edit, edit, post, see mistake, edit, edit some more.
• 9:00 to 10:30 am. Big day today; multiple back to back salon appointments. Have to look especially glamorous as I make my rounds.
• 11:00 to 1:30 pm. Pedicure and fill-in time. Scan new fashion magazines while gossiping with nail goddess and simultaneously eavesdropping on multiple conversations around me as I troll shamelessly for material to use in future posts. Multi-tasking like this requires lots of practice, so don't try to do everything at once; you have to build yourself up to achieve my splintered attention skills.
• 1:30 to 2:30 pm. Pretend to eat lunch of plain lettuce and diet Coke. Sit near large group of laughing women and take notes on their conversation. Fridays are the perfect time to gather dirt. How to pick your victims: you want a majority of the women you're spying on to be single, so look at the ring finger. Single women have interesting weekend plans and may spill some good dirt. Married women discuss children (yawn) or coworkers (only interesting if it's someone I know). Some of my best material comes from my spy sessions, so always carry a notebook to scribble down particularly juicy conversational gems.
• 3:00 to 4:00 pm. Waxing appointment. Ouch. To take mind off the pain make a mental list of obscure countries that have pretty children you can adopt when you become a famous writer. That is if they're not all adopted by people even more famous than you. At the rate celebrities are snapping up all the pretty kids from small African or Asian countries, the rest of us are going to be left drawing straws for the Octomom's various offspring.
• 4:00 to 6:30 pm. Go to gym and work out like a maniac. Find someone with a body better than your own to draw inspiration from. Hating her burns more calories.
• 7:00 pm. Home at last! Ask Teenager if he's hungry and pray he says "No mom, I found the kitchen and managed to prepare a healthy and nutritious meal all by myself."
• 7:30 pm. Clean up the burned mozzarella sticks that exploded in your microwave because the Teenager nuked them for 25 minutes, as he failed to fully understand the cooking directions that were clearly written on the back of the box. Wonder to yourself how he gets through high school as he has the reading comprehension skills of a particularly dim first grader. Cross multicultural adoption off your "to do" list, you have no energy to start over with another demanding child, what the hell were you thinking?
• 8:00 pm. Drive hungry, whining Teenager to nearest fast food restaurant so that he will shut up and leave you the hell alone.
• 8:30 to 10:30 pm. Finally, some me time! Fix strong drink and sit at computer to go back to work. Read all of your friend's blogs, comment on them. Check your various social networking sites and update them. Twitter. Talk to BF again about her day and spouse about his day. Take notes of anything they say you can use later.
• 11:00 to 12:00 am. Fall into bed exhausted. Find some brain dead re-run to watch like "Keeping Up With The Kardashian's" or "Nightline".

Start it all over again the next day. My god, no wonder women are exhausted!

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Sacred Cows Are Photoshopped

Happy Thursday! Now you know there was no way in hell I was going to let Valerie Bertinelli's People cover go uncommented upon, but I'll bet you didn't expect this! Yes, the photo above is the unretouched body of Cult Diva in all her middle aged glory. I did add a little warmth to the picture as my skin was looking pretty sallow this morning and I did the best I could with the camera as I am a techno-idiot with all digital media devices. I have the most basic and inexpensive model that I probably purchased at Wal-Mart and it's almost too difficult for me to use. Sorry for no hair and makeup, but I planned to cover my face up anyway.

Starting with the few forty-ish women that populated AskMen.com's "99 Most Desirable Women" campaign in January, you could say that suddenly we are everywhere. I keep seeing naked or near naked "old" models and actresses cropping up in magazines, films, ad campaigns, commercials and everywhere else. "Forty is the new thirty, or twenty, or teen"; whatever. The world has discovered the forty year old woman and I suppose we are all supposed to be happy about the fact that we are considered still "attractive" by the media. At least some of us are. Images of surgically enhanced, buff, cellulite free bodies and perfect faces with glowing firm skin are being marketed to us as how a middle aged woman is "supposed" to look. If I have to look at Demi Moore or Nicolette Sheridan cavorting in a tiny bikini one more time, I'm going to plotz. Enough already! Wasn't it enough to spend my teens and twenties in pursuit of an impossible standard of beauty? During my thirties I finally made peace with the fact that I was never going to be as perfect as a digitally enhanced model and to just accept myself au natural. I did have breast augmentation in 2006 because I was ready to have back my twenty year old boobs, but I was five years in the decision making process. Besides the health risks of implants, I really had to decide if I were making a psychologically sound decision. Would I like and be comfortable with my body if I decided not to get them at all? Yes actually. But after years of having large breasts, and watching them shrink to saggy little raisins after breastfeeding, I really missed my old glory globes. So after a ten year absence I decided I was tired of heavily padded bras or bathing suit tops, and forked over the money for a new and improved bosom. My kinder half left the decision to me, he married me for better or worse, richer or poorer, with little boobs or whatever I choose to do. The only regret I have is that they have destroyed my golf swing. I didn't golf as a young woman, so I never knew that my drive would suck post surgery. I have no aim whatsoever now, and truthfully could probably throw the damn ball farther down the fairway than I will ever hit it again.

But now I have new images to compare myself to. Thanks a lot Valerie! You looked like the rest of us a few months ago and now you're one of them; a perfect, liposuctioned, airbrushed, menopausal hottie; no pun intended. I always liked Valerie Bertinelli because growing up in the seventies was hell on us short, round brunettes. I was surrounded by impossibly thin and blonde icons; Cheryl Tiegs, Farrah Fawcett, Christie Brinkley, Jeri Hall. These women set a standard of beauty that I would never, ever be able to compete with. And then along came the TV sitcom, "One Day At A Time", with a cute, but chunky brunette named Barbara Cooper. She had big thighs, a very round face, great hair, and finally I had someone that I could relate to in the looks department! She was Everygirl for those of us that were just average pretty, she was actually an attainable and realistic image. Better than that, she married a gorgeous rock god and gave hope to millions of regular looking girls worldwide.

So thirty years pass. The rock god turns out to be a mortal man with a few failings. She stays home and raises a child, goes to a few PTA meetings, and gets an extra helping or two of lasagna at the buffet. She still looks like the rest of us though, and that's comforting. Then along comes Jenny Craig. They could not have picked a better representative to market their diet program than Valerie. At forty-seven, she's 5'2" or 5'4" depending on what tabloid you read and was a size 12-14 ; which by the way is considered the average size of the American woman these days. She started the program at about 170 pounds and is currently weighing in at 130 pounds. She is exactly my size. Except she has some airbrushing around the midsection and a little shadowy contouring going on. She looks perfect in this cover shot. Suspiciously too perfect.

I feel really comfortable saying this because I know how hard it is to maintain a fit body in middle age. She mentions in the People article that she had to drop her calories to 1200 per day for a few weeks before the shoot, plus run and do some weight training to build muscle. This makes it sound so much easier that it actually is. In my twenties, I worked out maybe 3-4 hours a week. In my mid twenties, I started running with my roommate and we were logging between 30-40 miles a week. Now, I'm hitting the gym a minimum of five days a week, for at least 2.5 hours per session. A typical workout consists of thirty minutes on the elliptical machine (max settings); 45 minutes weight work alternating arms or legs, ab work, plus a spin class. Add yoga or dance to a few of those days after spin class, and sometimes I run with my son at night. This is just to maintain the body in the photo above, which is far from photogenic or outrageously fit. I can tell you every calorie I have in a day, and I try to eat healthy meals over low calorie meals. I do like my sugar-free Jello though. However, even with all the working out and sensible diet, I am still ten pounds heavier than I was in my twenties or thirties, and that new padding is not budging no matter how much I sweat.

So how frustrating is it for a "normal" woman to try a diet program and only work out the three to four hours a week that most magazines swear will get you into the sort of shape their models are in? I have the time and energy to be obsessed, but what if you are the average working woman? Or the working wife/mother combo? You would have to be self employed to spend the time that I do working out, unless you just completely ignored your family or work commitments. Even working from home is difficult sometimes. I write in the early morning, stopping to do house or yard work to give myself a break, hit the gym about 3:30, get home 6:30-ish, cook, help with homework, and get back online later to do research or finish a piece. Some days I have other obligations or my son needs me, and I have to forgo the workout time. I'm just asking for a little truth in reporting when it comes to fitness for real women; every time I read about some especially fit model or actress who claims she never diets or exercises I become irrationally annoyed. I personally had a goal that at some point in my late forties I would just relax and let age plus gravity take over, but with the abundance of stars hitting their forties with preternaturally young looking bodies, I am feeling my old insecure body images re-emerging. My god, am I going to be running like an old gerbil on a treadmill when I'm seventy? Using my Social Security check to finance a tummy tuck?

If any of you saw the April Allure issue, then you got an eyeful of a nearly naked 43 year old Cindy Crawford. She's featured in an "anti-aging" special captioned, "This is what a 43 year old looks like." The picture alone is enough to make forty year old women everywhere head lemming like to the nearest cliff. Ironically, she also markets a skin care line called "Meaningful Beauty". What the hell is "meaningful beauty"? If I don't use these products will my beauty become worthless? Is that the implied meaning behind these cheap infomercial products? As someone that spends a lot of time and money with my cosmetic aesthetician and dermatologist, I can tell you that there is no over the counter or department store product that is going to rejuvenate your skin the same way a physician prescribed product or procedure will. Creams and serums may soften lines or make your skin look smoother, but it's temporary only and a huge waste of money. What do I always say? Spend "meaningful" money on skin care , save on cosmetics if you must. Expensive makeup does not fix old looking skin. Call me libelous, but Cindy's suddenly full cheeks and firm jaw/neck area didn't come from her products or genes. What I do love about Cindy though is her honesty. Interviewed about the spread, even she admitted she doesn't look like that in real life.

I decided to be a real life model this morning just to remind the world what an average forty year old woman looks like, one without lighting, body makeup, or Photoshop. Take it or leave it, love it or hate it, it's just me without any fancy stuff. I like me, I'm okay. I'm not going to end up on AskMen's list of beauties this year, or probably next year either. Playboy's not going to call. I may end up in a "Don't" picture for Vogue or get lampooned on a variety of websites, but I've seen worse. I don't normally appear in a bathing suit in public (or private for that matter) ever. I haven't even worked up the nerve this year to attempt the annual humiliation of trying on bathing suits, so I may be stuck with this one. Feeling a little brave? Send me a pic of you in a bathing suit, and by god I will post them so that the world can see what "real" middle aged women look like. And yes, we can still look good as our unretouched selves. It's time for a revolution ladies!

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Twittering Idiot

Since my rant runneth over this week about social networking; I thought I should probably address the phenomena that is Twitter. I Twitter, you Twitter, we all Twitter. We are a world of Twitter Twerps.



For those of you that are still some how not in the know (obviously you don't "tweet"), Twitter is the newest of the social message utilities that we seem to be unable to live without. It is micro-blogging for the blogger on the go; you can send short updates to your website, blog, MySpace, Facebook, or whatever other social utility you prefer. You can also download really fun applications such as TweetDeck and Twitterific that can be installed on your phone so that you can send and receive updates all day long on people you follow.



What do you "tweet" about? Yourself of course! What you are doing every moment of your bombastically egocentric little existence. In one hundred and forty characters or less of course. Because not only are you important, but you are so in demand that you can only bleat out a hint of your profound thoughts, a smidgen of your infinite wisdom to your enthralled audience of fellow Tweeters.



Do forgive me for this observation, but this Twitter phenomenon is the final key to what is going to destroy the fabric of the universe and bring about the end of civilization as we know it. Not the current worldwide economic crisis, not stem cell research, not global warming, not Proposition 8, and certainly not our sick fascination with Heidi and Spence's relationship. Just the very nature of unleashing your every asinine little thought into an online universe populated with an infinite number of other little thought clogs is so overwhelming to me that I truly believe that this is where our evil little electronic devices will finally have what they need to turn on us. They were just waiting for the sort of collective consciousness that a social messenger site can provide. Through our tweets, they shall know us. And when they take over, we will have to listen to the hideous sound of our new masters twittering away in their metallic whines into eternity.

I just checked my Twitter account to read the tweets of the people I follow. It doesn't look like anyone had a particularly interesting day. One guy is allergic to something. TMZ tweeted lots of gossip about Alyson Hannigan's fetus. Some girl says that nothing is going to change. Another tweeter is trying to get us to enter various contests to win things. My list is populated with the random thoughts of a group of strangers as they narrate their vacuously uninteresting day. This is what puzzles me about Twitter. Why would anyone find my random thoughts interesting enough to actually subscribe to them? I try to Twitter meaningfully, as in "I just posted a new hilarious piece on my blog." and that's about it for me for the day. This was another thing the writer's publicity people told me to do to increase my "web presence".

Now stay with me here. If you saw someone standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and every few minutes they just randomly shouted their inner monologue to the world in a short burst of incongruous verbalization; what would you think? We call those crazy people where I'm from; like "Oh Lord, poor old Miss Thelma has wandered off from her nurse. If we don't get her soon, she might call the Pastor's wife a godless whore again." Twitterworld seems like a huge universe of people just relaying useless information about themselves to others in some curious attempt to add meaning and validity to what must surely be a mundane existence. Cro-Magnon humans left behind cave drawings, Hammurabi and Moses left us laws, the ancient Greeks and Romans gave us philosophy, Newton and many others gave us science, and now at the epoch of our era we have given the world social networking via Twitter and MySpace. It's a shame George Orwell is dead as it would have done him good to see that the future did not bring loss of individuality to our society that he predicated in "1984". If anything our foundationless and overblown sense of self importance has led to a preemptive declaration of our right to assert our fatuous and opinionated existence on everyone.

That's why I just blog anyway; my thoughts are utterly too important to simply tweet.


Now I don't mind reading a famous person's tweet. Once or twice anyway. Truthfully I don't listen to real people in my life that often. I just sort of take in bits and pieces of their conversation as I figure out what I'm going to blog about that day or decide where I want to have lunch. I also only take in the flotsam that I plan on using against them later. My family has become positively paranoid about my reporting of their eccentricities and try to avoid telling me anything.

What inspired me today to blog about Twitter was the "Cisco Fatty" incident. Apparently some IT guy got hired by Cisco and tweeted about how he didn't really like the company or his new commute, but wanted the fatty paycheck. He tweeted to the world, not just his personal circle of geeky friends. Somehow an HR person at Cisco found out and they Twitter terminated him. You know he will probably win a Darwin Award for this, how seriously idiotic can you get? I'll bet it's on his MySpace too, plus his Second Life avatar is going to get so ragged this week by all the other avatars.

You may notice my Twitter application on my blog. I thought I would have fun with it now that I have decided that my own thoughts and life are not glamorous enough to tweet about, so if I were you I would check the sidebar every now and then for preposterous tweets. My goal is to be even more affected and pretentious than other "serious" tweeters or "twiterati". However please let me know if I become a "tweetaholic" , so that we can stage a "tweet-ox" or a stint in "tweetabilitation" for me. I would hate to be known as a "twitterita" or even worse a "tweeterbox".

Ecrasez l'infâme!

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

I'm a MySpace Loser; So Why Don't You Kill Me?

In my shameless quest for fame, fortune, and notoriety among the literati I have found you can either hire a publicist or in my case; be your own. With every nitwit on the planet narcissistically blogging up the Internet, self publishing their dreary little scribblings, beboing, twittering, and just generally subtracting from the value of well written expressed thought; it's difficult to gain recognition without taking extreme measures. How I envy the female writers of yore! Look at Hildegard of Bingen as an example. In her day so few women could read or write that she had the field to herself. Or George Sand. She used a man's name, adapted their clothing, smoked a few cigarettes, and conducted a love affair with her era's equivalent of a rock star. Instant notoriety that helped sell books and kept her in the public eye. Same for Colette; I adore her work, but her scandalous life was even more interesting than anything she ever wrote. I do so envy these women; it was easy to stir up publicity and draw attention to your work in an era where women were normally constrained by societal mores. Though their publicity was often of the "bad" sort (as if there is such an animal), it drew attention to their craft and helped them build the audience that then made their writing into the classics we draw inspiration from today. When I think of the fabulous women writers that influenced me; Gertrude Stein, Colette, Mary Robinson, Edith Wharton, Mary McCarthy, I cannot help but be jealous of how easy it was for them to be considered glamorous and unique by the public; even as they were reviled for their nonconformity. They had power, intellect, ivory cigarette holders, lesbian lovers, and pot brownies.

I have MySpace.

Social networking is the the modern salon of the poor struggling artist these days.It is where we go to "connect" and "discover" one another. They had absinthe and Montparnasse, I have MySpace and Facebook. Perhaps if I start drinking absinthe often enough, I will think I'm in Paris. I do have a poster of the Eiffel Tower, I should hang it in front of my computer so that it appears to be just outside the window of my cramped, rat infested garret. I must remember to ask the greens manager to please have his staff desist from their endless and superfluous mowing during my writing hours, so that I can fully immerse myself in my little fantasy world.

So I write every day of the week now, sometimes the blog and an article or two. Then I have the fiction book about a "fictional" library in a small town. I also have the book of narrative essays that I add to occasionally. I go to writer's conventions and classes. I'm finally going this summer to Iowa for the annual writer's festival at the University and I'm very excited about that. Perhaps if I do something scandalous in Iowa, I will become famous faster. It seems like a dull sounding sort of state, so maybe I won't have to do something so thoroughly louche to stand out.

However, I must get more exciting on my MySpace page first. You must first understand my utter distaste for MySpace though. When I managed our town's little library, we had eleven computers total. They were filled from the moment we opened, until the very moment we closed with MySpace idiots. People that sat literally all day long on MySpace. Presumably they were conducting lives and socializing of some sort. Some conducted all their dating via MySpace, and some their sex life as well. Libraries stand for freedom of speech and librarians protect the public's right to free access of information with their very lives if they must, but I'm afraid this is where I deviated. It utterly galled me to see these idiots clogging up the computers everyday on their MySpace page. Most of the time we didn't have enough customers to create demand for the computers, so I could not justifiably throw them into the street like I would have wished to. I love the idea of social networking, but the reality is quite different. I suppose it's because I'm a MySpace loser.

I have twelve friends right now on MySpace. I actually know one of them, she is my nail goddess and reads my blog. The rest of them are: Tom, the MySpace guy, a Swedish person that I don't know who is probably a transvestite prostitute, about five bands I've never heard of, psycho Lacey from "Rock of Love", PETA, SPCA, an online psychic, and some emo writer/poet smelly granola person. I can tell he's a smelly granola person from his MySpace home page. I bet he has at least one Dave Matthews white boy angst ridden jack off song on his playlist too. Or Noah the Whale/Phish/Tom Waite, perhaps even all of the above. I'll check later, when I update my profile and look at how many views I have had today.

The evil BFF laughed in my face about PETA as I do eat meat (fish and chicken), wear leather, and think fur coats are really pretty on people. I do like animals; I wouldn't buy a coat made out of cat fur for god's sake, and I do prefer to think my food died gently after a nice long life. I'm not quite as vapidly stupid as one acquaintance that didn't get the whole animal testing brouhaha. She (I swear I'm not making this up) thought it was really dumb to protest putting eye makeup on rabbits and dyeing their hair different colors, and just for the life of her could not figure out why those ugly women with underarm hair were so annoyed about doing makeovers on bunnies. Despite having the I.Q of a paramecium, she went on to marry fabulously well, breed, and live in a big house with staff to do her thinking for her. Yet another argument for beauty over brains.....

The Teenager refuses to be friends with me on MySpace because it's so lame to be friends with one's mother on a social networking site. In fact if you go to http://www.urbandictionary.com/, you will find an entire page of MySpace lingo. If he were my friend, I would become a MySpace Mom and by definition that is a 30 plus woman who is such a loser she wants her teenager's friends to like her too, as if she were a real person and not a lonely middle aged nonentity desperately trying to relive her teen years. As if MySpace will make you cool with the teen "In" crowd.I personally just make really strong cocktails for the Teenager's friends when they visit, and dress inappropriately. Who needs teenage MySpace virtual friends, when I can encourage underage drinking while being ogled by real teenagers? Worse that that I'm also a MySpace senior citizen because I'm over 40. I suppose I could lie about my age, but why? My posts wouldn't make any sense if I represented myself as a nineteen year old, unless I were one of those really cynical girls that started drinking and having failed relationships by the time they were in kindergarden. Most of the time I feel like I'm in MySpace middle school, which is even worse than real middle school except my complexion is better now and I don't have to put socks in my bra. No one wants to hang out at my page or want me to come over to hang out on theirs. I sit by myself at lunch and on the bus. Oh my god, I'm an Emo, Antisocial, MySpace Loner. I don't want to have to act like the popular girls on MySpace though, if I called my BFF to see if she'd make out with me on camera for my profile, she would probably hang up and start intervention proceedings. I just want to be a famous writer, dammit! Or even get paid for my work every now and then!

I also tried yesterday to "pimp" my profile, which led to multiple spyware and virus warnings, and worse has made my page look more horrible than it did to start with. Now it's all black with bright red evil letters that hurt your eyes. Between that and the name "Cult Diva", it looks like a page for some satan worshiping, trailer park living, Insane Clown Posse listening loser. The cool "pin-up girl" motif is hidden behind all the modules and truthfully I am just too MySpace burned out to even begin to fix it. So if you did plan to go to it today, or even this week, please don't. It's a mess. After screwing up MySpace, I started working on my Facebook profile again. It's much easier.

Perhaps I'm doing something wrong, but Facebook seems so bland after MySpace. With MySpace you get so many options for themes and backgrounds. There's emoticons, and widgets, and stupid time wasting applications to make your page unique. MySpace is so Vegas Baby!, and Facebook is so Portland, just very Pacific Northwest, coffee shop, vanilla insipid. However this could be because I'm a loser on Facebook also. In the last week, no one has invited me to join a group, written on my wall, "tagged" me for a picture or video or even actually visited my site. I just checked my account settings to make sure my "notifications" were turned on and I wasn't missing any important life changing virtual events.

So far no one has mentioned "Second Life" as a viable way to build your online presence at any of my conferences yet. I did set up an avatar last year on Second Life, after hearing about about the virtual world on some NPR program. I figured it was a way to "connect" with the teen population we were always trying to market the library to, at least the geeky techo teen nerds anyway. Plus I liked the idea of setting up a really sexy and cool alter ego to set loose in Linden land. I can't remember my character's name, but it sounded like something a techno-stripper might be named in a William Gibson novel. I even had a virtual tattoo and piercing, plus perfect thighs. The problem came when I tried to actually make my avatar move, I just am not tech savvy enough. Sexy as she may have looked, she walked like a drunk with muscular dystrophy. *Notice my political correctness here, I did not refer to "Special Olympics" at all, and it would have been so easy. I tried to get her to sashay into town, but after screwing around with all the keyboard prompts, she began to have a seizure of some sort. I logged off in a panic and for all I know she is still convulsing somewhere in cyberworld.

I think I may just hire a social media director instead. They're the millennium equivalent of a social secretary and assist one in building one's social networking presence, i.e. making me more interesting than I actually am. I may just make it an unpaid internship instead, so that I will seem more important than I really am too. A false sense of power and one's own importance in the grand scheme of things is a must to be a true literary giant. Show me a great writer, and I will show you a self absorbed narcissist with a borderline personality disorder and chemical dependancy issues. But as long as I have Vodka and Xanax, and still am prettier than everyone; I could care less what people think of my writing, though I still don't understand why the world doesn't revolve around me. However, hopefully it will when I get my first book deal. First though, I must get more friends on MySpace and Facebook, which will mean hours of relentlessly trolling total strangers to beg for their virtual friendship as if I were some desperate old broke down alcoholic like Lee Remick's character in "Days of Wine and Rose's". Or Lindsey Lohan.

Maybe she'd be my friend though, if it's alright with Sam. Perhaps both of them could be my friend. So after the obligatory lesbian couple, what else would I need to make me look totally happening on MySpace? Please email me with suggestions and perhaps I will offer you that once in a lifetime opportunity to be my unpaid and overworked social media intern. Plus, I may dedicate my first published book to you, right after my family, friends, former co-workers, writer's that have inspired me, strangers that have touched my life, strangers that have touched my boobs, therapists, people that keep me pretty, and beloved pets (both past and present.) It's an opportunity of a lifetime.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Faking Spring Break

I haven't done a product endorsement post in a while, so I thought Sunday morning would be the perfect time to clue everyone in on some goodies to try this season. I was inspired partly because I'm not actually going to get to go on a Spring Break as I am too old and something the Teenager said this morning.

Remember, he too is full of fashion sense and snark, so I may even invite him to post some of his photos and editorial comments on here. He was rooting around in the refrigerator this morning looking for something low calorie to consume when he popped his head out and loudly proclaimed "cheap body spray!". Now remember, he and I are always on the same wavelength, so I immediately responded "I hate them too! Are there some in the refrigerator?" "No, but there is some strawberry-banana sugar free Jello and it reminded me that all the girls on my bus keep spraying themselves with cheap, smelly, fruity body spray.", he replied. I went back to staring at my computer screen waiting for the blog post muse to visit, and of course, there she was staring me in the face. I understand switching to lighter scents in the spring, but if your scent comes from Dollar General, you may want to rethink it a bit. I smelled quite a bit of it at the gym this weekend too, so added to the fact that the Valdosta YMCA smells as though it were built over an ancient Indian outhouse, you could also detect a faint hint of peaches and coconut mixed in.

Now the real smell of Spring Break is a compilation of sweat, alcohol, sun tan oil, vomit, and hormones. However we are not going for reality here; beauty is all about fantasy, not reality. So one of my favorite picks for a fun Spring Break scent is Compitor Sud Pacifique's Aloha Tiare. This was the first perfume created in their line and is a soft, creamy version of the scent of tiare flowers, or Tahitian gardenias. It's mixed with just enough vanilla, coconut, and ylang-ylang to give it a "beachy" feel. It's also affordable and long lasting, plus smells better than whatever peach, cucumber, bamboo,or vanilla body spray mixture you were tempted to buy at the dollar store. Here's a heads up: women of style and breeding never purchase fragrance where they purchase toilet paper or cleaning products.

Bath and Bodyworks also does a line featuring Tiare as a focal note. Their limited edition "Ile de Tahiti" line smells divine, and when they offer it I normally buy up as much as will last through the summer. I'm not so crazy about the cologne; it's a bit cloying, but I do love the body wash and lotion.

For your glowing spring complexion I suggest lots and lots of sex. If that's not an option, then you'll have to make do with Guerlain Meteorites Light Diffusing Perfecting Primer. I know it's a mouthful, so just say "Meteorites" and we beauty folks will know what you are talking about. It's a gel based, oil free primer composed with little luminescent pearls of color. It blends into your skin and gives you a glowing, dewy look as though you were actually getting some. Combine it with the Meteorites powder in Beige Chic (don't forget to buy the Kabuki brush) and your friends will never know you sit at home alone every weekend with your cheap box wine and seventeen cats.

For eyes go simple. Remember, this is one of those "no-makeup" looks. Now no one actually looks good after the age of twelve without makeup of some sort. I personally love women who smugly proclaim that they look better without makeup.I look at their haggard little faces and nod in evilly amused agreement. Then I always try to stand next to them in group photos. Now for the simple eye you will want to give your lower and upper lid a very light wash of Stila's "Kitten" eyeshadow. It's a fun, shimmery golden pink that looks great with every eye color. Then take a little of MakeUp Forever's Aqua Eye liner in "Bronzed Green", and smudge it into the upper lash line plus very lightly under the lower lashes. Brush your brows into place with a little gel and add a coat of mascara if you have pale lashes. Then go find a "no makeup" sort of gal to stand next too. Enjoy all the attention.

For cheeks I'm doing Benefit Boxed Powders in their new shade; CORALista. It's a little like Nar's Orgasm, a pinky coral that is universally flattering. I like all their cosmetics actually, especially the uber girly packaging. Benefit is my favorite line, next to Smashbox, for "natural" looks.

For lips my very favorite is Dior Kiss Luscious Lip Plumping Gloss Sheer in Mango Soda. It's a translucent gold touched sunset in the Keys sort of coral that gives your lips just enough color. The plumping action isn't great, but then again do remember that my pout is collagen enhanced, so I am never impressed with over the counter remedies.

Now cover the rest of your fabulousness with serious sunscreen, mix yourself a cocktail, and sit out at the pool (real or imaginary) and enjoy Spring Break.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Your Mama Won The Booty Shake Contest

Today is the first day of spring and this has meaning for me in so many ways. I have lots of seasonal traditions; though some may call them obsessive compulsions. Let me share a few of them with you so that we can enjoy them together!


The first is the wearing of the Lilly. On the first day of spring you must wear something from Lilly Pulitzer. Preferably while you are going out to purchase another Lilly to add to your collection. One of the biggest heartbreaks I have in life is that I have no daughter to leave my Lilly's to, and I have an awesome sized 2-4 collection. Though it's a bit early to daughter-in-law shop, I cannot help but notice how cute the Teenager's girlfriend-aka "The Petite Beauty"-would look in some of my smaller wrap around skirts. She is currently rebelling against the Man and a variety of sweatshop created clothing lines, but I sense great Lilly potential in her. Plus, I think they might be created somewhere in the U.S. I just went to check the labels, but I didn't see where they were made. I'm sure they're fine though, Lilly doesn't look like the sort of woman that would condone sweatshop practices.



The second is the wearing of the Fracas. In fact, I'm going to spritz some on right now since we are ten minutes into official spring. Oh my word, that is sooooo good. I know some women wear this as a signature scent all year, but to me it only smells right during early spring. As much as I adore it, I find living in hot and humid South Georgia makes this scent just overwhelming by June.



The third is the urge to go on Spring Break. As I mentioned the other day, the annual migration of the Northern Snowbird is occurring. As they clog up I-75 north with their unwieldy ten ton conveyances, their adorable grandchildren are wreaking havoc on the opposite side of the road as they race toward the Sodom and Gomorrah that is Panama City. A week of sun and drunken depravity while wearing next to nothing. Just my sort of place, except with more sunscreen.



I was watching one of those reality countdown shows a few days ago; you know the ones that are as addictive as infomercials. They get me every time, I end up watching the entire thing because I HAVE to know what the top three whatever is. This particular E! Original Countdown highlighted all the hot Spring Break destinations and showed salacious peeks of wet t-shirt contests, margarita wrestling pits, and one contest that I loved in particular; how many sex positions could you drunkenly simulate with a complete stranger while being cheered on by other drunk strangers as you're being filmed for a TV special. This generation is crazy as hell! In my day,(that sounded old) we got to get our freak on anonymously. No one was filming it on their phone, there was no MySpace or YouTube for you to show up on in all your wasted glory. You never had to worry about your parents, or worse a potential employer, seeing you give a raunchy lap dance to some lacrosse player from B.U. , or running down the boardwalk naked after too much X. By next week, early education teachers from all over Ohio and Indiana will be sweating in their cardigans; wondering if compromising pictures will show up on the Internet of them simulating blow jobs with kielbasa after way too many Jager Bombs. But besides that, it still looked like fun to me.


As soon as the show was over, I called my B.F. She works outside her home in a real office, but her job seems to consist of talking on the phone to friends and relatives. In all fairness she is actually a great employee, she just gets all her work done by around 9:30. The rest of the day is spent texting and chatting with friends. And going to lunch. Anyway I called her to tell her that I wanted to go on Spring Break again. She is about as emotionally immature as I am, and is always a great partner in crime. This time she was less than enthusiastic.



"Who the hell wants to stay in a room with fourteen other forty year old women?" was the first sarcastic comment out of her mouth. "It would be fun." , I whined unconvincingly. "We could sleep in shifts, just like the old days. And shower in shifts too. Trade clothes and giggle alot."



"What if someone wants to bring someone back to the room?" she asked sceptically. She's single, so this is a possibility for her. "Just do them on the beach for god's sake, why are you so literal?" I fired back with just a little irritation. Damn, there was always someone just like her in college too, always making things more difficult. "Why do you want to go to Spring Break so bad anyway?" she asked me and I finally had to 'fess up. I wanted to show off my new mad booty shaking skills.



Now where you ask, does a forty plus woman learn to booty shake? At the YMCA, of course! For those of you that live in large metropolitan areas this is probably no big deal, but here in Valdosta we don't have all those sexy workout classes. We don't have pole dancing, or tantric yoga, or dirty housekeeping workouts, or anything even remotely like that. We do have "Jump for Jesus", which I hear is aerobics set to Christian music. I learned to booty shake in my Zumba class; Zumba being some Afro-Caribbean-Brazilian-Cuban aerobic workout that emphasizes rump shaking while waving your arms around. It's a really fun class and now that we ladies are all comfortable together, some of us have begun to really move. In the first few classes everyone was self conscious; so instead of doing the Zumba we looked like we were doing the Hydra. Remember the hydra from seventh grade biology? The little simple one celled animal that lived in freshwater and was forever planted in one place just waving it's little tentacles frenetically around? Now picture a whole class of middle aged hydras in gym clothes.



I've gotten pretty good at it too. I have a big ethnic butt; and that, my friend, is the key to successful booty shaking. The physics involved seem to correspond to the Kerr-Newman metric; which has something to do with the geometry of spacetime around a large rotating mass. Here's the formula:

I'm not so good with math, so I don't actually understand any of the above. My math skills only extend to figuring out percentages off in sale situations, i.e. that Dolce and Gabbana skirt is marked down to $389, plus 40% off, PLUS another 10% off if you open a Neiman's card today. Those sales associates can give you the answer in a heartbeat, they must be taught special math skills. Notice I did not say I could calculate the answer myself, I was however able to deduce the item in question was probably a pretty good price.


For those of you that also didn't excel in any math above the most basic, which of course ruled out AP physics, here is how you rump shake. You might want to try this alone for a few weeks before you unleash your new talent on your friends. Do wait until you've all had a few cocktails and most importantly, when it is an appropriate time. If you aspire to be a Junior League officer, wait until after you have secured the position before unleashing this. If you're already an officer, you're going to shock and awe everyone so damn bad you'll be stuck as cookbook coordinator forever. Or you'll immediately be voted Queen for Life. Some chapters are more liberal than others. Choose wisely.



First, you need to pretend you're Beyonce. She pretends she is someone named Sasha Fierce; who apparently is the Queen-Goddess of successful rump shaking. You need to relax your knees into a slight bend and curve your lower back into a very pronounced "C" shape. Lift your arms up to where they are parallel to the floor and bend your elbows slightly inward so that your hands are facing each other. Now this is the hard part; you need to toss your rump up in the air without lifting up on your toes or moving your knees at all. As you toss your rump, your arms should push your shoulders back in a synchronized movement with your butt and your arms will naturally pump toward your chest. Exhale while you do the toss. Inhale while you reload the toss. Start out slow until this feels like a natural movement; then speed up when you feel more confident. Then you can let gravity sort of take over from here, this is why you need some volume and mass back there. Remember the second of Newton's Laws of Motion applies here: F=ma or force equals mass x acceleration. This is just an over educated way of saying that the faster you move your fat ass, the less force you will have to exert because gravity plus acceleration will get that beach ball bouncing like Jello in an earthquake. Ever shaken a plate of Jello? You know how when you let go, it keeps on shaking? This is the effect you want. Firm Jello though, if your Jello is not set then you might not want to try this. If by chance you have have no ass at all then you should stick strictly to wet t-shirt contests or wrestling in alcohol with the other flat booty ho's.


On the show I watched the winner was a really cute, girl next door looking sort of piece, who was a bank manager in her home town. I hope to god she has plausible deniability when and if her boss ever sees that show. That girl was nasty with a capital "N". She's immortalized on YouTube also, and once you're on the Internet you are part of history. I can't wait until that video surfaces in a few more years. Can you imagine that dinner conversation?

"Look baby! There's mama in Cabo, shaking it like it's on fire! That was what I looked like before stretch marks! You know why you're so special? 'Cause your mama won the booty shake contest! I was soooooooo drunk."



Anyway, as much fun as I made Spring Break sound, my favorite partner in crime seemed unconvinced about going. She wouldn't let me take her daughter either, who is home on Spring Break and doing yard work for her mama. She's good daughter-in-law material too. I wonder how she feels about Lilly's?

Now go work that booty shake!



Love and Kisses,



Cult Diva

Manifest Destiny at .50 Cents A Mile

Yesterday, while driving into town to pick up the Teenager from a math tutoring session, I could not help but be swept along in the tailwind created by wrinkled old Yankees enacting their annual migration from Florida. As their gas guzzling behemoths raced past me, my poor old wagon shimmied and shook violently so that I immediately went on asshole driver high alert. I have found over the years that the great Northern migration of Winnebago's and Fleetwood's tend to resemble the frenzied exodus of terrified buffalo. The driving becomes erratic and unpredictable, I can only assume that RVs may come with garden tubs and even rooftop patios, but not signaling devices to alert other drivers when they plan to swerve unexpectedly into their lane.

I propose that we enact a new nationwide system to alert the natives of southern states about the annual Yankee invasion in an effort to increase highway safety. Instead of an AMBER Alert system, we could have a BROWN Alert program. Big Roving Old White Northerners. Every fall and spring we could clear I-75 and I-95 for a few weeks and let them just have at it. Shame we didn't have this when that first infamous old Yankee came through. Do you find it ironic that he swerved somewhere around Macon and burned his way to Savannah? March to the Sea indeed. There's a whole ocean just surrounding Florida; but oh no, he didn't continue his fiery rampage into the Sunshine State. Those Yankees knew that one day they would want a warm place to go hibernate in; one with no state taxes and lots of Jewish doctors attending to their myriad health issues.

RVs strike an indignant chord in my cold little heart for many reasons; the main one being the fact that my husband wants one more than anything and this just scares the hell out of me.

I confess. Southern belle that I am, I am married to one of them; a Yankee. He's from one of those M states; Minnesota, Michigan, Montana, whatever. He's also a WASP and you know they have migratory tendencies. I think it's because most of them chose to come to America of their own free will. They wanted life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, 200+ cable stations, a Starbucks every five hundred yards, NPR, and were willing to go on the worst possible economy cruise lines to get here. WASPS love long, dangerous, and uncomfortable journeys. They feel like they get their money's worth when they travel in misery. Have one of your really white friends tell you about their last vacation if you don't believe me. They go on epic journeys featuring diarrhea, vomiting, or civil unrest as the exciting highlights of their vacation. And take thousands of pictures of their holiday misery so they can lure you to their house to share them, or worse upload them on Flickr or Photobucket.But I'm getting off the subject. Anyway, soon after arriving here they pushed out or killed all the native people that were already here, and then invented bumper stickers to advertise their support of those poor disenfranchised bastards, featuring them prominently on the back of their Volvo station wagons. Once they were firmly entrenched in gated communities, they quickly bred more of their kind. When the offspring had finished their overpriced and useless educations at prominent liberal arts universities, their proud parents were then free to roam the country in gas guzzling modern Conestoga wagons; once again engaging in Manifest Destiny at .50 cents a mile.

The rest of us got here in more traumatic ways. Some of us were kidnapped and chained in dark, filthy ship holds. Some of us ran for our lives from murderous hordes. Some risked shark infested waters and the possibility of drowning when our Jorge-rigged rafts overturned. Some crossed deserts and rivers, managing to avoid volatile and heavily armed Texans (lord those folks love to kill things, if the U.S is ever invaded I'll be Dallas bound). Some married old white guys and got stuck raising their spoiled, bratty offspring. Truthfully though, our old homelands weren't so great or we would have caught the first boats back. Here at least we had clean running water and 24 hour fast food restaurants. By the time my family got here, all the pesky Native Americans were safely ensconced in casinos so I didn't have to worry about my village being burned down anymore, nor would I ever have to list goat herding on my resume. However traveling around aimlessly in an RV just puzzles me. My family got to the land of opportunity in the last one hundred years, so why would I live in a tour bus? I could have stayed in my native land and lived like a poor schmuck there if I wanted that lifestyle. Travel trauma is part of all ethnic America's collective consciousness, we tend not to be as recreationally intrepid as our WASP counterparts. Don't believe me? Go to your nearest RV park and count all the Asians, African-Americans, and Hispanics. Try to remember the last time you saw a spare tire cover mounted on the back of an RV announcing that you were maintaining a cautious distance behind Sol and Ester Rothstein of Long Island, NY.

This is my argument. My ancestors fled their country to settle in one place. A place on a concrete foundation, not rubber wheels. We roamed enough already, the proof is in Exodus. I am genetically programmed to like toilets connected to county maintained sewage facilities and having a Bloomingdale's within a day's drive.

My husband's people are primarily German. Remember the Visigoths? The swarming tribe that headed south to Italy every year for a little Spring Break mayhem? That's his gene pool. He gets restless if he's in one place too long. I don't think he has an urge to rape and pillage anything, but he does like to go to distant flea markets and wander about looking at tools.

Also, he was military for a quarter of a century. Air Force. Red Horse squadron for years; the most forward deployed unit of the USAF. He used to bitch like crazy about leaving home, but you could sense the excitement as he duct taped containers of grooming products and wrote his name on everything in big perma-ink letters. He tried to duct tape and write his last name on me one night, but I just don't roll with the kinky stuff. His urge to RV is just another damn deployment, except this time I'm the only personnel going. We would join a horde of other retired military guys and their long suffering spouses traveling aimlessly around the country to military RV parks so that we could hang with even more retired military families. The guys even have a uniform: starched and pressed jeans with a short sleeved plaid shirt tucked into pants that are tightly belted. Windbreaker. Hat announcing what branch of the service they were in and covered in campaign pins. Tennis shoes. In warm or sub-tropical climates, substitute shorts for jeans and wear socks with sandals (it's always important to keep your feet dry). Wives wear wrinkled clothes and pained expressions, though if they have been on the road a while they probably have succumbed to heavy prescription drug usage and early day drinking.

Worse, my husband is a mechanic. He can fix whatever Wreck of the Hesperus he purchases third or fourth hand. Have I mentioned he's just a little cheap? Every time we pass some tin can for sale, he cranes his neck out the window and squints desperately at the price. Then he circles back for the kill. Parking the car, he'll get out and study the object of his desire for hours until I interrupt his fantasy with a well timed sigh of exasperation. Or several sighs; he can't hear for shit or is ignoring me. I can't really tell anymore. Then we go home and he locks himself in the bathroom for hours, beating off to his latest copy of RV Life magazine. They have centerfolds of the latest "luxury" motor homes complete with airbrushed special features.

We've already been cruised by the RV community too. I used to manage the library in my little town and we have military campground right down the road. Every fall, the RVs would roll in for their winter occupation and the wives would come in for library cards. The library also provided a safe haven from having to spend the day with their husbands as well as clean permanent toilet facilities. I learned everything I needed to know about life on the road from a woman's perspective from these delightful and desperate RV wives. However some of the couples that came in tried to recruit us. My husband and I are young (compared to them), attractive, healthy, and he can fix large vehicles. We were invited to breakfasts and cookouts so that we could meet all the other nice couples in the community. I felt like we were being seduced into some sort of traveling swinger community, everyone was just sort of panting over us. They got my husband easily. We met the nicest older couple and of course they had the ultimate luxury motor home. It had everything but a butler, though I'm sure that was an option. It was the perfect bait for hooking anyone curious about the "lifestyle" but too scared to actually try it. The husband had also been in Red Horse ironically enough, so he and my guy bonded instantly. He looked my husband dead in the eye and said the magic words "Do you want to look under the hood?" I have never seen my normally slow moving spouse get so excited. He spent hours outside discussing engine schematics and brake systems, or whatever it is he talks about with other mechanically inclined people. Laconic by nature, he was so wound up I was worried about him. I finally drug him out of there and had to listen to him wax on about that damn trailer for hours. He finally exhausted himself and passed out in his big leather armchair; where I left him for the evening. I figured it was good practice for his lonely future as a traveling retiree.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not totally against RVs. I think they are the perfect conveyance to Georgia games. I can't think of a better way to spend football season than in an expensive sports bar on wheels. My dream season would be to spend every weekend tailgating in an SEC stadium parking lot with lots of other drunk and merry Georgia fans. I had to explain football to my husband, at least SEC football. He played in high school and comes from a Big 12 Conference state, but obviously they don't get as wound up as we do. You should have seen his face when he found out that on Football Saturday he was only going to get lucky if Georgia won. I think he thought I was kidding too. How insensitive to think that I could possibly put out when my team did poorly! Yankees just don't understand tradition. He tried to option a little action if we were up during halftime, but I'm no fool. Final score is how the game works. We live around a golf course that is heavily populated with Georgia fans and my husband has learned why you hear a loud eruption of whoops and yells when Georgia scores; it's the mating call of the horny Georgia fan. It's a quiet night around Francis Lake on the rare occasion we lose, and the Georgia-Florida game is so stressful you have to drink all week just to prepare for it. If we had an RV to go football games in, he could get lucky on Saturday night in different states. Now how exciting is that?

I might even be persuaded to use the motor home for nefarious purposes again, but only if it's parked in the safety of my own driveway. I am perfectly happy to pretend I am somewhere else if it pleases him, as long as it's not an RV park.

Now run along and stay clear of the Northern migration!

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

White Trash Trophy Wife Spa Day

Tornado suck your trailer up? Had to take a restraining order out on your baby daddy again? Momma got another DUI? Brother-in-law's meth lab blew up? Sucks to be you!


Girl, you got some drama going on, and the best solution for drama is a spa day. So get your cell phone out (hopefully they processed that payment already), and call some of your peeps to join you. Brittney, Amber, and Krystal need a little fun too. Plus, Amber is old enough to buy wine coolers, and you'll need them for the full spa experience!


Now give the kids some Poptarts and Sunny Delight, drive them to the paved road to catch the school bus and hustle on back to the trailer. We've got work to do!


8:00-Hair. Get a L'Oreal Chunking Kit to give your hair some colorful dimension. The four of you can share this. Take turns painting the formula on each other's bangs and the top layer of hair. Let it sit on for about 30 minutes or so, then rinse out in the sink. Towel dry hair. Next you will need a deep conditioning treatment. In a bowl mix: one cup of Duke's Mayonnaise and 1/2 a cup of Budweiser. Massage through hair and cover with a shower cap. The treatment can remain on your hair while you do the rest of your spa treatments.


8:50-Smoke break



9:00-Waxing. You might want to have your first wine cooler right about now and if you have any Oxycontin, this is the time to take it. There's a really good bikini waxing kit at the Wal-Mart made by Surgi-Wax. You and your friends will need to get naked from the waist down. Make sure nobody is filming it on their phone for their old man either. This isn't the sort of girl on girl action that anyone sane would want to watch. Microwave wax and apply to bikini area. Here's a little tip you need: if you haven't cleaned up in a while, borrow your old man's goatee trimmer and cut the foliage down to 1/2 an inch. It's going to hurt worse than hell if the hair is any longer. Pick names to see who's pulling who's wax off, you cannot do this yourself. It's worse than getting bubble gum out of little Cheyenne's hair. If any of your posse is artistic then try to do a "South Georgia" style wax. It's a basic Brazilian except with the Browning logo front and center. Your man will lose his mind when he sees it! He'll probably want to take a picture for Beaver Hunt and Guns 'n Ammo. Here's a copy of the logo to use as a stencil:

9:50-Smoke break.

10:00 Waxing is hard work. Take a break for another wine cooler and some pork rinds. Here's a little homemaker tip to make snack time festive. You'll need Dixie cups and Cool Whip containers. The day before your spa experience, dress them up with some stickers and write your friends' names in glitter glue across the front. It's tacky to drink wine coolers out of a bottle, and nothing screams "class" like matching china. Each lady can have her own cup and a bowl of rinds. Pass out some frozen vegetables to use as ice packs for your newly waxed lady parts and set around healing while watching "Judge Judy". Whoever has a relative on that day gets an extra wine cooler.

10:50-Smoke break.

11:00-Body Wraps and Skin Care. First you need to steam! Drag Baby Tiffany's humidifier into the bathroom. Cover all windows with a plastic drop cloth to keep the steam in. Everybody wrap up in a towel and find a seat on the floor, toilet, or side of tub. Close the door and fold up a towel to place across the door gap. You don't want any steam escaping. Sit around and talk shit about everybody that's not in the room for at least thirty minutes. Then off to the mud bath. Fill little Travis' kiddie pool with some dirt and use your hose to mix in enough water to form a goopy mixture. Everybody in, don't forget your smokes! Try not to get ashes in the mud, that's gross. Set in there another thirty minutes and talk about world politics and the current global economic meltdown. Just kidding! Talk about what a tool K-Fed is and how happy you are that Brit-Brit is making a comeback. Hose off mud, then dry off and coat your skin in Crisco. You probably want it at room temperature. Wrap yourself mummy style in plastic wrap and sit around for thirty more minutes talking shit about your old man's family. Take a shower afterward to get rid of all that Crisco and your mayonnaise/beer hair mask. Using a Scotchgard pad, scrub all the dead skin away. Make sure everyone has their own pad. Now it's time for spray tans. Using the drop cloth you had on the window, have each guest stand on it while you take turns spraying Banana Boat Summer Color Self Tanning Mist on each other. Remember to let it dry before getting dressed.

12:30-Smoke break.

1:00-Spa Lunch. Set your dinette table with a buffet of good eats! Here's a few suggestions: Fish sticks, Hamburger Helper (the Chili-Mac is especially festive), tater tots, an iceberg lettuce salad mix (with carrots) liberally drenched in Ranch dressing, and for dessert Little Debbie snack cakes (Oatmeal Cream Pie). Make sure you have plenty of Diet Coke available. Just rinse the Dixie cups out, but make sure you don't wash off the glitter glue.

1:50-Smoke break.

2:00-Facial Peels. Hopefully while you were in the shower you scrubbed your face with the Scotchgard pad too. Make a mixture of 2 packets of Goody's powder, 1 tablespoon of warm water, and 1 teaspoon of honey. Apply to face and let sit for ten minutes. Rinse and enjoy your glowing skin. Hope to god that glow isn't another pregnancy.

2:10-Smoke break.

2:30-Mani/Pedi time. Have an assortment of Lee Press-On Nails available for guests. Preferably in glamour length. Last week while you were at the laundrette someone left a back issue of "OK" magazine that predicted blue was this season's "hot" nail color. Match your toe nails to it, and apply cute decals over the dry polish.

3:00-Smoke break.

3:10-Blow dry hair and apply make-up to newly fabulous self. Take turns admiring each other's transformations. You look best though, especially with your new Jessica Simpson clip-in hair extensions that you got on sale. They're a little lighter than your own hair, but it's not too noticeable.

3:30-Last smoke break as you wave goodbye to your friends. Hopefully one of them will have the manners to remember to thank you via MySpace later. Or at least text it.

4:00-Drive back to the paved road to meet kids at bus. Hurry home to catch "Oprah".

Enjoy the rest of your day!

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

I Want An Action Figure Too.

Lara Croft, Elastigirl, Wonder Woman, Storm, Tank Girl.

and

"The Flash" aka the world's first menopausal superheroine.

Able to sweat through sheets, t-shirts, and expensive bras in a nanosecond.
Can leap to negative conclusions with a single misunderstood remark.
Laughs, cries, and pees pants--all at the same time.
Now understands why anyone watches Lifetime television.
Can microwave food for a crowd by holding it for a few minutes when "flashing".
Runs the full gamut of human emotions in record time. Several times a day.
Sugar has become like kryptonite.
Tells the same story over and over to girlfriends. But it's okay, they probably don't remember they heard it the first time either.
Has so many personalities that husband/significant other thinks they are having a torrid affair with lots of bitchy and demanding women. They're exhausted just looking at you.

I want my action figure to come with a remote control too (that my husband and son will break or lose it within a week.) The controls will make the Flash have real sweat during "power surges", cry inappropriately, bloat, and sigh aloud over nothing. In her hand bag can be little bottles of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills, a little jar of progesterone cream, an extra bra when the old one is sweat soaked, and maybe an airplane bottle size of vodka for emergencies. Since the doll will be based on me of course, give her a blank yet pleasant sort of face, as you know there are many expressions I simply can't make anymore.

I started thinking about all of this while I was standing in line to check out in Wal-Mart. Now remember I have a real thing for Viggo Mortensen and in my hormone deprived brain I believe that he will appear magically in Valdosta one day, see me, and then take me away from all of this. Kind of like the Rapture except I'll be the only one taken.

Anyway, I do try to stay prepared for the Viggo-ture, but today would have been the day I would have been left behind. I had taken a shower after my hours of working out, but had on what my son calls a "crazy cat lady" shirt. Yes, I know I'm one cat away from an intervention, but you know how I feel about abandoned pets. I also was sporting crazy gym lady hair, cleverly disguised in a sweaty scrunchie and ugly shorts that the Teenager outgrew. However it was the contents of my cart that would have caused him to run in terror from me.

I was a walking menopause stereotype. Here's what I had:

• Estroven, the maximum strength version for night.
• Progesterone Cream-labeled "the Menopause Formula" in really big letters. I guess that was just in case a twenty or thirty something year old accidentally grabbed it thinking it was an "intimacy enhancement cream".
• Vitamin E, the 1000 IU gel capsules.
• Replens. Not going there today. You know why.
• Donut holes. I pretend they're for my son.
• Pretzel sticks. I pretend I will eat them instead of donut holes.
• Sugar free Jello. The twelve pack. Cold and sweet, love it. May start wearing in bra.
• New toilet paper roll holder. Menopause has caused me to start sleep walking again. The last time I did that was when I was a teenager. In my sleepwalking, I think I may have flushed the old one down the toilet or thrown it away. I "dreamed" about doing that and lo and behold it was missing in the morning. I have not started sleep eating, at least I don't think so anyway. I haven't found half eaten food in weird places; like bookshelves or closets. Maybe that's why I can't seem to lose weight though. Hmmmmm....
• Huge container of organic Greek yogurt to regulate my digestive system.
• Bag of organic baby spinach. Impulse purchase.
• Viactiv calcium chews.
• Season six of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". Got teary and angry because I don't have season three and five and will not spend $39.99 at Best Buys when they are only $14.99 at Wallyworld.
• Bottle of Pepsi Max. I thought it had calcium in it, but it had extra caffeine so that even more calcium could leak from my bones. If there had been some damn reading glasses for sale in the checkout lane shelves I could have read the little print myself.

This was the cart of a woman ready to party. With herself and perhaps a few of her other menopausal personalities.

I got up to the cashier and she looked over all my stuff as she was checking me out. Then she leaned forward and and softly asked "Are you going through menopause?" I thought of a million smart ass answers, but I did realize she was probably about my age and we girls need to bond. I did the international menopause hand symbol (hand fans rapidly at face) while nodding. She asked if the products I bought helped any and unfortunately I didn't have time to give her a full run down on surviving the physical aspects of menopause. You can ease the physical symptoms, but the best advice I can give is to have a good attitude about it. Laugh when you can, cry if you must, hide in the bathroom when irrationally angry for no damn reason. Try to focus on the positive aspects of menopause.

For me this has been an upsurge in creativity. I've always written, but I've never actually tried to get a career going with my scribblings. The last year has been a truly amazing time for me while I journey to become a published author. I have met so many helpful and supportive people, both in person and from the Internet. My whole focus has shifted away from the wife and mother aspect of my life and is going toward a wholly new persona that I am eager to nurture and watch develop. I see the same shift in my friends too; we all seem to be fulfilling personal dreams that were put on hold during the child raising years.

I like it. I may bitch about the sweaty sleeplessness, but the positive is that I get up and write when I can't sleep. Which helps with my new found carbohydrate/sugar addiction since I can't eat and type at the same time. At least not yet.

I read today that one billion women are going to go through menopause between 2005 and 2030. Has anyone considered that this might possibly be the reason behind global warming? I mean I feel bad for the polar bears losing their ice flows and all, but adapt all ready. If I can make peace with hell fire hot flashes then a few degrees increase in temperature should be nothing. Wait 'til some of those PETA bitches go through menopause. The polar bears won't get anymore sympathy then.

I also learned a new word today from my workout goddess, Karla. It's called "menopot" and it refers to that ugly pot that has developed between my bellybutton and mons pubis. I work out like a maniac and do hundreds of sit-ups, but it sticks around like a white trash relative. I never had heard that term before for the bulge. I called it the "FUPA", and for those of you that are not military spouses I will give you the definition of this oh so offensive acronym. "FUPA" stands for Fat Upper Pussy Area. Disgusting, yet apt. I have never had a totally flat stomach, but I hope my new menopot doesn't get any bigger than this because I don't want to have liposuction ever. Even I draw the line at that type of enhancement. Maybe I'll just try some shape wear. I hope they make it in a fabric that wicks sweat though. I still can't figure out how I can sweat out what feels like gallons of fluid at night and not weigh less in the morning.

Hunger is calling me now, so I am off to eat a high protein/low carbohydrate meal. I plan on emailing who ever is in charge of action figures at Mattel to start production on mine. Dammit if Jenna Jameson can have her own action figure, then so can I.

Love and Hot Flash Kisses,

Cult Diva