In Need Of RepHresh-ment

I love commercials. I do. Despite my vehement denial of television watching, I'm not really lying about my viewing habits. With the exception of "60 Minutes" and "Sunday Morning", I only look up from my books for commercials. Inanely stupid commercials that assume that the television viewing community has the collective I.Q. of a mentally challenged paramecium.



The RepHresh commercial wins as possibly the worst commercial ever aired on television. The only thing that could make it worse (which would be better in my view), would be if they could get Billy Mays to be the narrator instead of the falsely emphatic woman that is currently voicing concerns about the state of your vagina. Billy Mays would be more believable.

Unfortunately he died over the weekend.

How can you not just lay there and wet yourself when a commercial opens with this sad line: "Are you tired of suffering from feminine odor, itching, and irritation?"

Swell of dramatic background music. Cut away to a closeup of the product.

Do you know any women that could honestly answer, "No, not yet. I think I'll wait until I can clear a room with the overwhelming smell and/or my ass catches fire from all the scratching before I try your fine product. But thanks for asking."

What sort of fuck-tard would try to sell a product with this approach?

Is there a corresponding commercial for men with jock itch? Does it start with "Dude, tired of your 'nads burning and your entire groin being covered with red bumps that resemble a herpes outbreak?"

No. I've seen Tinactin and Cruex commercials, they tend to vaguely refer to "itching" and "discomfort" without really going into what part of the body the discomfort might be emanating from.

So why I ask, are there so many ads that stress "feminine discomfort"? The media makes it seem like being female is a crisis fraught with anguish and severe bloating. I tuned into my television as I was considering this post and actually listened to all the commercials aimed at women and their "feminine concerns".

I've seen lots of yogurt commercials hinting that our digestive systems need unique care. I've seen maxi-pads the size of pool floats, and I've seen tampons capable of absorbing at least half my body weight.

My god I only planned on wearing it for four hours max, not planning to have an epic adventure in "No Ladies Room Land".

The oceans are rising? Throw a few tampons in, that should solve it.

And I'm still confused by Yaz, the birth control pill with the unique hormone, drsp. Apparently there has been some confusion that Yaz is for PMS, when in reality it is for PMDD.

Is that like ADD of the uterus? I fail to understand the difference between the two syndromes. Why can't you just take an old fashioned Midol and drink large amounts of alcohol? Pass out on one of those enormous maxi-pads. Why not? It's not like your tampon is going to overflow, you'll be lucky if it doesn't absorb your entire circulation system.

If you find this week that you need a good laugh do go to the RepHresh site and read "your stories." I know that users of this product probably did write reviews, but when you read the breathless accounts of how RepHresh is changing women's lives, you will probably begin to laugh all over again.

In fact I'm enclosing one of the commercials as well. It's just too good for words. Promise though that you'll run it back through your head with Billy Mays selling it.

That would be a fitting tribute to a fine career.




Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

The Trip To Heaven Is Easy When There's No Ozone Layer

I saw the sad news Friday morning as I sipped tea and read the news off my monitor. I'm not normally affected when entertainers die. It's sad, but it's not like I know them personally.

But seeing Farrah's pictures, all the pretty pictures of her when she was younger, made me terribly sad.

It was the passing of not an era, but a Hair-a. If you are a woman in my age group or older, unless you were just baby head bald, you had a "Farrah" flip. Some of you still do, I've always said you could determine what era a woman peaked in by her current hairdo. We tend to keep the hairdo we wore in our "hottie" years, sometimes way past the expiration date.

But I think in honor of Farrah, we need to flip it just one more time. It's the right thing to do.

My teenaged BF and I mastered the "Farrah". Halls had to clear when we walked through, the width of our "wings" were just enormously wide. One strong upwind and we could have para sailed with our own hair. I used to get up at five in the morning just to start my "Farrah", the shampooing, the conditioning, the blowing it straight, and then the application of the a curling iron to symmetrically flip each side back into perfect layers.

Then there were three, yes count them, three layers of lacquer to hold the masterpiece in place. Not just any hairspray either, no old lady Aqua Net was going near my mane of hair. I bought special "Farrah Fawcett" hairspray.

Yes, there was such a product. It was made by Faberge. There was also the shampoo and conditioner, but I preferred "Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific" hair products instead for the obvious reason that they smelled good. I miss the 70's sometimes. Things were just named simply back then.

Shit, I'm starting to sound like Andy Rooney.

Back to Farrah Fawcett hairspray. First of all it smelled wonderful, at least to me. Plus I think you could use it as a spray adhesive too, I would bet you could get a car liner to stick on with it. I can't imagine what combination of PCB's and high octane ethyl alcohol was in it, but I'm sure it had some serious consequences on the ozone layer. I couldn't find a picture of the old aerosol can spray, but I did find this one of the non-aerosol pump. I carried mine in my purse, along with my curling iron for mid day touch ups. So did everyone else. I can't imagine how much hair spray I probably breathed in during lunch period, since all the big haired girls were in the bathroom redoing their hair. The scary part was that we all smoked too and you could smoke (illegally) in the bathroom during lunch.

I'm surprised we all didn't blow that bathroom up with all that spray and open flame.

I've had many hair styles since the Farrah, but none I loved as much. I never did figure out how when she ran, she kept her hair so big and bouncy though. Mine would flop without copious amounts of hair flinging and spraying.

Tomorrow is her funeral. In honor of a passing style icon, I plan on doing the "Farrah" just one more time. If you should see a green mushroom cloud of gas above my home, don't worry. It's just me spraying my 'do into place.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Fit To Fuck

Yes, that's what I said. It's my fitness philosophy and I'm sticking to it.

I'm a dedicated fitness fanatic, for me it's a time when my head is completely clear and open to inspiration. Spin class is where I write most of my blog posts, I think the lack of oxygen in the room helps with my creative process. It's sort of like the old days of glue sniffing, except healthier.

Now for the last two weeks the weather has been insane even for Valdosta. The heat index is in the triple digits and every one's air conditioning is working over time. I go to the YMCA in town and it feels like a sauna.

The spin room felt like the eighth circle of Hell. People walked by it and looked at all of us with concern and sympathy. At least that's what we saw through the fog of sweat and humidity on the window.

And I could not help but think as I was riding my bike dangerously close to heat stroke and cardiac arrest, "Why am I here? Why don't I just go home to my fairly cool house and let my predestined genetic nature take it's course?"

I come from a long line of short, apple shaped women with skinny arms and legs. Left to it's own devices, that's where my body is headed.

Except I choose hours of brutal exercise, sometimes even over common sense.

Why? For my blood pressure? For vascular fitness? So that I can live longer?

Hell no. I work out so that I can look sexy. That's it. I could give a crap about my cholesterol or blood pressure.

The phrase "Fit to Fuck" actually is a variation of an Air Force program called "Fit to Fight", which prepares airmen (and airwomen) for demanding and rigorous military missions. You get enrolled in that program when you don't pass your yearly physical.

Fit to Fight is also commonly referred to as "Run, Fat Bastard, Run" or I suppose "Run, FUPA, Run" for the girls.

But I think they should rename it with my catch phrase instead. I've seen the airmen enrolled in the program. They are not exercising with enthusiasm. Why would they?. What sort of exciting imagery does "Fit to Fight" conjure up? As soon as some of the weight is off, your formerly fat ass is going to be deployed somewhere that you might possibly not return from.

That's just not very motivating.

However, doesn't Fit to Fuck (Fit to Fornicate for the few prudes I may have in my viewing audience--if you made it this far down the post) sound a lot more fun? Think how much more flexible you'll be, how much more endurance you'll have. Won't you feel good about yourself when you can see your genitals again without having to suck in all your breath? I mean ultimately, we work out to look good for someone. I know there are a lot of people that tell you they "do it for themselves", but I personally do it to look hot for my husband.

If I wanted to do something just for myself, it sure as hell would not involve sitting on a bike going nowhere in an enormous puddle of my own sweat.

It would involve buying myself an insanely expensive piece of jewelry.

And admiring it while having a glass of wine and a block of cheese. With bread, at least a loaf.

God I miss bread.

I have to go ice my knees now, I have another interval training/spin class in twenty one hours.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Scandal Of The County

"What did you do all afternoon?", I asked my friend Miss Scarlett yesterday. I was sitting out on my back porch sipping (slugging back) a glass ( a Big Gulp) of wine (Benzinger 2006 Sauvignon Blanc, excellently crisp and refreshing).

"I did some yard work with my clothes on.", she replied artlessly, as though it were an unusual thing to wear clothes while edging one's lawn or weeding flower beds.

It's about time she put some clothes on, she's been scandalizing her little neighborhood for a year now with her shameless nudity.

A little history is necessary here.

Last year my friend found an adorable little house in a very small town that shall remain unnamed to protect what's left of her reputation. The best part of her new house was the gorgeous pool in the back yard, which made up for the fact that the interior looked like it had been remodeled by HGTV addicted meth heads.

So Miss Scarlett bought her dream home and called me one hot August evening to let me know she had just taken her first nude swim in her new pool. I expressed a bit of concern, as her home is on a street populated with senior citizens and all the homes are very close together.

She blew off my concern by explaining that she had a "privacy" fence.

So the next weekend she was ready to start receiving people at her new home. She gave me directions to it, stressing that her home was the only one on the street without a handicapped ramp in front. Though comfortably middle-aged, she's the youngest person on the block.

Standing in her back yard, I couldn't help but notice that her fence was not very private. I could easily see in both of her neighbor's windows. Which meant they could see in.

Again she dismissed my concerns. The nude swimming then evolved into naked encounters in the pool with inappropriate (but fun) men. Then there was nude mowing (with close toed shoes on at least). Then nude reading and nude telephoning of friends to talk for hours, all done in her au natural plus maybe a little mosquito spray.

I tried to intervene when she was spraying weeds sans protective clothing. "At least put a face mask on", I urged "you don't want those chemicals leeching into your skin." But alas, my pleas fell on deaf and naked ears.

Until last Saturday morning.

Then Miss Beulah came a knockin' on the door. She's Miss Scarlett's nice Methodist neighbor. She's a godly woman, but luckily a bit more liberal than the Church of Christ group that populates the rest of the neighborhood. Her daughter begged her not to approach Miss Scarlett, but Miss Beulah felt it was high time to say something.

Apparently the whole neighborhood has been watching her frolicking around naked for the last year. You can see over the "privacy" fence and through it. People use the little side street as a cut through to the main part of town and now there are cars constantly driving on their street, putting little old people at risk of being run down. Foot traffic in the evening has increased dramatically. The military base near her home has changed the flight pattern of it's planes and now is patrolling the airspace over her house.

Sermons are being preached about her, children are being warned, and the fine, upstanding matrons of her town are having a field day.

She has essentially become the equivalent of a Drive-In. No one needs movies or the Internet for porn any more, they have a free peep show nightly.

She was utterly and understandably appalled. We met for dinner and copious amounts of alcohol just to work through the shame. "I'll have to buy a bathing suit", she said with great reluctance, "and I really like swimming naked. Now I'll have to turn my air conditioning up."

I disagreed, just buy a cover up and slip into the pool with more discretion. But no more naked yard work, that was dangerous as hell anyway. One slip of the week whacker and you could be in serious trouble. Since you would run into everyone you know down at South Georgia Medical Center's emergency room, think of the story you would have to make up to justify your injury.

But I would not for a minute give up the pleasure of plunging into an ice cold pool every evening after work for anything. Let them stare, she looks great anyway. I did suggest charging a little something to help cover the bills, times are hard enough without giving free entertainment to an entire community. I hear a rumor they are starting to come in from Tifton for the weekend show.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Emergency Plan In Place

On the phone the other night with my BF--let's just go ahead and call her...say....Lola (which is actually her name and saves me from coming up with a pseudonym that I'll forget), we went over the emergency plan that we made if anything catastrophic should ever happen to one of us.


It's always good to be prepared for the unexpected.


She's divorced and my husband works overseas, so we do worry that something could happen to us and that no one will find out for days. Her daughter is far away at college and my son is not particularly observant, so we check in on each other daily just in case.

Here is our emergency plan so far:

• If for some reason one of us should be abducted or go missing, our true weight and age are not to be announced on national media. Lola called this to my attention one evening when a missing woman was described on our local news affiliate as "47, around 5'1", and approximately 175 pounds." "Would you just die if your weight was blasted all over South Georgia?" she asked in the most horrified tone ever, "I don't even have the real number on my driver's licence." I, on the other hand, have been lying about my age for so long even I'm not sure how old I am. Same with my weight. According to my licence I weight 110, which is what I weighed the year I got my learner's permit. So we have agreed to lie like hell if we should ever have to give a description of the other to the police. It's not like they're going to weigh our cold, dead body to verify our identity in a situation like that. Men aren't good with guessing weight anyway, that's why they always buy you those too small panties on gift giving occasions.

• The removal of all sex toys before mothers and children are allowed in the house. This will be easy for her if she has to come to my house. I have only one, just bury it down in the garbage before my next of kin descends on the scene. Luckily I took the mirror off the ceiling years ago because I got tired of various family members looking appalled when they visited my husband and I. She, on the other hand, is a bit more adventurous. Actually, she's a lot more adventurous. I did however get her to organize her toys into one large box, so that I can dispose of everything expediently. I don't want to be running around in front of her mother trying to hide hand cuffs under my shirt or pretending that I always carry a whip in my purse.

• A fabulous outfit for our pre-funeral viewing, plus hair and makeup. I have requested that she go in my closet and find me a tasteful dress, shoes, and handbag (yes I wish to have my purse with me in the afterlife--we all have quirks), but she is not under any circumstances to allow my husband to put me in the ground wearing thong underpants.. Like many men, he loves them and I endure them, but I do not wish to spend my personal eternity with my panties up my ass. She, being wholly different than myself, has requested to go to her final reward looking as slutty as possible. I'm to pick out one of her "costumes" and make sure her hair is breathtakingly large, even if it requires a longer coffin. If sex in the afterlife is possible, she's planning on lots of it. I assume I will be hiding a few toys in the coffin as well, but I'll have to clarify this extra detail with her.

If any of you have emergency plans in place, I would love to hear them. We know there are probably details we haven't even thought of yet, but are always adding to our plan as we go.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Wide-On Of The Week: Shemar Moore

Wide-On. noun. A slang term denoting a state of female sexual interest and arousal.

Ex: "Take Shemar Moore, add water, stir gently, and there you have it: instant Wide-On."

This week's hot man is the reason they call Wednesday "Hump Day" As Special Agent, Derek Morgan on CBS's show "Criminal Minds", his character specializes in profiling obsessional crimes.

I would commit one if I thought he would be the one investigating me. However, I've seen some of Valdosta's FBI guys, and no, they don't look like this.

But I can dream.

For some reason there are lots of pictures of Shemar naked on beachs. I didn't include any full monty's, but believe me, they're out there.

I think I might just load up on high octane sunscreen and start cruising beaches.



Love and Kisses,



Cult Diva



For More Hot Wide-On Action:



Alexander Skarsgard

Don't Let Me End Up Like This

Yesterday I read a horrifying, yet wholly fascinating article on Yahoo about The Bunny Lady, some poor crazy middle aged woman residing in Oregon that collects a rather unhealthy number of rabbits. Ewwwww, yet another menopausal animal collector in the news.

Then I had one of those "there, but for the grace of God, go I" sort of moments.

No, I'm not an obsessive animal enthusiast by any means, but I've never met a cat I didn't allow to move in.

I wrote about the little devils the other day. We now have two and a half, because LuLu, the gender confused cat, is about to go to "D-Day", which is code for the final vet visit.

Anyway, I wrote about the "girls" and their propensity for murdering any thing that comes near our property, then dragging it home for me to dispose of. They do it deliberately just to screw with me.

I wonder when "The Bunny Lady" crossed the edge.

If you remember the other day I withheld evening treats from them because of that nasty snake they left on the porch.

So they brought me a little gift for my bathroom.

Payback is hell. That lizard is still somewhere in there. Their tails snap off if you grab them, so I'm just hoping he will move out on his own.

Please Mr. Lizard, don't pop out on me if I should be on the toilet. At my age I could get seriously hurt if I am startled.

I did however remember to go buy kitty treats (bribes), later that day. They seem partial to Fristkies "Party Mix", which shows a very wasted looking cat on the package. That cat must be high on some serious cat nip to be that excited about "Beach Combo" or "Feline Favorites".

Look:

There must be a secret ingredient in there that cats love. Mine run from miles away when I shake the bag. It was "buy one, get one free" this week at Publix.

The girls are the last cats we will have for a while. When LuLu goes to that big litter box in the sky, there will not be an opening for a new cat to move in--this is how it's been going for years. One leaves, another appears out of thin air. It's like there's a waiting list somewhere.

I'm just saying no this time. I don't want to end up being the crazy cat lady.

Love and kisses,

Cult Diva

Truck Driving Diva

I had a crazy thought a few weeks ago. Okay, I have crazy thoughts everyday and write posts about them, but this particular one might actually have some merit to it.


I've been trying to get my husband back home from overseas and working in the States for a while now. He's been a contractor for two years and that is just way too long to be gone. He's been sending out resumes stateside for years with no results.


So I'm driving home one night from the gym and I notice all the trucks on the road. My husband actually has a CDL, along with all of his other qualifications.


I could get a CDL too, and we could be a dynamic driving team.


I've been playing with this idea now for a few weeks, weighing the pros and cons. Here's what I've come up with:


Pros:

• He is really safe driver. I'm a really fast driver. We'd make a good, reliable team.



• He wants to travel the country together in an RV and this is sort of close to that.



• I could work on my writing while he drives.



• He could sleep while I drive.



• He would be home and we would both be drawing a paycheck.



• We could meet lots of interesting people that I could portray in my work.



• We could stop in little towns all along the way and learn about other regions of the U.S and their individual cultures.



• The Teenager can handle himself on his own. I listened to him work over various people in customer service at Apple the other day (his iPhone has imploded) and he will work them out of a new, free phone before this is all over. Our current service plan insurance only covers the Blackberry that he has. But somehow through his various schemes he now has an iPhone. The Teenager, aka "Akbar the Trader", manipulated some poor kid out of a phone. For more on the Teenager's legendary skills read: Lake Dog Millionaire.


• Getting kinky in the cab.

I think there are a lot of benefits to us doing this, think of the stories I could spin from the road!

Now here are the cons:

• I'm a really bad driver. I've mentioned before that I'm the driver Asians make fun of. When I get stressed out in high traffic situations, I close my eyes. I hope everyone else practices defensive driving because I'm counting on it.


• I'm a little high maintenance. I like to pretend that I can just roll with anything, but that's a lie. My idea of roughing it is perhaps different than other peoples.


• What do you wear?


• I go to the gym at least six days a week. I'll have to convince my husband that pulling off the road every afternoon from 4-7 is a good idea so that we can go work out. It's rush hour anyway, so why be stuck on the highway?


• I have dance class on Saturday, so block out Saturday morning.


• Do either of us ever want to spend that much time together in a very cramped space?


• Would it be worth the money?


• He still smokes, we can't lose time pulling over every time he needs nicotine. I'm a former smoker, so I am sympathetic. But not sympathetic enough to breathe second hand smoke.


• Where will my dressing room be?


• I can't use public rest rooms for anything but the most basic of functions. What happens if I should have to do the unthinkable number two while we are on the road?


• Trying to get kinky in the cab.

Hmmmm. Lots to think about on that one. I have a wonderful vision of us driving the highways and by-ways of America, drinking coffee (him), drinking tea (me), listening to various NPR affiliates and discussing them. Stopping in little road side joints for food (for him) and finding whole food co-ops for me.

I'll have to research it a little more. I did find lots of sites devoted to couples that drive together to check out later.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva (the potential lady truck driver.)

Botox 911

Last week on our trip to St. Augustine, I did something I normally don't do. I allowed photos of me to be taken in a natural setting. Usually, the only time I allow photographs is when I'm having or have had some procedure done and plan on writing about it. Perhaps the heat and humidity got to my brain, but for some reason I asked my son to take a picture of me in front of Flagler College.

Then we went back to enjoying our day. Later that night he uploaded his work to out computer and we got to look through them together. The Teenager is a gifted photographer, this is more than likely life's calling for him. At least I hope so, because we've spent an ungodly amount on camera equipment.

And then we got to this picture and the two others he took of me.

I vowed to immediately run out and buy Photoshop, and then just decided to go back to my "no pictures" policy. When did my eyes collapse like undercooked souffles? Only one answer to this problem. I'm saving the upper and lower lift until I do a full face lift, but for now there's Botox.

Monday morning I put a 911 call in to Dr. Moore's office. "Hey DeeDee, it's me, Cult Diva." I told the receptionist. I'm on a first name basis at Dr. Moore's House of Enhancement. "I need emergency Botox as soon as possible, my eyes fell down over the weekend. What have you got right away?"

"Oh Lord, let me see what I can do." she replied with concern. Dr. Moore's staff have a huge amount of sensitivity training so that they can work with self absorbed middle aged women. "I have an appointment on Monday the 15th. Can you hold on until then?"

"Yes, honey. I have lots of dark glasses. See you Monday." I then hung up, marked my calendar for the following Monday and spent the rest of the week squinting at myself to see how bad they really were.

So here we are now Monday:

One last big crinkle eyed smile. I've just come from morning spin class, I don't normally wander about pretending to be Pocahontas with this hair don't.


Sitting and waiting with Lidocaine numbing my face. Yes, injecting botulism in your face is uncomfortable.



Getting the equipment ready.



Ouch. Side one is finished. Unfortunately I didn't have a second person in there to take a picture of the actual injection, which is what I wanted. So you will all have to do with the post injection picture. I sat there afterward for about twenty minutes lightly massaging my Botox in to work it into the muscle. She hit me with four big injections in a "c" shape around my eyes to help with the crinkles.


There we go, much better. This will keep me crinkle free until at least October. I hear a stronger, longer lasting version of Botox is out there, so you know as soon as it's here that I'll be all over it. I had a little Botox headache last night around my temples, but Tylenol takes care of that.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

And They Call Me The Cat Whisperer

I don't normally do pet posts, because I'm a default pet owner. I didn't actually choose to have pets, they just sort of moved in. The cats down here in South Georgia are really pushy that way. They arrogantly take up residence with you, expecting full room and board, plus lots of air conditioning for comfortable day sleeping. I currently have three cats, which is down quite a bit and I hope it stays that way. The cat above is Delia Louise. Yes, my cats have middle names and when I use both their names, they know they are in huge trouble. They don't actually care in their nonchalant feline way, but they know. Delia, when not being a house pet, is actually a serial killer.

This one is Gypsy Rose Lee, aka "Rosie". She's the baby of the group. Don't let her cuteness factor fool you. She's four pounds of sharp claws and teeth with sociopathic tendencies. She and Delia are like the Thelma and Louise of the feline world. She's totally ruthless and plays with her kills for hours.


And then there's Lulu Belle. Who looks evil, but is not the brains of the organization or even female. Poor Lulu is what's known in the veterinary world as "gender ambiguous". No, not alternative life style, he doesn't wear a little rainbow collar and disappear during Fleet Week. It just means that in the vet's words "he has undescended testicles and a small, underdeveloped penis, combined with no kitty testosterone." Which is why we couldn't find evidence of masculinity and named him Lulu Belle. It did take the vet and two of her assistants to figure him out though, she had only read about that issue in veterinary school and never actually seen it. Lu has problems with gaining weight around his lower abdomen and hips (he has a massive FUPA), and depression. Now at around 15 or so, he has cat Alzheimer's and doesn't seem to know where he is most of the time. Notice how confused he looks in the above picture.

According to science and an obscure pop song, the female is the more deadly of the species. I see that on a daily basis here at Casa del Pretty. "The Girls" have maimed, tortured, and killed a record number of reptiles, birds, and amphibians this year and drug the remains to the back porch for me to clean up.

These aren't gifts. Dogs bring gifts, they want you to like them, they're needy that way. Cats don't care if you like them or not, their "offerings" are actually threats of what could happen to you if you make them unhappy.

Their "gifts" mean "keep the kitty kibble coming or you're next. And quit buying the cheap shit, we know the difference." Or "you've forgotten the cat nip two shopping trips in a row. Maybe this rotten, decomposing squirrel will help jog your memory beeyotch. By the way, your new "hot" shoes are the most totally fugly thing I've ever seen. Snnnaaap!"

Yes, my girls sound exactly like the girls from "Mean Girls".

I don't know what I did to deserve this week's gift, but they brought me a foot long serpent of undetermined origin. Torn to shreds and decapitated. They left him on my back porch, which is a nice enclosed area that I where I enjoy taking the evening air and having a glass of wine.

I found it Tuesday, and left it there in the hopes that they would finish him off and drag the body away. Or that one of the other fauna of this area; raccoons, possums, armadillos, vultures, hawks, or foxes, would come up and drag him away.

But no. Asking the Teenager to do something about the rotting reptile was pointless. I'm his mother so I'm allowed to say this; he's a great kid about most things, but is a huge pussy when it comes to bugs, reptiles, dead birds or anything with a grossness factor.

So by Friday I had to do something about it. I had a friend meeting me at the house Saturday and obviously I had to let her in the house, I couldn't just meet her in the driveway. My back porch runs the length of the living room with large sliding glass doors leading out to it. It's a nice view, most people immediately want to walk out and look over the golf course.

By the way I am completely phobic of snakes. Really phobic in a panic attack sort of way. Living in South Georgia means lots of snakes. It's pretty normal even in our subdivision to kill rattle snakes in your yard. Or water moccasins from the lake across the street. Or just a variety of corn, black, indigo, and the occasional but rare coral snake.

So Friday I woman up and go get my broom. I planned on beating the snake a few times to make sure he was dead. The last one I picked up with bar-be-que tongs was not. As I got closer I saw he was covered in flies and looked pretty gone, so I took a chance and started whacking him across the porch like a hockey puck toward the door.

Then he exploded. With maggots. Which is what I get for leaving him out there for days, I should know that problems just don't up and go away on their own. Especially dead bodies. I watched "The Sopranos" for years, you think I would have gotten something useful out of it.

I managed to clean up and sterilize the porch. And myself.

The "Girls" meanwhile lounged around the air conditioned house watching me dance around killing maggots and trying not to get snake parts on me. They had smirky expressions and kept giving each other conspiratorial looks. Naughty brats.

I deliberately forgot treats that night. The treats are on a top shelf they can't reach, plus are in a Ziploc bag. They could probably open it if they had thumbs. Sucks to be them.

Guess they'll have to sulk while they watch "Bring It On" for the millionth time. It's their favorite movie.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

As Long As It Looks Like I'm Packing A Big One

Once again I find myself spending hours of valuable "research" time on various sites looking for the perfect crotch shot to use on my post. This lovely shot came from "Big One Below", a site devoted only to pictures of overflowing male..um...masculinity.

Now mind you, this was not just redundant crotch shot trolling behavior, it's research. I had to save many photos until I found the perfect one. I'm sure I'll use the others at some point in the future. I do however need to remember to explain to Mr. Cult Diva why there are so many gay porn sites saved to "favorites" now.

However it was the Mr. that inspired this particular post. Once again he proved to me that men and women are from two polar opposite universes and will never fully understand each other's thought process.

I was reading him selections from my latest, unsolicited catalog "Time for Me", which seems to be a company dedicated to the well-being of older (meaning my age) women. I became particularly enamored by the concept of the "Sexy Incontinence Protection" underpants. I love word play and oxymorons, but the very idea of "sexy" and "incontinence" being used in the same sentence sent me into hysterical laughter. I am no longer incontinent as you may remember from the post "You Can't Glam Up Depends", so I am allowed to make fun of anyone who is.

The cute, lacy panties can hold up to 4.5 ounces of liquid AND be washed and re-worn up to 200 times if you actually survive the embarrassment of piddling yourself the first time.

I've been seeing lots of ads lately for incontinence products for women and men. Apparently we are a country full of leaky bladders these days. I saw a commercial the other day for a men's version of Depends. I guess the diaper-ish ones for women are not "masculine" enough, so they created a version for men that looks like Kotex for Dudes. I think they have extra room in the scrotal area to accomodate all that ball sag that accompanies aging.

Nice picture of a guy golfing on the front. Men can relate to him. He can drive that ball at least 200 yards down the fairway now that he doesn't have to worry about pissing himself on the downswing.

This is however the suburban version for old, white Republican men. I'm sure marketing and sales worked overtime to come up with a way to sell these to men. Despite the bi-lingual packaging, I don't see los hombres lining up to buy these. I can't even imagine how they're going to get the brothers to buy them. Mr. Cult Diva inadvertantly came up with the solution though. When I mentioned the concept of adult diapers for men last night, his response was absolutely priceless. In one sentence he came up with the perfect marketing strategy.

He thought about it a moment and said, "Well I'd wear them as long as they made me look like I was packing."

There is male reasoning and logic at it's most basic level. If it makes their dick look bigger, they don't mind wearing pee pee pads out in public.

My spouse then went on to explain how that could help old guys pick up women easier. Because we all want old guys with bulky, rustling crotches. "Just picture it", he tried to convince me, "he's walking around in expensive shoes, wearing a Rolex, and has this enormous crotch, what....you wouldn't want that? Big bulge in the front, all women like that, right?"

"At that advanced age I'd be happy if I could find one moving on his own power without a walker or Little Rascal.", I replied dryly. My husband has odd ideas about what women look for in men. I personally tend to look for the bulge in the back that indicates a full wallet or money clip.

But that's just me.

I did however find out that you could purchase them by the case through Amazon and get a huge discount. If I order them tonight, I can get them to him by Father's Day.

Now I know why the guys in the "Depends for Men" commercial are swaggering around. They look like they're packing quite the granny gouger in their high waisted Dad jeans.

Maybe I need to use one of them for a "Wide-On" feature. Older guys in diapers, hot or not?

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Wide-On Of The Week: Jason Behr

Wide-On-noun-A slang term denoting a state of female sexual interest and arousal.
Ex: "Vaguely kinky pictures of tattooed men give me a wide-on."

This week's wide-on was suggested to me by an acquaintance that had dinner with him and his very cute Georgia born and bred wife, actress KaDee Strickland.

Although I had initially not recognized his name, as soon as I researched him I realized I had seen him in quite a few things. Any fans of the TV show Roswell or the movie "The Grudge" would have recognized the name immediately.

If his hand needs a rest, I would certainly volunteer to hold on for him. It looks important.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva


Want More Throbbing Wide-On Action?

Channing Tatum

So I Get Enlightenment And Then Gracefully Expire

Act One: In which the Fabulous Cult Diva wrestles mightily the the demons of low self esteem and anxiety.

Act Two: Our brave and fashionable heroine finds inspiration in an unlikely source.

Act Three: As the curtain closes; our now enlightened heroine clutches her burning bosom with tears in her eyes and vows dramatically that "After all, tomorrow is another day."

Wait, that was some other crazy Southern Belle's parting line. Okay, how about this instead:

"Oh shit my side hurts. I'm going to explode like a python after a antelope buffet."

Perhaps not as dramatic or eloquent as the first line, but certainly more apt.

However no, I did not explode somewhere in the Everglades yesterday like some one's cast off exotic reptile.

I had a gallbladder attack that I'm at least ten years too young for. Old people get gallbladder attacks, not youngish women such as myself.

In case you've never had one and you are approximately my age, here are the signs:

• Severe abdominal inflation for several hours after eating fatty or greasy food.
• Sharp pain under right rib cage. Feels like a runner's stitch.
• Corresponding severe pain and pressure under your right shoulder blade.
• Nausea and vomiting.
• Fire from Hell acid reflux.
• Lots of unladylike belching and other unmentionable gas leaks with no relief.

I've been having problems for months with various foods, but thought I had just grown severely allergic to nuts, cheese, olive oil, salad dressing, donuts, red meat, chocolate, potato chips, alcohol, and too many other foods to name. So I cut them all out.

Then I went on my little fried chicken orgy Tuesday (with a side of macaroni and cheese, plus green beans with fatback.) Now I know what all those foods have in common. Fat. I can no longer digest a lot of fat. Fuck my life, now what am I going to do for fun?

Besides psychological enlightenment; I know now where my gallbladder is, what it does, and by next week will know how much more of my life we'll be spending together.

I also will have to find a new over indulgence besides fried chicken. I can rule out food and alcohol pretty much. I have too many clothes now. If I become a pot head, it's going to piss me off not to be able to satisfy my munchies. I have enough pills to try to keep up with, so scratch that too.

Luckily I got a new catalog in the mail today. It's from a company called "Time for Me". It's dedicated to the art of my well-being. It's filled with anti-aging products, supplements, menopause relief, sexy lace trimmed incontinence panties (really), and really unique sex toys.

And I'm pre-approved up to $400.00.

I have to go shop now.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

She's My Hero

Yesterday I did a post about my now outed social anxiety disorder. Having had it for years, I have often wondered why couldn't I have neurosis that I was unaware of. I meet absolutely bat-shit crazy people all the time that seem to have no clue that they are complete train wrecks. I want to be surprised by my craziness one day, instead of having people say "Wow, you seem so normal for a walking emotional time bomb."

However yesterday I had what I call a coping day, where I just make it a goal to get through the day with a minimum of self criticism. On a coping day, you do something really special for yourself. Which for me means one thing and one thing only; Bojangles Fried Chicken. Everyone has a coping mechanism, I drown my sorrows in spicy Cajun fried chicken.

Now a little more background information is necessary. I believe that the Universe, or God, or whatever it is that people believe in according to their individual faith always can be counted on to send you exactly what you need when you need it the very most. I always get the "Meaningful Spiritual Message Disguised As A Random Event For Dummies" version because I must have the largest, most obvious one because subtle, private messages fly right over my big hair.

Now back to this afternoon. So self conscious person that I am, I still go inside to order because I hate ordering food at drive-thru windows so much. It is high supper time in Valdosta at seven o'clock and the restaurant is completely full. The couple in front of me allowed me to go ahead of them since they hadn't made up their minds yet on exactly what part of the fried chicken they wanted, they just seemed a bit distracted by something that wasn't on the menu. I put my order in and went to get my drink. While waiting for my fried delight, I realized that everyone in the restaurant was staring intently at someone.

Though thankfully it wasn't me.

There, completely alone and by herself, was a woman happily eating an entire bucket of chicken with obvious lip smacking enthusiasm.

While wearing a bathing suit.

Yes, I did say a bathing suit.

We are not conveniently near a beach, nor is there a pool behind Bojangles.

At some point the afternoon, this woman stopped whatever she was doing in her bathing suit and drove into town to get some fried chicken.

She was a big old girl too, and I mean in the poundage area. I'm guessing around
5'2" and about three hundred pounds give or take a few.

It was a one piece with a little, very little ruffled skirt.

It didn't cover much of anything.

I stared too.

But not derisively. Nor was anyone else giving her an appalled look. I think we were all frozen in some sort of speechless amazement that anyone could be so happily oblivious to all the expected social taboos they were recklessly breaking.

I have adopted her as my new symbol of psychological bravery. How many feminine phobias were broken in that one defiant act? Let's see: eating alone at a restaurant, wearing a bathing suit in public, eating a non-salad in a public environment and eating non-diet food with such obvious gusto and a complete disregard for utensils or recognized Western table manners.

She's my hero. That is one balls out kinda woman.

She also had a trash can sized drink and I hope in keeping with her "screw social mores" theme, that it was filled with high octane sweet tea and not nasty diet soda.

She should give classes on self esteem, with the graduating act being a large public meal eaten in one's bathing suit right in the center of the restaurant.

Bravissimo brave stranger; in one random act you have made me a better woman.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Crisis In Self Consciousness

Most people don't realize that even on a good day, pharmaceutically speaking, it's difficult for me to leave the house and go mingle with other people. I do it, but some days are worse than others. Unfortunately I can't anticipate my bad days, so event planning for me is a nightmare. I have severe social anxiety combined with a plethora of self esteem issues that are getting bigger and worse with every passing year. The worst part of this is that not only do people not know this about me, but if I do share it, then they don't believe it.

I had this conversation with my doctor last week, at least as much of a deep conversation as I am able to have with someone. She was stunned that I have self esteem issues because I'm attractive, at least to other people. We were looking to increase my dosage of anti-anxiety medication because now my social isolationism has extended to telephone use. I can't answer or talk on the phone, it's overwhelming to me. I can handle the gym (I have headphones on, so am insulated from people) and grocery stores in areas that I'm not likely to have to socially encounter people that I know. Most people that encounter me just assume I'm extremely unfriendly or a super bitch. I get that label quite often. I suppose that if I looked like a stereotypical social introvert it would help matters, but I don't. When I do share my feelings of self consciousness with people, I get the eye rolling typical response of "Why would you be self conscious about anything?"

Luckily I was able to find a mate with the same anxiety issues that I have. Where I'm socially inept, he has raised it to an art of almost social autism. On the rare occasions anyone has ever seen us out in public, we are the couple sitting silently by ourselves. Thankfully the Teenager is nothing like either of us, he has an errant extrovert gene and knows everyone in town

So yesterday I am just being racked by waves of panic, but I had to push through it because I needed to return some DVD's and pick up some cleaning products. On a bad day, I find that I can go out as long as I don't actually make eye contact with anyone. However I ran into an old acquaintance, someone I hadn't seen in years. I didn't recognize her and kept trying to pretend I didn't see her waving at me. She came over to me and WAS SO HAPPY to see me (whoever she was). I kept nodding as she talked while trying to figure out who she was and maybe even come up with a name. I glanced at her daughter, trying to figure out if she had been in any of my library programs before.

I stood there trying to stay with the conversation this woman was bombarding me with, when it occurred to me that she was obviously in way worse psychological shape than me, and really just needed someone to listen to her. Then I remembered who she was. I met her two or so years ago when she had first moved to this area. She had changed so much during the ensuing years that I didn't recognize her. Life had not been very good to her here. Her mother had a massive stroke and now was utterly dependant on her. Her business had failed and she's been unable to find another job. She almost lost her home to foreclosure and now is hanging on to it by a thread.

She was unrecognizable as the bouncy and enthusiastic woman I met a few years ago.

I let her talk almost an hour, she was almost breathless with the relief of talking to a friendly (if she only knew) person. It wasn't so much friendliness on my part as it was the panic I was experiencing at being cornered. She finally stopped and apologized for being so depressing, so I reassured her that she was fine.

And I meant it. I had managed to relax and start listening to her, even making eye contact every now and then. She has no support system here at all, and I feel bad that I can't really provide one for her. I too was a bouncy and enthusiastic woman that moved here eight years ago. I feel a little like the Katherine Ross character in "Stepford Wives". I don't really fit in, so at least I can fly under the small town radar. There's a heavy cost to that protective camouflage though, I'm the glazed walking proof of that.

My advice was to move as soon as possible. Sell everything, call a few favors in from family back home and make them help you load some stuff in a truck. Run for your life while you can. We've been trying to relocate for years and always at the eleventh hour some barrier comes up and the move is canceled again.

She haunted me the rest of the day. I can only assume I was thrown in her path for a reason, but the thought of me helping someone else in a crisis is almost laughable at this point. We exchanged numbers and I meant it when I asked her to go to dance class in Tallahassee on Saturday. I normally only do things by myself or with the Teenager, so this might be subject for a new post, "Anxiety Ridden Agoraphobe Spends The Day With Her Depressed New Friend".

That actually should be an interesting one.

Love and Kisses (from a distance),

Cult Diva

Pretty, But Clueless

Hallelujah! I have my first guest blogger to entertain you all and take the pressure off me! Let me introduce the fabulously funny Mrs. Coconut of the Coconut Diaries, which is possibly one of the funniest and most endearing blogs I have ever read. I'm not sure how I stumbled across her blog in my early days, but I knew I had found a sister in suburbia when I read her work. Employed by day as a serious professional in the world of higher education, she parties by night as a subversive social blogger. Since I don't actually do real interviews, here is a snippet of what I consider a comprehensive personality inventory:

You reside in what state of our great nation? "Texas (Austin) "


Favorite color of play dough? "Pink "


Jung or Freud? Neither! "My emphasis was College Student Services, so probably Chickering."


Wharton or James? " Are they basketball players??"


This one is especially relevant: What's the first thing you plan on doing if and when the Rapture actually occurs?

"Stock up on fire retardant clothing, sunscreen, and bottled water."


Food group you can't live without? " Dessert. Especially chocolate chip cookies."


Tell me a little more about the guide to college. I think I may have to blog hook up for you with a writing class friend that works for Yale. She reads the personal essays prospects send in and decides whether you go Ivy League or community college. She wants to do an anonymous blog on some of the essays she reads and needs to be pushed off her ledge. You may be just the push she needs.



"It was something I meant to work on to establish myself as a college consultant (one of my many ideas about starting my own business), but am really freaking distracted and don't even get to my blog as often as I need to. Plus, I have that whole fear of getting fired for my blog so I try not to write about work too often."




Welcome to "The Coconut Diaries"......



Contrary to what my resume and cover letter may tell you, I possess an almost diagnosable inattention to detail. I’d like to think it is because I am so focused on tasks, that stuff gets overlooked. But that’s not true. It’s that I have a constant consumption with me, myself, and I. If it will not increase my happiness at that moment, I don’t care. Blame my Id, I do.



After I graduated from college, I had 6 months off before I started graduate school. I was living at home with my drug addicted mother and her unemployed-on probation-but-still-selling-drugs boyfriend; and spending a lot of time with my together-only-when-I-am-in-town-ex boyfriend. It got real old, real fast so I decided to get a mindless job that will provide me with the income I needed to entertain myself away from home for the next 6 months.

Across the street from my mother’s apartment was a huge bookstore. It sold music CDs, videos, books, greeting cards, had its own barista, and gift shop. If Starbucks, Borders, and Hallmark had a threesome, this store would be their baby. It was huge and modern and bright, and everyone smiled because it was simply a relaxed place to be. The people in line chatted with each other and the staff seemed to smile for reasons other than because it was in their job descriptions to do so.

I was hired on the spot (because I can rock me some interviews) and bonded with the 3 youngest people in the store; Melissa, Chris, and Stanny. Melissa had that short, ultra-blonde pixie cut all the white girls flocked to in the 90s. She had pale skin and wore the really red lipstick with a Catholic schoolgirl uniform skirt, stockings and Doc Martens. Chris had brown hair gelled into spikes with blonde tips, a manicured goatee, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen on a real person. He was shaped like a former high school football star who’d blown his full-ride scholarship to UCLA. Stanny was the is the only other person of color in the store, a little Latino Rick Springfield in Z. Cavaricci’s and an Oxford button up so stiffly starched that he could cut loaves of bread with it. My college boyfriend (who is now living happily with his partner in middle America) helped me finely tune my gay-dar, so I knew that Stanny was a friend of Dorothy. Only he didn’t know it.

I end up working in the Gift Shop in a booth way at the back of the store (picture Steve Carrell’s job in 40-Year-Old Virgin, only not as fun). They trusted me to manage the complex tasks of wrapping gifts, renting videos, and embossing names on books. Sharing my booth-space was, Agnes. Agnes creaked when she walked and bared a striking resemblance to the old woman in the Poltergeist films. Except she was taller. Agnes worked during the day and I worked in evening. She’d bark a list of things I’d have to do during my shift and review, in great detail, what I screwed up the day before. Eventually, I caught on and life was good in my little booth.
This is where to clues begin.

Clue #1
There was something about me that was novel to them. They’d sit around like wide-eyed kids around a campfire while I shared my college stories, particularly those involving my pathetic dating, my drinking habits, and sorority life.
Stanny: So the whole town would start drinking at two o’clock in the afternoon and then not stop until the next day?

ME: Not the whole town. I’m sure some recovering alcoholics, priests, and pregnant women chose not to participate. Actually, one of the local priests did a body shot with me once.

Stanny: How do you know who the recovering alcoholics are?

ME: Well, they usually have a scarlet letter on their chests with two A’s instead of one. That’s how we tell them from the adulterers.

Stanny: Really??

ME: No.

Melissa: Stanny, you’re such a prude. Jenn, you said you didn’t have Jars of Clay so I brought you a CD to listen to.

(Clue #1.5…I never found out if Jars of Clay was a Christian band or not. Back then, they were believed to have been, so I am only 1/2 clueless here.)

Clue #2
There were very few movies the store rented that I recognized other than Sister Act and every Disney movie ever. It wasn’t long before I ran out of movies to watch and decided to bring in my own.

Stanny: What’s this?

ME: Stanny! You cannot tell me that you’ve never seen Forrest Gump!

Stanny: Forrest Gump! You can’t watch that here!

ME: Why not?

Stanny: Because of all the sex and drugs!

ME: But it’s not gratuitous sex and drugs. It is a reflection of what was happening at the time. The drugs are what develop the Jenny character. Besides, the sex and drugs are critical part of the mise en scène.

Stanny: The what? I don’t know what that is, but I know that all that sex and drugs are wrong in the eyes of God.

The Reveal
Melissa and me at a concert.

ME: What’s the deal with Chris?

Melissa: What do you mean?

ME: Well, he’s really cute and every woman that comes into the store instantly gravitates towards him, but he doesn’t really say much about it. I tell him all the time that he has the cutest white ghetto booty. I just can’t figure him out.

Melissa: He and I have been dating for a couple months now. But Bette (a bitchy coworker) is like in love with him, so we have to keep it all a secret. I think it is stupid, but he wants to spare her feelings. Chris is great. We’re talking about moving forward with our relationship. You know, physically.


ME: Good lord, Melissa, you sound like a virgin talking about doing it for the first time.

(Silence)

Melissa: It depends on how you define virgin. I mean, I’ve done stuff with guys but I haven’t had sex.

ME: So you’re a virgin, then. Do you want to not be a virgin?

Melissa: I think so. Chris is dead-set against it. Saving it for marriage and all that. He and I don’t do anything besides kissing.

ME: Really? I thought Stanny was the only person left like that.

Melissa: Well, you find that a lot working in a Christian store.

ME: Stanny works in another store? When does he find the time?

Melissa: No, he just has the one job. At our store.

ME: I thought you said he worked in a Christian store.

Melissa: He does.

This is what I imagine amnesiacs feel when all their memories come back. Or a crime scene investigator when that splatter of blood in a weird place solves the entire mystery. A Christian store? I’m working in a fucking Christian store? That would explain why all the books I embossed in the gift shop were bibles. The one thing I could not explain is how I missed the fact that I had been working at a Christian store for a month. Monday morning, I realized what a gigantic, oblivious dumbass I truly am. The word “Christian” is splattered all over the place. The giant sign above the main door. Every pen. The Vocation Bible School Section. The Bible Section. My freaking name tag. The bags we give customers.

(In my defense, I was not supposed to leave the confines of my gift shop booth, so I never did wander around the store.)

Natural Beauty

I normally spend my Saturdays in Tallahassee taking dance classes at Art of the Catwalk, but today after my classes I drove up Apalachee Parkway to a whole foods co-op that I had heard about.

Wow, I had forgotten how wonderful a real organic food store could be. We have farmer's markets in Valdosta, but for anything even remotely organic, you have to drive into North Florida. Last summer I spent weekends picking my own organic vegetables, but this year I decided just to pay the difference and let someone else pick them. At least at the co-op I won't run into any large reptiles sunning themselves between rows. You will never convince me that snakes are more afraid of me until I see one run like hell from me first while peeing itself at the same time.

I wandered happily through the aisles of New Leaf Market picking out goodies for dinner tonight. As I am the only healthy eater in my home this was easy. I got some gorgeous yellow heirloom tomatoes, a huge bag of basil, and some truffle infused oil. I'm going to slice them, julienne the basil to sprinkle on them, give them a little of the oil and a generous dusting of fresh pepper. Sadly I've ended my life long relationship with cheese and dairy products, but I may toss in a few cubes of tofu. I found some big, juicy mangoes for dessert.

I also went to the skin and beauty aisle where I found a product line that was new to me, Evan Healy. She's an esthetician that has developed a holistic skin and body care line heavily influenced by the work of Dr. Hauschka, another organically based skin care company. She also uses organically pure essential oils to nourish and balance the skin, and the products smell like heaven. Despite being a faithful Obagi user, I'm not immune to the inherent promise of new skincare products. I bought the "Sea Algae Serum", which is a firming antioxidant treatment for skin that has signs of UVA/UVB abuse. I used it tonight after my Retin-A to help the glow factor in my skin as I still have dreams of that perfect Jennifer Lopez like complexion. It smells wonderful, I don't actually care if it works or not as long as I smell nice.

I also found a pretty mineral eye shadow in a color I've been after for a while, the perfect pale plum. The company is called Larenim and they have the usual line up of mineral make up, however the eye shadow colors were exceptional and didn't seem to go all over my cheekbone as I applied them. I grabbed the "Northern Lights" color, I already have a deeper purple from MAC that I'm saving for fall, so this will be sheer and sparkly for summer.

Then it was time for nutritional beauty. I swear by Udo's Choice Perfected 3, 6, 9 Oil Blend for keeping my hair and skin soft. I find that two tablespoons a day do it for me. I love the taste, so I take it straight from a spoon, but I gave it to my husband once and he made a really bad face. So don't listen to me, I'm a weirdo that likes gross supplements. Listen to Mr. Cult Diva on this one and use it for salad dressing base or something. Just don't heat it, it kills all the good stuff.

I also bought some Green Magma (I told you I was a weirdo). Yes, I actually like the taste of this stuff. I find if I mix it with purified water and a little Goji juice it tastes pretty good. Show me a highly touted antioxidant, and I probably have it or have at least tried it.

Here's the part I don't get though. Scientists keep finding all these healthy things in the Amazon rain forests and the snow covered mountains of Tibet. But why are natives of those areas so unhealthy looking??? The average lifespan of an Amazonian tribes person is about 59 to 61 years of age and truthfully they look like ass by the time they are 35. WTF??

I guess this is where my cosmetic procedures come in to play. And good dentistry.

Anyway, tell me about some of your favorite health goodies. I've finished my wonderful dinner and now am recovering from all those dance classes with a good glass of wine to finish the evening.

Love and (healthy) kisses,

Cult Diva

To Boob Or Not To Boob

That was the question. And it was a difficult question for such a shallow and frivolous subject. Are having large breasts really that important? I had to rethink the entire subject this week as I spoke at length to a friend who is considering breast augmentation. Now that I'm on the other side of the decision, I felt I could give her a better argument of the pros and cons of surgical enhancement.

After a decade of research and decision making, I got breast implants in 2006. Yes, a decade. Up until 1993 I had great boobs, perky 36C's that sat up and waved from the top of my chest. Then I got pregnant and they grew to watermelon proportions along with the rest of me. I breast fed my son for his first year and as he tapered off on to a bottle I watched in horror as my formerly nice boobs shrunk down to a lot of loose skin.

I had National Geographic breasts. Not good for the self esteem.

I kept trying to tell myself that this was normal and that all women looked like this after childbirth. I tried to accept my post baby body because that is a sign of healthy,realistic self esteem.

Which meant that I wore lots of padded bras and apologized to potential lovers before taking the big bra off. I had most of my encounters in the dark if possible and eventually preferred keeping my shirt on. At that point I would think about augmentation and decide that only insecure women considered that a solution. Anyone I was with had to accept my ugly post baby body, warts and all.

I always am in therapy with someone, so my body issues came up often during sessions. I relate better to male therapists, and they were always very supportive, encouraging me to just be myself and that one day I would find a man who loved me exactly as I was. One tried to convince me that men are not as critical of women's looks as women believe.

I hope he comes back as a single mother in a large metropolitan area one day and tries to date.

Then I hit my forties and found out that my empty little boobs were starting to slide down my chest. I didn't know small boobs could sag.

I had re-married by then, to a nice man that was able to accept me and my body issues. He left the decision to me about breast augmentation. I had spent a few years at that point researching safety issues and trying to decide if implants led to various auto-immune diseases. It was time to find a trustworthy plastic surgeon and see what they thought.

We have several really good plastic surgeons here. After meeting with three of them, I narrowed it down to Dr. Bridgett Moore. She had an honest, wide open sort of personality and I was lucky enough to have seen her work on a good friend. We met several times and discussed safety and health issues until I was confident enough to finally book surgery.

I shopped boobs online at several sites. What I really needed to see were women my age, who were approximately my size and had the degree of sagging that I had. Dr. Moore called the sagging in my breasts "pseudo ptosis" which simply means they sagged due to a lack of breast tissue. She felt like placing a larger implant under the pectoral muscle would solve the problem without having to get a breast lift and risk additional scarring. We decided on 350 cc saline implants, so that's what I looked for online.

I have never seen so many real boobs before in my life. Truthfully, by the time I was done, I realized that there were women out there with much worst breasts than mine. There were also not a lot of women in their forties getting boob jobs either, so it was hard to determine how I would look afterward. Obviously mine would be different than a twenty or even thirty year old woman that hadn't had children yet.

I had my surgery on April 6, 2006. The pain was much worse than I would have imagined. I woke up feeling like there were two concrete cannon balls on top of my chest. I knew they would rise up to my collar bones and that I would have to push them down for days, but the first sight of them scared me to death. I finally started taking my pain medication when scheduled as I had been skipping it so that I would get out of bed faster.

I did have fun buying all new bras and shirts though. The implants took me from a 34 B to a 34DD, so I had to change a lot of my wardrobe around.

Which brings me to Monday and talking to my friend about breast augmentation. Her boyfriend is encouraging her to do this. She's gorgeous like a model. She's single, no kids. She's a doctor, for god's sake. To me she looks perfect.

I gave her the negatives I have found about fake boobs. They don't help your self esteem, now I have new body issues. If you're athletic, you can forget about it. I can't swim or golf the way I used to. I have to be careful with weight lifting because certain moves can potentially shift my implants or cause them to become uneven. It's uncomfortable to lay on my stomach during Pilates or Yoga classes. I wear three sports bras to hold everything firm when I go to dance or aerobic classes.

It's hard to find dresses that fit my top and my bottom. People assume my I.Q is lower and talk to me sometimes as if I'm not very bright. Forget wearing tank tops or anything skimpy on top unless you're really into unwanted attention. Mammograms are uncomfortable as they have to pull the implant forward from the chest wall to get a good look at the breast tissue.

I sound like I don't like them, but I do. I have curves now, as I tended to be tube shaped before. I have had to learn to dress my new body as there is a fine line between curvaceous and slutty when you have larger boobs, and I don't want to fall on the wrong side of that line. I don't know if my husband really likes them or not. He is as neutral as Switzerland on the subject because I think he's afraid of answering either way.

I'm still healthy and that was my biggest fear. However, if I could have done one thing different, I would have gotten silicone implants over saline. I have some rippling on the lower side of my breasts where the skin is very thin and you can actually feel the implant there. The silicone feels much more realistic as an implant. I chose saline because they were cheaper and now I wouldn't want to go back in and replace them.

I do hope that if my friend decides to get them, it's her decision only. Loud alarm signals went off in my head when she mentioned her boyfriend was pushing her into it. I hope they were loud enough for her to hear too..

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Wide-On Of The Week: Channing Tatum

Wide-On- noun- Slang term referring to the physical manifestation of sexual arousal in females.
Ex: A "wide-on" is the feminine version of the masculine "hard-on".


Do you know how long it took me to type the above sentence? I kept hitting the wrong keys as I was distracted by the overflowing tighty whities of this week's "Wide-On", Channing Tatum.


Don't you just want to reach in there and help him readjust? Lawsy mercy, mine eyes dazzle.


This one is actually a homegrown hottie. I realized last month that all my "Wide-On's" were non-Americans, so I thought I would throw the spotlight this week on some domestic dick.

If I thought I would see this in the woods, I would haul my ass out of bed before dawn and plant it in a deer stand.


Look, he's available for parties too! A gift that unwraps itself! I want him for my next birthday party. I don't actually celebrate or advertise my born-on date, but I would for a present like this.

Want another peek at Channing Tatum? Check related post "G.I 'Ho and the Rise of Trouser Snake"

Have a wonderful Friday!



Love and Kisses,



Cult Diva



Related Topic:

http://www.prettybutshallow.com/2009/05/wide-on-of-week-alexander-skarsgard.html

Have FUPA, Will Travel

FUPA: noun. A slang acronym commonly used by the United States military to describe a protruding lower abdominal area on a woman. Literally translates to

"Fat Upper Pussy Area." Becomes more pronounced at menopause and is almost impossible to get rid of without surgery.

Ex: "Damn bro; that bitch is supersized, she's like a FUPA-pottamus."

Someone is going around my husband's work place spray painting "FUPA" on walls. He told me about it the other night and we began to discuss who might be the "Phantom FUPA" artist. I sent him on a mission the next day to gather photos for me. Here's another one:

FUPA's popping up everywhere. He thinks it's a bunch of young guys and I completely disagree. Guys spray paint such timeless classics as "Pussy" or "Titties". The word "Suck" or "Sux" usually is depicted with one of the first words. Sometimes they draw exaggerated sex organs, or acts they would like to perform with somebody or somebodies.

But no one lusts after the FUPA. I just don't see anyone missing one so badly that they should feel the need to spray paint their desire to fondle one on a concrete wall in a foreign country.

Here's my theory: somewhere out there in the desert is a poor middle aged woman going through the change. She's working over there as there are no jobs here. She's stuck for months at a time with other contractors and assorted military personnel. And might I add there is nothing more fun in the world than to work with a majority of guys. If you put too many guys in one place without women to keep them from acting like animals, they can be rather unpleasant to work with.

So she's having hot flashes in 120 degree weather. I guarantee you that the base exchange probably doesn't sell Estroven or black cohosh. Or even Midol. She has no where to perform basic grooming functions like the hair, nail, or skin salon. There is no masseuse, no yoga classes, no spray tan.

There is no where to get waxed.

You can't use the gym because it's filled with a bunch of pumped up muscleheads.

There is no where that sells Spanx, not that you would want to be encased in spandex in that sort of heat anyway.

And every time she passes a group of guys she hears the dreaded word that separates the girls from the women.

"FUPA"

I would crack under this sort of pressure too. I think defacing government property is a wonderful outlet for that sort of psychological torment. I'll bet there's a whole pack of them running around with spray paint after dark. My husband claims it's too dangerous to run or exercise outdoors at night there because of jackals, but I think it really might be the Phantom FUPA that scares him more.

That would make a wonderful suburban legend. Sort of like a crazed maenad or a scary North Fulton ALTA wife, but in comfortable shoes and elastic waist pants (when work is over, she still has some dignity).

Actually it sounds like a wonderful cathartic exercise. I may run up to the dollar store and buy my own spray paint. If a group of us get together on this, we could FUPA the entire country. Then I'm sending one to Hilary Clinton so that she can spray paint it on the Capitol steps in honor of women everywhere. You know she's hiding a FUPA under those long jackets.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Bad Vibrations

My BF called me yesterday while she was waiting in the drive thru at Wendy's to bitch about her latest sex toy. She has a huge collection and is trying to petition our local sex shop into giving her a frequent shopper discount. I suggested a part time position there as she is probably more familiar with their merchandise than the staff.

Last week she had purchased a whole collection of pink toys, I can only assume she is working on color coordinating her sex life. She was annoyed with the store because they wouldn't take the toy out of the package and turn it on so that she could gauge the speed and degree of vibration. They don't do that here in Valdosta and seemed shocked she would even ask such a thing.

So she calls me to tell me she's just furious because she found out her new toy is seriously deficient in the power department. She had purchased a little number called the "Pink Tango Mini G Spot Teaser" and her biggest complaint seemed to be that it ran on 2 cylinders, when she is at least a 6 cylinder sort of girl.

I had to explain patiently to her that at our advanced age, little cutesy toys just don't cut it anymore. Butterflies, pocket rockets, any toy shaped like an adorable woodland creature, flowers, ladybugs, these are for twenty somethings. If it has "My First" in the title, it is not for the over forty set, because the only first we haven't had at our age is Our First Colonoscopy.

I suggested from now on that she shop for toys with noun/adjective combinations that include: massive, punisher, power, ravager, deluxe, jumbo, banger, deep, turbo, or rough rider. I even found a great site simply called "Vibrators" that had some pretty unique toys. My favorite was one called the "iBuzz".

Read the description: Rock out and get off with the iBuzz. The iBuzz combines two of the best technological advances of the 21st century: mP3 players and vibrators. The iBuzz vibrates to the beat of your favorite songs and vibrates stronger the louder you play them.

Wow. The two best technological advances of the 21st century combined. Who would have thunk it?

The only problem with this one is that I would have to have the Teenager set it up for me as I'm a techno-tard, and this will NEVER happen. Many years back he found my lone marital aide and my husband and I convinced him it was a cat toy. Since we couldn't rip it out of his curious little hands without him knowing we were totally lying to him, we had to watch in horrified parental silence while he terrorized our cats by trying to hold a vibrator to their sides. He finally got bored with them running away from him and left it on the coffee table, where we were able to retrieve it and hide it far, far away from him.

One of our cats still freaks out when she hears any sort of buzzing sound.

It must have been some sort of karmic payback for stealing batteries from his toys for our toy. We made sure to have our own hidden supply of double A's after that.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva