Wide-On Of The Week: Cristiano Ronaldo

Wide-On: noun. A slang term implying a state of sexual interest or arousal in a female.

Ex: "Cristiano Ronaldo gives me such a wide-on that I may actually become a soccer fan."

This week's wide-on was suggested by one of my kind readers. Not being a sports fan, I had never heard of him. As far as I'm concerned there is only one soccer god, that of course being the iconic David Beckham and his perfectly sculpted physique. However, after looking through several pages of photographs of him, I have to say........soccer is such a pretty sport.

I haven't been to Spain yet, but he is good reason to go as far as I'm concerned. Him and Javier Bardem.



Oh, and some of the museums and such.

Have to fit culture in there somewhere. Vacations can't be all about eating, drinking, and ogling hot men.

Enjoy and have a great weekend!

He Was Raised By Wolves

Many, many years ago, when I was married to The Teenager's dad (aka "The one night stand gone horribly wrong"), my mother-in-law called me for the umpteenth time to apologize for her son's loutish behavior. I would get many calls like this during the short duration of our marriage, and even got them for years after our divorce.

During one of our conversations, she tearfully told me, "I tried. I really did. He was raised in a nice home, I don't know what happened."

I feel her pain.

Sometimes I look at The Teenager and think the same thing. Actually l look at him a lot and think that.

I made a special dinner for him Monday night to give him a good send off before he drove to Atlanta for a few days to school shop. I invited his long suffering girlfriend, The Petite Beauty, to join us. I had just finished a great book titled "Lipstick Jihad" by Azadeh Moaveni, about a first generation American woman of Iranian descent, who returns to Tehran to better understand her culture. Craving some good Iranian food, I made Gormeh Sabzi, which is sort of stew with beef and herbs over chelo (rice steamed with lots of butter). He hates everything I cook, but The Petite Beauty is always polite enough to eat. I told her all about the book as she likes to read too and gave her a little history of the Iranian Revolution and what Persia was like under the Shah.

The Teenager was in rare form that evening. He hated dinner and refused to eat. He kept texting his asshole buddy all during our meal. He got into it with his grandmother because he invited asshole buddy to Atlanta without asking her first, resulting in a larger flurry of texting. My mother is the only senior citizen that I know that can throw a guilt trip via text messaging. He had to be told to remove his ball cap at dinner. And not to swipe his bread through the butter dish.

His girlfriend became fed up with his behavior about an hour after I did and demanded to be taken home at once. I had served fresh peach preserves at dinner as I had put up a dozen jars that afternoon and since she liked them so much, I insisted she take a jar home to her mother. When The Teenager came in my room to get my car keys (his car was predictably out of gas), I reminded him to take a jar for her.

An hour later I got a craving for a piece of bread smeared with preserves, so I got up and went to the kitchen. Poking through the refrigerator I couldn't find the open jar we had at dinner and assumed that maybe we had finished it off. Turning to the counter I noticed that eleven jars remained and was annoyed because obviously The Teen had not given his girlfriend a jar to take home--even though I reminded him to take one.

Typical.

When he got home, I was still up and hooked on back to back episodes of "Will and Grace". He came in to give me my car keys and handed me a small envelope with my name on it. Inside was a lovely personalized "thank you" note from The Petite Beauty's mother for the preserves.

Oh God no. Please tell me no, that he could not possibly have done what I think he did. Please let me be wrong for once. Maybe I canned thirteen jars, not twelve.

"Teenager, what jar of preserves did you give P.B.'s mother?", I queried. I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear it from him before I started screaming.

"The one from dinner, duh. That was the one you wanted me to give her, right? She liked them a lot", he replied, flopping next to me to start watching the show. We love "Will and Grace".

"You gave her mother a half eaten jar of peach preserves???? What is wrong with you?? You call her right now and explain. I am going to die of embarrassment", I fumed and hissed at him. That woman is going to think we are straight up white trash for sure.

Why does he do these things to me???

"They're already in bed, but I'll see them tomorrow at orientation. I promise I'll explain, why are you such a nag? She won't care."

I tried. Really I did. I'm sure he must realize on some level that it's not okay to give people gifts of half eaten food.

One of my friends from the gym suggested that I make a tradition of this. For Christmas, I can give her a half eaten plate of cookies. Birthdays, a half eaten box of chocolates. Perhaps I can convince her it's a strange custom of our family, a symbol of our affection.

I know she must pray nightly that her sweet child doesn't marry The Teenager and his crazy family.

I don't blame her one bit. The older he gets, the more he acts like his father.

God help us. I have to get that Marine recruiter over here. I have a spare bedroom, I may offer to put him up for a few years until we can drop (read: hog tie and leave him at the gates) The Teenager off at Parris Island.

I'll Worry When They Talk Back

Over the course of the last year, I've noticed many signs of middle age suddenly creeping up on me. I have more gray hair (everywhere...sigh), a wattle like thing under my chin that I pinch constantly to confirm it's hideous and unwelcome existence, a widening around my waist I can't seem to control, knees that hurt all the time, and a plethora of other physical woes that plague me daily and remind me of my fragile mortality.

But the one symptom of my creeping decrepitude that concerns me the most is the fact that I now talk back to my beloved talk radio.

I'm not a television watcher except for news programs or particularly good trash television when I'm too tired to read at night. But I love a variety of radio programs and tune into them during the day while I work.

I have a running dialogue with Renee Montagne during "Morning Edition". When I talk to Diane Rehms, or respond to one of her guests, I have to do it in her trademark gravely voice with full stops between words and careful pronunciation.

A few weeks ago while listening to "Talk of the Nation", I became irrationally annoyed with a call in listener that was whining about his current state of unemployment. Considering he was about 25, and had that horrible air of arrogant entitlement that most twenty somethings have, plus he kept mentioning that he had just graduated from Georgetown (screw Hoyas), and add to that his stupidly trendy name (Brett, Conner, Tyler, or some such '80's bullshit), I just lost my mind right in four o'clock traffic and called him a total douche bag. I hope I didn't offend Neal Conan too badly. Usually when his call in listeners annoy me, I just change the dial or turn the radio off.

I also hope people in other cars don't look over at me in traffic and notice me gesturing and talking with no one either. It's sort of become out of my control. At least at home no one sees me arguing with Bill O'Reilly and Lou Dobbs over at Fox Radio. I try to keep my comments to myself when I know the Teenager is around as I give him enough fodder to mercilessly mock me on a daily basis now. I don't want to give him any more reasons to have me declared non compos mentis and thrown in a cheap state rehab. Plus, I don't imagine they play talk radio on the short bus.

Who would I talk to then?

Wide-On Of The Week: Gerard Butler

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

Ex: "Gerard Butler has been giving me a wide-on ever since I saw him in the movie "300".

I'm starting to think I just really have a thing for British men. If you check through past "Wide-On" features, a high proportion of them are British. My twenties and thirties were littered with with traveling rugby players from England, Ireland, and Scotland.

You didn't even have to play rugby. Just having an accent was enough for me. I have a theory about foreign men; I don't care how ordinary or uninteresting he is in his own country, an accent makes men immediately hotter somewhere else in the world.

I'm a lucky women however. My very American husband speaks various languages, and has a wonderful faculty for accents. Having been stationed in England for many years, he can turn his old accent on and off at will. It's like having several different foreign men around. I believe he is working on learning one of the Baltic ones now. I'll have to start looking for some Eastern European hotties to feature.



Have a great weekend!

For even more Wide-On eye candy:

"Spread Them And Weep: The Biggest Wide-On Ever, Alexander Skarsgard"

And Then There Were Four

I startled my husband last night on the phone by having to give him some news he wasn't prepared adequately for.

I had to tell him about the baby.

There was a horribly long silence and then finally he managed to choke out, "Whose is it? Where did it come from?"

"Where they always come from, they just wander in from the yard. This time Rosie helped by pushing it up to the door."

You got it. We now have a new cat. This one is about eight to ten weeks old. Of course she was terribly thin, covered with fleas, has an infected eye, and a nasty case of roundworms. No one ever dumps healthy, spayed animals at my house.

I heard crying sounds Friday night coming from somewhere out in my yard. As they got closer and closer I was able to make out my older cat Rosie pushing something with her head toward the back porch. She found the little kitten in the yard and rescued it. Since she seems to have taken over the mothering duties, I guess she's adopted it.

It's even hot to adopt poor refugees in the cat world. I just hope it stops here with this one, though by now I should know better.

The Teenager and I love to make fun of the program "Meerkat Manor". It's so hideously addictive to watch and get caught up in this animal version of "The Hills". The unfortunate side effect of watching "Meerkat" is that now we tend to narrate and dramatize our cats lives as well and have been trying to produce a show for years called "House Cat Casa". If people will watch meerkats, then our show should really hook them. Delia thinks she's overweight and is trying to cut back on cat treats, though her addiction to cat nip continues to fuel her appetite. Rosie continues to murder birds, lizards, and other small animals and leaves their mutilated corpses all over my nice back porch. Lulu is still waiting to die while sleeping on top of my grill. The obnoxious neighbor cats, Hershey and Lucky, are a continual nuisance as they sneak over and eat all the cat food.

So here's a recap of this weekend's episode:

"The tawny, striped female known as Rosie finds a starving kitten stranded in the dangerous savanna of the golf course and struggles to bring it back to her den. As she pushes her precious bundle toward the safety of her home, she can see the short, brown haired animal that protects their kind sitting on the porch making odd sounds into a small black rectangle that she carries everywhere with her.

Triumphantly she presents the shivering baby to the leader of the clan, and watches closely as the two legged animal reaches down and picks up the little kitten. "Good", she thinks as she watches the big animal pet and coo at the little one, "We're keeping it."

Rosie then runs to tell her best friend, Delia, who is less than happy at the news. Delia stalks off into the night and doesn't return for a day. When she finally comes home for food, she refuses to acknowledge Rosie or the other cat in the house, Lulu. Since the little kitten is taking up space on her cushion in the leader's room, she goes to sulk under the smelly bed in the young human's room, only coming out to hiss and swat at the newest cat to join the clan. Rosie is confused and upset with her friend's behavior and flops on the living room floor in depression.

However later, all the cats must run for safety when the leader drops her black rectangle and seems upset about the new kitty's droppings being on the floor covering. The leader picks up the small cat, who then proceeds to spray dropping all over the front of the cringing human.

Thus, another evening ends at "House Cat Casa".

Tune in for later this week when the leader, known as "The Cat Whisperer" takes the new kitty for an expensive veterinarian visit. Will the little kitty survive a first visit to Dr. Noah? Will the Cat Whisperer cry when she hands over her magic card that pays for all things cat related? Will the Cat Whisperer's friends make fun of her mercilessly for taking in another cat?"

Yes, just another fun weekend at "House Cat Casa".

It's Time For A Fix

Wandering around The Oaks mall in Gainesville on Sunday, I noticed a new little store tucked in the corner called "Brow Art". Intrigued, I walked over to see what services they offered and was happy to see they did hair removal by a method called "threading". Since Valdosta barely offers body hair removal at all and you can't get your eyebrows shaped correctly, I was thrilled.

I had given up finding anyone here to shape my eyebrows and have been plucking them for the last year. Badly plucking them as I have no idea of how to correctly shape brows. I ended up with two completely different comma shapes, one having an arch and the other not. Also, since I decided to lighten them and screwed that up too, my right brow was a distinctly lighter hue than my left one. One also seemed to be farther back from the inner corner of my eye than the other one. Anyway, as a result of all my "fixing" I appeared a bit cockeyed.

Then I bought the Anastasia "All About Brows" kit from Sephora and managed to make myself look like Joan Crawford with it. The kit is wonderful and I recommend it highly, but there are two things in beauty I just cannot do; eyebrows and apply nail polish. I have to leave these procedures to professionals.

So as soon as the wonderful woman at "Brow Art" put me in her chair and pushed my bangs back, she screamed. Well, not really. But she did make a lot of clucking sounds and call the other employee over to see the mess on my forehead.

While she whipped out her thread to start working, we talked a bit. Just looking at her I guessed correctly that she was Persian, so I surprised her with a little Farsi (very little, I know about three words). So then we talked about our favorite Arabic pop stars and I told her to make my brows look like Nawja Karam's. Considering the shape my brows were in, Faiza (my new eyebrow goddess) told me this was possible.



No, that's not me after getting my eyebrows fixed. That's Nawja Karam and her awesome eyebrows.

I think I might want her nose also.

Threading is a Middle Eastern way of removing facial hair that is virtually painless and really quick. A strand of ordinary cotton thread is doubled and held by the right hand and passed over the skin in a winding motion. The twisting thread catches the hair and neatly removes it. The results are about the same as waxing, hair is removed for 4-6 weeks. I can't figure out how Faiza deftly managed to maneuver that thread all over my eyebrows, but she did. She also did my forehead and shaped my hairline up while she was there and it looks amazing.

To fill in all the hideous gaps, she brushed on a product that they sell for eyebrows called "Divaderme Brow Extender" that miraculously filled them in and made me look like I had normal eyebrows again. I also had to promise her that I would never, ever touch my eyebrows again. It's going to take about four months for them to grow in correctly so that she can get the shape I want, but truthfully they look great now. I was really pleased with what she was able to do with them.

If you're in the Gainesville area, make sure you check them out. They just opened a week ago, but they also will be offering traditional waxing, henna tattoo, eyelash extensions, and make up application. The store is also a franchise, so I imagine they are going to pop up everywhere (but here). Their website is Browart23.com, but it was not working when I tried it this morning.

Do I Smell Younger To You?

Today in my endless pursuit of prettiness I stopped by a new store called "Ageless Beauty" that opened off of Inner Perimeter Road last April. They carry the full line of Bare Minerals, Jane Iredale, and Smashbox cosmetics, as well as Obagi and a few other high end skin care lines. I would link you too them, but like most Valdosta businesses they have no website.

Why, why, why is this place so far behind the times??? I've even tried to sell the concept of web branding to a few of my favorite store owners and they don't see a need for it. I could make a decent living here if some of these folks only took me up on my offer to assist with their public relations.

But that's a whole 'nother story.

Anyway I was intrigued by the perfume they were selling called appropriately enough "Ageless Fantasy". It's concept is to take various fruit fragrances, mix them with a touch of musk and jasmine, and one will instantly be perceived by men as being eight years younger than your actual age.

No, I don't know how they did their research or what were the ages of their control group. But that didn't keep me from rubbing it all over myself. I've used many anti-aging products with far less research than that.

I know that smell from somewhere. The description of the perfume's layering is: pink grapefruit, mango, pomegranate, musk, and jasmine. I read an article a year ago that claimed women smelled younger when wearing a scent composed of pink grapefruit. So I ran out and bought a bottle of grapefruit scented body spray from the Bath and Body Works. I don't know if it actually worked as no one came up to me to guess my age.

And anyone with sense would know not to guess anywhere close to my actual age anyway.

So I came home this afternoon reeking of "Ageless Fantasy" to see if perhaps when I walked past the Teenager and his crew, someone would go "Wow Miss Cult Diva, you smell so young!"

But no.

However something must have triggered the olfactory part of the Teenager's brain because he remind me that we were out of juice. Again.

Now I know why the perfume is so familiar though. In the dry down it smells exactly like the original Lauren perfume formula, not the one they use now.

I now smell exactly like I did in high school, which makes me years younger.

It also reminds me a lot of Calyx, it has a very fruity floral sillage. It's a nice, clean scent that is not overwhelming.

But at $120.00 a bottle, I'd just as soon save the money to my filler fund. I know that works. Still I would take a sample bottle just in case.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Spread Them And Weep: The Biggest Wide-On Ever

Wide-On: (noun). A slang term referring to female sexual arousal.
Ex: " Alexander Skarsgard is for sure the biggest "Wide-On" I've ever featured."

Here's a few more pictures for your viewing pleasure.












I just wish they would hurry up and get to a sex scene with him in "True Blood" . Or a lot more nude scenes. I think Ryan Kwanten is really hot, he has about as gorgeous a body as I've ever seen on a man, but he's overexposed at this point on the series. I want to see Alex giving the big hard hump to someone soon.

At this point I don't care if it's female, male, midget, or whatever. It's time for the totally gratuitous sex scene that one expects from an HBO series. For god's sake, this is why I have cable.

The anticipation is killing me.


For even more Alexander Skarsgard:

"These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things"

"Wide-On Of The Week: Alexander Skarsgard"

Tundra Fever

If I had to pick a theme song for my love life it would probably sound familiar to anyone who has ever heard of Sir Mix-A-Lot. Remember the horrible "I Like Big Butts" song?

Just insert the word "blonde" for butts.

Yes, I like big blondes and I cannot lie.

I've only dated one brunette, but he was from Minnesota and of Swedish descent. His eyebrows oddly enough were blonde, so that counted as far as I was concerned.

Looking back, I don't think I've ever dated, married, hooked up with, or had questionable contact with anyone whose ancestors came from south of the 45th parallel.

Or had the ability to tan.

I think I might have "Tundra Fever".

It's a Middle Eastern thing. Or the now more politically correct term: Southwest Asian. I love to tell people that I'm Southwest Asian so that I can watch their eyes glaze over while they try to picture where the hell that is exactly. Mynamar? Bangladesh?

Geography isn't stressed enough in American schools.

All the women in my family like blonde men. During the Roman Empire, I have no doubt one of my more adventurous female relatives probably convinced a Visigoth to continue to occupying her country. During the Crusades, another one was probably jumping up and down during the invasion yelling in the most unladylike manner, "Pick me and I'll help you burn down this shitty village", at some gorgeous blonde specimen. Since there were nine recognized Crusades, I know at least nine of my predecessors got lucky.

They probably spent weeks getting ready everytime they heard a new horde was about to invade. Oy, the shopping and the primping.

And so on through our family history until we arrived here early in the twentieth century for life, liberty, and the pursuit of yet more blondes in the New World.

Here's my Final Four Fantasy team:

Viggo Mortensen



Kevin McKidd


Alexander Skarsgard


David Beckham



Jason Lewis



Yes, I had to use the Absolut ad that everyone else has ever used of him. I think that Absolut should have at the very least run a contest where the person who drank the most of their product in a year could get a personal visit/phone call/signed poster while they were away at rehab afterward.



I keep Brad Pitt and Daniel Craig on the bench for when I feel like a mid-game change up. I just recently cut Brad from the first string because he's starting to look really tired from all that Angelina drama. He should have picked me. Yes I'm just as high maintenance, but I don't actually like children enough to have more than one at time.

Mr. Cult Diva gets his own category, as he looks sort of like if you morphed all these guys together. He's also asked me not to post pictures of him because he doesn't want all the attention. He actually gets embarrassed when people comment on his looks. But I will share this with you, he was voted "Most Beautiful Man" at Camp Red Cloud by a group of his peers and I have the award to prove it in our safety deposit box. Plus, he gets extra kudos for letting me adopt a never ending stream of stray cats.

I'll bet the other guys are allergic to cats.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Getting My Hair Did

I have a theory about growing hair out. Since I'm still growing mine from that disastrous short cut of three years ago, I find that if I go a really long time between hair cuts and just wear it up in a wad, that it grows much quicker. I take it down for special occasions or when I meet new people, but most people only see me in my messy gym hair.

So today was my annual hair cut. By a professional anyway. My last hair cut was by me, and I'm smart enough now to only fuck with the front of it. Last November my style icon Kim Kardashian cut bangs into her hair, so I ran in the bathroom and hacked about eleven inches off the front of mine, because if she has bangs then I want bangs.

Miraculously hers are already grown out thanks to the magic of extensions and I look like Peg Bundy.

One of my friends recommended Anthony & Company here in Valdosta. She goes to Jan, who is at the Remerton location.

My hair is great and I'm happy. I've been toying with the idea of going a little lighter because my hair is now totally white and I'm not having any of that. I've kept it a dark auburn brown for years and now, I have to color it every two weeks so that I don't have hideous roots. Jan put in some really subtle hightlights for me, and that is not easy with my hair. Over the last few years I've had it highlighted at various locations in the Southeast and left the salon with stripes referred to as "caramel".

It looked orange to me. Not JLo hair, not Beyonce hair, ORANGE hair.

Anyway Jan made them a perfect light golden brown. And neatly re-layered my hair, then dried it in a really pretty way that looked very natural and wavy. Sort of like the hair I would like to wake up with , but never do.

The salon is great, I've also been to the main salon off of Murray Road for facials and other spa services. The facilities are nice, the staff is all super friendly, and the prices are dirt cheap.

I also got to stop by Natural Health, which is our newest store offering supplements and organic foods. It's nice, they offer some different things than I normally buy in Tallahassee. However they are a bit pricier than New Leaf Co-op, and don't have anywhere near the volume. I would go there again though if I absolutely had to have something and couldn't wait until the weekend when I go out of town. I hate our GNC at the mall because of their totally obnoxious sales person, every time I go in he tries to steer me to the most expensive supplements they have. Usually I've done my homework way before I got to the store and make my own decision, but I watched him sell a customer some ridiculously expensive detox kit. I started telling her about Gwyneth Paltrow's site, Goop, as there are much better and less expensive options on it, and he got really pissy with me.

Asshole. Keep your Gold card, I can do better ordering online anyway.

I may have another vent tomorrow. I've been trying to get my lawn mowed by one of the many companies we have in Valdosta. I've been calling various companies for TWO weeks now and finally got one that returned my call tonight. Then he asked me if I was actually planning to get my lawn mowed or just getting prices, as he didn't want to drive all the way here just to do an estimate. After I chewed his ass out and told him to forget it, he did apologize and is supposed to come tomorrow.

I've mellowed considerably since my Atlanta years obviously. I never told him to go fuck himself once, I deserve a congeniality award over that one.

The Teenager is very proud of me.

I Want A Fancy Big Girl Phone

I just got a personal cell phone recently. I know this seems impossible, but you have to understand that I don't want to be found by friends and family when I am out. Before the Teenager started driving, I could always be found at home or at work (which was only 800 yards away). Once he embarked on his adult life, I was free to roam about unencumbered by an electronic leash.

For about five minutes.

He begged me to get a cell phone for emergencies and I resisted because his emergencies are usually of the cash shortage kind. I want him to be resourceful in a crisis and learn to panhandle or at the very least be able to short change dumb cashiers.

But I finally gave in to the nagging by letting he and my husband go buy me a "Track Phone" with twenty dollars worth of minutes since that would last me for at least a year of emergencies.

Then I tossed it in a drawer and forgot about it for a month.

Once I began driving every Saturday to Tallahassee, I did decide to use it so that I could be reached if indeed there was actually an emergency of some sort.

It is quite useful. If I get pissed at the Teenager, now I can yell at him from the road when I'm actually in the moment of maternal rage. Once the moment passes, I may forget what I was angry about by the time I get home.

So I'm out a few weeks ago with girlfriends having drinks when I notice that one of my friends has a Blackberry Storm. It's really pretty and shiny, plus the entire time we are talking she is texting and Twittering away.

My other friend is also texting away to a variety of people. She has a really nice phone too.

I now have cell phone envy. How can I pull out my Crack Fone around everyone's really cool phone?

I'm a cell phone loser. I didn't dare pull mine out to text anyone. First of all, my keys don't light up so I can't actually see the little letters anyway. And my screen is so small I get about six words at a time, which made it very difficult the other night when a friend was texting me the back story on her complicated love life and all the other good gossip happening around us.

Which is very cool. I like being able to silently text gossip about everyone with other women while we all appear to be eating dinner. Now when we all get up to go to the bathroom together, you can be assured we aren't in there talking about anyone.

We can finally go back to making out and re-doing each other's hair in the ladies room and not just engaging in catty backstabbing.

Last week I was finally able to pry the Teenager off of our phone plan by cancelling his iPhone after he accidentally destroyed it (no, he never was able to get Apple to replace it---yet). Now he has his own plan that he pays by the month, which frees me up to start looking at cute phones. I'm thinking Palm Pre, though the Teenager is pretty happy with his G1 phone.

Does anyone have suggestions? I use a phone for texting gossip, reading blogs, music, photographing myself having various procedures so that I can blog about them, and maybe for the Teenager to reach me in case of a real emergency.

Twitter me!

Cult Diva

G.I. Jew And The Devil Puppies Get Some

It's no secret that we have been "encouraging" the Teenager to join the military for the last few years. He's torn between the U.S military and the Israeli, however I don't think the Israeli's offer an enlistment bonus. Marine recruiters have been hanging out at the high school just for the purpose of enlisting fine young men such as my son. The Teenager and one of his friends have decided they want to enlist under the "Buddy Program", which I think is an excellent idea. These two have been playing war games since they were in elementary school, why not get paid for it?

I would actually pay to watch the Teenager go to Boot Camp. Just knowing that within twenty minutes of getting there that he will be beating the ground with his face is enough for me. The Corps has a long history of assisting nice young men find their true purpose in life, which as a parent I find totally commendable.

I think prolonged push ups will certainly help my little comedian get what's known as "GOFO" or Grasp Of The Fucking Obvious. I don't doubt his buddy will be right there pushing the ground with him, but I bet he gets GOFO before the Teenager.

So Friday night, despite being well into their teens, the boys suited up for battle. They still use bits and pieces of my husband's military equipment and uniforms, combined with motorcycle helmets, ghutra's (large, checkered scarves you see all over the Middle East), and safety glasses.

And of course no group of suburban mercenaries would be complete without weapons of mass destruction, also known as Airsoft rifles complete with grenade launchers, extra magazines, and the largest container of plastic BB's known to man.

The boys practice what is known in the trade as "Kinetic Targeting", a fancy term for shooting at moving targets, specifically cars driving past. They have been laying in trenches for years around our area targeting passing vehicles as they hone their shooting skills. Most of their victims probably think some form of road debris has popped up to ping their car or that an acorn has fallen from our heavily tree lined street on to their roof.

They have no idea they are being targeted by expert snipers.

For a long time the boys were on foot, so they did develop a really amazing shoot and run like hell technique.

Then in middle school many of them acquired golf carts and then they were able to occupy a larger portion of our town. However, they soon found out that they couldn't out run Lowndes county's finest in an electric golf cart. After a short chase and capture, the very nice officer called each parent to come pick up their little warrior. Later the boys drove back out to the battlefield to pick up the weapons they had thrown overboard during the chase.

But with the advent of new driver's licences, the troops are now rolling ass in a lightly armored Dodge Stratus (sorry Mr. Cult Diva, at least it's not the little red car).

They decided Friday to target our local drinking hole, because shooting at drunk guys leaving the bar in pickup trucks is a really smart thing to do. What they don't seem to get is that those guys have way bigger guns than the Puppies currently have.

G.I. Jew (yes, that's the Teenager's new nickname) led his men into a preemptive strike against a group of especially aggressive and fast moving enemy targets that in turn captured one of their men. Sadly in the fog of war, one of the younger members of the gang did not quite out run the enemy and get back to the the Bradley Stratus, thus he was taken down.

And choked. Then bounced around the group like a cheap rubber ball.

G.I Jew tried to get him on his walkie-talkie (yes, they use those in the field as well as their iPhones), but it must have fallen to the wayside with the other hastily discarded ordnance.

The young man did finally escape from the enemy and the Devil Puppies RTB'ed Most Ricky Tick because they were hoping I was still awake to save their asses if the angry drunk rednecks followed them back.

"Wow, y'all are some big ballers running home to get your mommy to save you", I commented the next day after the exhausted warriors had woken up and told me about the previous evening's shit storm. I personally would have thrown them to the wolves and taken pictures. Except for the fact that they stole-requisitioned- all the camera batteries for their equipment.

At least they had enough gas to make it back to the house. Their last battle engagement was on an empty tank and no fuel funds.

I hope the recruiting office is open today. I may have that nice young recruiter start doing home visits. I'm all for early enlistment and we can do that at 17, which is in exactly nine months from today.

Hoo-Rah!

Cult Diva

Wide-On Of The Week: Il Divo

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

Ex: "Though I prefer rougher trade than this world famous singing quartet, I have to admit they are very pretty to look at."

I put another hottie on hold this week to feature the phenomenon that is "Il Divo". My friend, The Peach Tart, mentioned going to see them at the fabulous Fox Theatre this week. I told her if she got backstage to try to get pictures for me. I combed the web looking for naked shots of them, but instead just got caught up in naked pictures of lots of other men.

It happens. Though it happens to me a lot. You look at one, then two, then the next thing you know you've spent four hours looking at naked men and your post hasn't even got a title yet.

Anyway, if anyone has the charm to get backstage it's her. I'll take underwear shots, shirtless, shoeless, or whatever she can get. Boy, whoever does their PR must have a team of hundreds checking the web for inappropriate images. I promise you that I could get naked pictures of the Pope before I find one of these guys.

Some body's holding out.

Have a wonderful weekend,

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

Don't Try This At Home

I like to think of myself as a thoroughly independent and autonomous sort of woman. I have good critical thinking skills and am known to friends and past employers as a "problem solver". Often my approach is creative, I do tend to see the world in a slightly more skewed way than most, but I pride myself on my rapid response time to problems. Especially of the domestic repair variety.


I think it's possible to fix almost anything if you have a butter knife, a roll of duct tape, and a tube of Super Glue. Many writers are remembered by their expressive bon mots, however one day in the future when you Google "Cult Diva famous quotes" this is all you will get:


"Slap some Super Glue on that bitch, I haven't got all day!"

You can use it if you like. It's served me well all these years. I actually Super Glued a strapless bra on myself once to keep it in place. I was dancing in a club and it kept slipping down around my rib cage, giving me a bizarre "double rack" sort of look. Luckily I wasn't so substance impaired yet that I got glue on my nipples, I did manage to keep it on the perimeter of the bra. Later the next day I was able to cut the bra off with minimal scarring and discomfort. I had a few loose threads left over, but they soon fell away.

My husband can't quite figure out why I'm still alive. By his count I should have used up my nine lives about twenty years ago. Since we've been together he's witnessed me:

• Mix the equivalent of mustard gas to clean the bathrooms. He doesn't understand how I was breathing with the windows shut. What a worrier, that is so sweet.


• Staple decorative lights around the awnings of our house, while the lights were plugged in. I needed to see how they would look when they were lit while I was stapling, I don't see why he didn't understand that.


• Destroy every utility cord we have by cutting it in half with an operating hedge trimmer. Those big orange cords spark and smoke like hell when you go through them. P.S. for Mr. Cult Diva; I didn't do the last two. That was the Teenager and Marianne. But I'm safe now, we currently have no more utility cords, nor will anyone loan me one as I've cut neighbors cords also.


• Gluing curtain rods up. I've never quite figured out how to use the drill and my Dremel tool didn't work for that. I'm not patient, I wanted the rods up NOW. And they stayed up too, as long as you didn't accidentally touch them.

There are other incidents too numerous to mention, but last night on the phone I was telling my husband about my latest foray into fixing things. Yesterday, while shopping at the military base, I stepped in some one's enormous wad of spit out gum. Unknowingly I tracked it back to my car and got it all over my gas and brake pedals. The wad was so large that I truly hope the idiot who spit it out did so while choking to death on it. Not only was it all over my adorable Bernardo sandals, but my feet kept getting stuck on the pedals causing me to jerk and hesitate while trying to drive the ridiculously low required speed at the base. Since it was lunch hour, cars were everywhere and I almost pulled out and/or stopped dead in front of many people while I dealt with the sticky foot situation. I finally pulled into the gas station and got most of it cleaned off my shoe.

So when I got home it was time to clean the pedals. I went to my husband's (who I will now refer to as "Chemical Ali"--does he throw away anything????) chemical area to get some WD-40. Since there was none, I opted for the next available lubricant I found, which was some product called "White Lightening Lithium Extra Greasy Something Something". I'm not a label reader, obviously.

It did not remove the gum, but it did make the pedals extra slippery. So I used several hundred of his pristine and unused collection of garage rags soaked in mineral spirits to clean that mess off.

Wow. The combination of the two chemicals in an enclosed garage is quite pungent, especially once I got in the car and closed the door. Worse, the gum was still there.

Perhaps the chemicals got to me, but I remembered I have always had luck using PAM cooking spray to remove sticky residue. Unfortunately I threw the PAM out a few weeks ago because I decided it was too toxic to cook with.

But I still had olive oil. Understand that I am to olive oil what the dad in "Big Fat Greek Wedding" was to Windex. Olive oil can fix anything if properly applied.

Except remove gum, industrial lubricant, and mineral spirits from my car's pedals.

So I knew I had to go hardcore and stick with what I know best.

Time to go into my private bathroom and see which beauty product I had to solve my dilemma. I've got tubes of stuff in there that you can't even buy in the U.S anymore, surely there's something to fix the mess in the garage.

And here's what I found: if you go to Sally Beauty Supply and buy their Brazilian Bikini Wax System, it comes with a bottle of "Wax Off".

When you are home waxing (don't do it, spend the money for a professional) and you get to the breaking point where you can no longer pull hardened wax off your genitals without the neighbors hearing you and calling "911", then you apply "Wax Off" and it removes the rest while leaving your bleeding and irritated flesh intact.

So I tried it as I had nothing to lose at this point and found out that it certainly removes gum and a variety of other chemicals off of your car pedals. And leaves behind a fresh, pleasant scent, with a nice sheen on the pedals. It sort of looks as though my car has been professionally detailed.

Told you I'm a creative problem solver. Maybe that will be my first book, something like "Hints from Heloise" with less emphasis on the "correct" way of doing things. I'm all about making it up as you go along and using what you have immediately at hand. Never forget that real women carry "Super Glue" in their purse to every function. You never know when you might need to impress your friends with your "Handywoman skills".

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva

What Do You Have To Do For A Handicapped Permit?

These newly worded signs have been replacing all the traditional handicapped signage all over Valdosta because of me. I've mentioned before that I have been petitioning the DMV for years for a handicapped permit because I'm an emotional cripple. I've had my therapist, psychic advisor, and feng shui practitioner write notes also, but they are a tough group at the Lowndes County DMV. I curse them every time I leave the building and walk to my car, which is all the way in the back of their parking lot.

Since the emotional cripple excuse was a no-go, I had to get even more creative in my campaign for a permit. I'm at the age where I can't really get away with parking in the "new or expectant mother" spot. Yes my FUPA makes me look at least three months gone, but the Teenager refuses to sit in a car seat in the back anymore when he rides with me.

Ingrate. He hates to walk too.

I should have adopted a third world baby instead of opting for live birth. I'll bet Madonna has a damn handicapped parking permit.

Everyone in South Georgia has a permit, you seem to be able to get them for conditions like food allergies or chronic ingrown toe nails. I do know people who have gotten them because they have severe depression.

Except for me.

I'm starting to feel like maybe the fine public servants down at the DMV don't like me. This has become a personal battle.

So here are some of my new strategies:

• I have multiple personalities and whatever personality I'm in could forget where the car is unless it's directly in front of the store.
  
  
  • I'm an Adult Child of an Adult Child.
    
    
  • I have low self esteem. I would feel much better about myself if I was in the front of the parking lot instead of all the way in the back with the other parking losers.
    
    
  • I'm a narcissist and therefore very important. I deserve the best parking spots.
    
    
  • I'm having complications of menopause. Walking from that far back causes brown spots on my skin, hot flashes, mood swings, and interrupts my sleep cycle.
  
  
  
  • I have phobias about open spaces. I can scuttle to the safety of the building faster if I am closer to it.
  
  
  
  • I have sun allergies. UVA/UVB rays cause those dreaded brown spots (see above) and break down my various facial enhancement chemicals faster. I want mileage out of my
    filler, we're in a recession dammit!
  
  
  

  So that's about the time these carefully worded signs began to appear around Valdosta. You can't just be mentally or emotionally crippled anymore for a permit. Being crazy isn't going to get me the golden parking ticket.

  
  
  

  I saw a walker and various medical prosthesis for sale on the side of the road as I was driving home this afternoon. No, really I did. This is South Georgia. People just stop and have yard sales any old place and sell whatever they have with them at the moment. They had rusty old wheel chairs, all-in-one commodes, canes. I don't know why one person driving only a hatchback would have all that medical equipment for sale, but I'm not one for nosy questions.

  
  

  I may go back for that walker.

  
  

  Wish me luck,

  Cult Diva