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I was a sultry cougar. Almost.

15 Aug

There’s so much hype about cougars and cubs these days that I’ve found myself wondering what would it be like to pull a Demi Moore and date someone 10+ years younger. Would it be invigorating? Adventurous? Or would I find myself telling my date to pull his pants up, get a haircut and don’t put your elbows on the table?

As fate would have it, I would never find the answers to my lingering questions thanks to the lovingly dispensed wisdom from my daughter, Ana. Yeah, right.

It’s a Saturday night and Ana is spending part of the weekend with me for some quality mother/daughter time. In reality, it’s more about I cook for her, she eats all my miniature candy bars, catches up on HD TV and steals my gossip magazines. Bonding as its finest.

So there we are – piled up on the sofa with Bud curled up between us. Ana is playing couch commando with the remote and I’m reading emails from prospective beaus. I am reading an email out loud to her when my IM box pops up with a message from Tyler.  I had initially ignored Tyler when he first contacted me two weeks earlier in spite of the fact he seemed really sweet and looked pretty damned good in his photos. Why would I ignore him, you ask?

He’s 26 years old.

Gawd. I am old enough to be his mother, for Christ’s sake. He persisted and I finally accepted his request to IM. We had chatted off and on, mostly about movies, favorite foods, football, the usual stuff. He asked me what I was doing and I responded with hanging out with my daughter, watching TV and relaxing.

We IM for several minutes when Ana asks, “Who are you talking to?”

I hesitated briefly and said, “Tyler.”

“Tyler who?”

“I don’t know his last name! I haven’t asked.”

“How old is he?”

Silence.

“Mom, how old is he?”

“26.”

“What??!! You’re not going out with him, are you?!”

“No!! I’m just chatting with him! He’s really nice and wants to friend me on Facebook.”

She makes a face and asks to see his photos. I turn the laptop towards her. She takes one look and shrieks, “Oh my God!” Bud shoots off the sofa like he had been fired from a gun and runs to the bedroom.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I know him! We went out for a while!”

It was my turn to shriek, “Oh my God!”

“Mom, you cannot talk to him anymore! Oh my God, this is so gross!” She’s stabbing at the keyboard trying to turn off IM before turning to me and saying, “By the way, he’s not 26. He’s 23!”

“Oh my God!” I shriek again.

I get up off the sofa and head towards the bathroom. Ana ask where I’m going and I respond, “I’m going to take a shower and wash the feel of pedophile off my skin.”

Her parting shot before I closed the door behind me… “I’m going to need so much therapy by the time you’re done.”

That makes two of us.

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀

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My Latest Neuroses: Text Message Anxiety

23 Jun

After much poking fun at and generally picking apart all of my bad dates; I decided to change direction and discuss a good date. Yes, I have had a few, it’s just much more fun to eviscerate the bad dates in print and put them on the internet for the world to read. I freely admit to getting a thrill when I hit the Upload button and knowing that people everywhere are laughing at the asshat I had to endure. Sometimes Karma needs a helping hand and I figure that’s where I come in.

That being said, while dating at my age is hugely different than dating in your teens/20s, I’ve discovered some things never change no matter how old you are. Dating in your formative years comes with acne, braces, awkwardness and the underlying fear of a) making a fool of yourself or b) appearing desperate. Dating at my age comes with laugh lines (okay, fine, Mom, wrinkles!), personal baggage, awkwardness and the underlying fear of a) making a fool of yourself or b) appearing desperate.

Back in the day before cell phones, texting, IMing, gchatting and emailing, we relied on Ma Bell for our communication needs. During the course of a traditional conversation, there wasn’t time to formulate your response or worry about the wording of a text message; you just put yourself out there and hoped you didn’t come across as a neo maxi zoom dweebie.

Nowadays I find myself texting more than talking which brings a whole new set of issues I hadn’t considered… The Laws of Texting better known as How Not To Appear Socially Inept.

I’ve had four dates with this really sweet, good-looking guy. (I know he’s reading this so I HAD to add the good-looking part). Kidding! Mike really is easy on the eyes because I’ve already established I’m shallow and don’t date guys who are challenged in the looks department. The best part, by far, is that he likes dogs. Go Team Bud! So we’ve spent time together and I’m pretty relaxed around him. Until we start texting and that, my friends, is where it all begins.

Women are notorious for not being able to take anything at face value. We pick apart conversations word by word, analyze the sentence structure and most importantly, the tone. We call our friends and have them analyze then we compare notes to see if we reached the same conclusion. A 20-minute chat with a guy can easily trigger a 2-hour sit down with your female friends. Admit it, ladies, I’m telling the truth here.

So Mike and I were texting yesterday as he’s on vacation and I’m stuck here in wet, drizzly Minneapolis. It went something like this (creative liberty = just a bit):

M: At the airport in the TSA line, going very slow.

L: Text me when you land so I know you arrived in one piece.

Did that sound just friendly enough or too friendly? Caring or clingy? Crap!

M: The eagle has landed.

L: Staying with friends or hotel?

Oh great, now that’s the way to scare him off, Lisa. Be intrusive and nosy. Crap!

M: Breckenridge and camping out.

L: Have fun and I hope I’m a good reason to come back to MN.

I sound like a Harlequin Romance novel. Barf. Why don’t cell phones come with a Take It Back button?

M: Of course

Huh. No period on the end of that text. What does it mean? Maybe he was in a hurry; maybe he doesn’t like punctuating his sentences. Maybe my text was too much, too soon. I need to call in reinforcements.

Enter stage left: Chief Critic/Daughter Ana

“Here’s the deal, Mom. When a guy texts you, never respond immediately. Yes, I know you think it’s rude, but you’re busy. You’re always busy and in high demand. Wait at least 20 minutes before responding. If he takes 25 minutes to text back, then you wait 35 minutes before sending another message. Think about what you’re going to say and how will it sound to him. Keep it brief and above all, don’t sound too interested. You can be interested, but not too much.”

Gack. Who knew texting could be so damned difficult? I didn’t know there were all of these nuances I had to memorize plus I’m gonna need a calculator to figure out how long before I can respond. Okay, I’m a smart woman. I can do this. It’s just texting, right? It’s not rocket science.

Brrrrrzzzz. Phone vibrates with a new message from Mike.

M: Busy?

What do I say?

Yes.

Okay, that’s good. It’s brief and to the point.

When can I send it? Let’s see, it’s 11:50 a.m. my time, but he’s in a different time zone. So if I respond in 25 minutes (where’s my fucking calculator??) that makes it 12:15 p.m. for me, but its 11:15 a.m. for him and wait, does that matter? Ana didn’t discuss time zones with me so maybe it’s not an issue. But what if it is?

Screw it. I take the bull by the horns, type in Yes then hit Send.

I got your female empowerment right here, baby.

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀

Editorial Note: This Mike is NOT the crazy-ass, ill-bred, rude sonofabitch Mike from Dante’s Level 3 post. Not sure why, but he never called me back. Go figure.

Destroying Your Self-Esteem One Click at a Time

31 Jan

This blog courtesy of guest writer, Paul. Read it and weep. Or laugh. Or both cuz that’s what I did. – LisaD

I have decided to characterize my explorations into the field of “Dating over 40 from a Man’s Perspective.” It seems that after much prodding, pushing and cajoling by friends and family; I decided to attempt to re-enter the world of dating aka shoving your self-esteem off a cliff.

So, it’s a new day and age, how hard could it be to starting dating again? According to TV commercials I should be able to order up a suitable female companion by just asking my car while driving to “GPS-a-Date” right? Now, I first must again stress, how reluctantly I entered this project, my second wife (wow, how painful to even say that) was, and is, a hard act to follow.  I am sure that post-divorce statements as such those  have significant bearing on my ability to prosecute this campaign of “dating” and probably worth a few house payments to a psychiatrist, but I digress. I don’t have internet access in my car, BUT I do have internet access and according to Zoosk, Eharmony, Match, Plenty of fish, etc. finding the “love of my life” is only mouse click away, for a price, of course. After watching all those commercials, I wondered why all dating isn’t vetted and scrubbed by 39 areas of compatibility, personality tests, and visual preference checklists. That thought begets another observation, why do these sites offer monthly, quarterly, and annual memberships? According to the commercials, it’s a match made in heaven! Well, since it’s so scientific I’ll just sign up for a month as this gives me PLENTY of time to find a date!

So, I decided to give internet “matching/dating” a try. Step 1: sign up, easy peasy; step 2: answer all the questions – easy again, well things are looking up! Step 3: answer what “I” am looking for in a match. Hmmm, now that’s interesting and thought provoking… maybe I’ve got a shot here of defining the perfect Logan’s Run sort of 21st Century mail order date. At that point I had a flash of a Eagles song “I am looking for the daughter of the devil himself, I’ve been searching for an angel in white, I’ve been waiting for a woman that’s a little of both…” Back to my “what my date will be like… boxes checked- check!  I am really feeling pretty sporty about now; this internet thing is going make this very painless. Step 4: in 1000 characters or less describe yourself to prospective dates. WTF! Describe myself! Wait, what about the boxes and tests and all the other stuff? Oh great, I have no possible idea where to begin. I am a resourceful fellow and thought I might go look at my target audience, read their profiles and see what I am up against.

Originally I had very specific ideas as to how this would work. I would take the tests, answer the questions, etc. and at the other end (per TV ads) out pops a compatible match. So, I access the search function button and voila up it appears. Wait, that can’t be right. It has two criteria – age and distance from me. Where are all the 39 areas of compatibility? The personality profile matches? Chemistry quotients? Age and distance? Really? Coupled with that Step 4 thing I am feeling a little bait and switch is going on here. I reined in my cynicism and decided I will just work with what I have. So, I am 49 and I usually have a five-year rule so that means 44 – 54. Geebus, 54! God, I am middle-aged! I’m in the middle of being friggin’ OLD! I have to carry on with this or keep hearing about it from my concerned “circle of friends and family,” which I might add, don’t have to deal with “dating at my age.” I still think this is at least a better idea that a “blind date” set up by people I haven’t seen for 20 years. At least my dating abilities (or lack of) will be without critique and gossip by the community. So, I estimated how far I was willing to drive for a date, entered the number, took a deep breath and clicked “Search.”

MY GOD!  There are literally thousands of results, 20+ pages! There are that many single women in my area between 44 and 54?  Well, maybe there is a ray of sunshine in my dreary post-divorce life. Okay, just start at the top and read through a few.

Oh, look they are trying to have a catchy tag line. (Note to self: come up with a catchy line. Maybe Renaissance Redneck Seeking Cultured Country Girl). Oh, there are pictures, cool.  Wait that means I need pictures. Oh God! My pictures look like a US postal service wanted posters! Who am I going to ask to take my picture (with a straight face)? What will I wear?  Okay focus, Paul, back to the profiles.

First up is “Christian woman seeking God fearing man for LTR”;  wait a sec, all her pictures are in the bedroom wearing pseudo lingerie and must have had Madonna’s Vogue playing in the background because she is “striking a pose” rather suggestively, I might add. Maybe she is playing to the Jimmy Swaggart kind of man. So I read on to see what she desires in a man. Oh look, her income threshold for a man is 150K. WHAT! Wait a min. honey; your little burlesque show wasn’t that good. For that kind of money you better have had the plastic surgery done already; at best you may be a fixer upper.  Nah, I’ll pass.

Next up is “No drama mamma, giving, fun woman with zest for life”; huh, sounds “fun” I guess. Let’s see, she has 20 pictures! First picture, looks like she is at a pub having a beer with friends (how fun is that?) she is social that’s good. Second picture she is at a different pub drinking something blue and she looks hammered. More “fun” apparently. Pictures 3-20 ALL have her in some state of inebriation and a few with cigarette in hand. WAIT, I specifically checked the “no smoking” in my preference list and she has “doesn’t smoke” on her profile. Well, pictures to the contrary and she listed “drinks occasionally.” I guess being awake is the occasion and I am sure she has no drama as she is blasted most of the time and is pseudo catatonic. At this point, I do not want to know what she meant by “giving.”

 “Curvy and vivacious” you guessed it – no pix, but has ample food references throughout the profile. Gee, I wonder why there isn’t a picture? Guess she is going to find a man to love her “for the beautiful person she is on the inside without clouding it up with all that physical beauty issues.” Note to ladies: men are visual, we need a picture. There is nothing wrong with being a full-figured woman. Men have different tastes, but we all like to see our prospective date.  Why would you bother to create a profile without a pix?

OH Crap! I need pictures. I don’t think the pictures with me in camouflage will work, then again it might scare off only a certain kind of woman or it could simply scare off women completely. Who will I possibly get to take a pix of me?  I have to trust they aren’t just blowing smoke up my ass telling me “Oh it’s a great pix”… yeah right! I am about as photogenic as a set of PR head shots for a carnival sideshow agent. Screw it. I’ll just do it myself… where is that camera?

Hmm, well I have this laptop camera thingy right in front of me, why not just use it? So I go comb my hair – that took 2 seconds as I keep it very short. I better gussy up so I washed my face, shaved, put on a little cologne (don’t ask me why, it was confidence thing I guess), sit down,  now how do I make this thing take a click wait, I wasn’t rea click dy. WT click F! Oh it’s a timer thing, fixed that – hey, wonder what I looked like in those pix? Maybe one is a keeper.

As I peruse recent documents in the picture folder on the laptop, I am also accessing my cerebral cortex where I keep self-image stored. Oh, there is one.. let’s see…. Jesus H. Christ who is the friggin’ old bastard on the screen!… Holy shit that’s me… I …ah ugh..ah ah I… that isn’t.. OH God I’m screwed! Those camo pix are starting to look pretty good right now.  Now I understand why you create a profile without a picture. You know women at least get to use makeup. Well, who would  know if…wait a minute I am NOT going the route of metrosexual…. it was totally just me not being ready I need to relax, smile and try this again… okay I close my eyes and think of Austin Powers photo shoots, set the timer thing again… okay deep breath and click click (turn head a bit to the left) click (other side) click (give them that mischievous devil may care smile)  click (serious look) click (chin down) click (chin up) click. Okay let’s see. Good God! These are worse! Mischievous smile? I look like a friggin’ mug shot of a serial killer. Serious look? Well, I look serious alright as in deadly serious without the “ly” just dead. DAMN! I know, I know, its the lighting. Yep it’s the lighting alright. Who am I kidding? The fact there is light is the issue – if I take these in the dark they would be an improvement! I’m going with the camo pix for sure. I’ll just crop them and find a way to make them work.   I’ll just focus on “wooing” my perfect match with my rapier wit and sales ability. Oh  NO!!  This brings me back to describing myself in 1000 words or less! WTF! And I am paying a monthly fee for this destruction of self-esteem?

This is all I can handle today. I will re-group, start writing my witty, humorous and intelligent description of me. First, I will start pondering a tag line. Hey, that Renaissance redneck thing might be an option…

Perilous Paul

Being Cool Comes with an Expiration Date

4 Dec

One of my best guy friends, Gabe, listens to music that is, for the most part, way outside the box for me. I’ve listened to his stuff before and mostly I just came away with, “Wow. That’s really loud.” So when he asked me to go with him and listen to a few bands at a local establishment, I was receptive to doing something outside the norm. Did I mention that Gabe is ten years younger than me? Until last night, I never gave it much thought as we get along so well and have a lot in common. In all actuality, ten years is a generation and oh honey, did I feel the gap.

As with any woman, choosing the right look for an occasion is critical. I’m thinking a cool outfit comprised of skinny jeans, boots, cropped jacket ought to do the trick. My hair is full (flat hair is against my religious beliefs), make-up is light and pretty (a shout-out to Maybelline mauve eyeshadow) and a few spritzes of my favorite floral perfume. I’m feeling pretty fly as we walk up the steps and best of all, I’m having a THIN day. The stars have aligned and I’m congratulating myself on a cool, hip look.

Do you remember that one time in high school when you left the house thinking you looked great only to realize upon arriving at school that you looked ridiculous?

This was one of those moments.

Almost everyone was wearing black. I quickly looked at the women’s outfits for moral support. Oh. No. They were in black, too. And eyeliner! Lots of eyeliner and it wasn’t just on the women. Most of the women had really dark hair and all of them had a look of practiced indifference on their face. I’m assuming there were a lot of dye jobs out of a box walking around, but that gave me no comfort. I had never felt so… BLONDE in my entire life.  I quickly skittered over to a table and sat down trying to blend while we waited for the music to begin.

As it got closer to start time, Gabe led me down front so we could be directly in front of the bands. I mean, it would be a tragedy if you didn’t get the full kidney-pounding effect from the pulsating speakers, wouldn’t it? So I’m squashed between one tall Justin Bieber look-a-like on my left (WTF?) and two girl midgets on my right. Okay, they weren’t really midgets, but they WERE short. Gabe was behind me and as I was soon to find out, this was a good thing.

The band comes out and as expected, the music was an immediate assault on my ears. I could feel my eyeballs bouncing in rhythm with the shrieking guitarist directly in front of me. The singer was screaming into his mic and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand a single word he was screeching. I looked around me and realized the others were singing along. How in the hell could they sing along when nothing coming out of his mouth resembled words? Just a steady stream of howling and wild gestures accompanied by head-banging. Hey, when did head-banging come back into style? I thought that went out when Jon Bon Jovi cut his hair. And oh, look at that! The drummer has a mohawk! Well now, this puts a whole new spin on things. I lived through the 80s – these kids aren’t bringing anything I haven’t seen before.

The only problem is I still can’t understand a single damned word coming from the howler monkey’s mouth as he flails around on stage. I resort to lip reading. Oh, he just said mediocrity! Hey, I think he said I’m sorry! (I’m getting pretty good at this). My feeling of achievement ended when the crowd suddenly erupted into jumping up and down while banging into each other. I jerked around and screamed into Gabe’s ear, “Why are they doing that?” He screams back, “Because they can!”

Oh.

Justin Beiber is bouncing up and down like a crazed Tigger on my left and the midgets on my right are banging their heads, slinging their hair around when I am shoved hard from behind. There’s a human being surfing the crowd, passed forward over the top of our heads before being dumped unceremoniously over the security gate for the roadies to scrape up. I suddenly realized I was in a real, honest-to-God mosh pit. (cool factor rises a few notches at this realization)

A roadie suddenly appears and runs down the length of the security gate, squirting water into various people’s mouths from a water bottle. Gabe motioned to the guy that I needed some water which I flat-out rejected. “Lisa, you have to get into the spirit of things!” I responded with, “Are you nuts? I don’t know where that bottle’s been! Nasty!”  (loss of cool points due to middle-age comment about germs)

As the music continues, I come to realize that the band(s) are angry. They are singing One Man! One Fight! while shaking their fists in the air. I’m at a loss. What are we supposed to be angry about? I can be as angry as the next guy, but I need a specific topic. Oh, I know! I’ll be angry about hidden cell phone plan fees. Better yet, ATM fees! Nothing pisses me off more than getting charged for using a rogue ATM. Now THAT is something to rage about.

The singer takes a moment to renounce the war we’re not supposed to be fighting and support our troops. I’m all in for supporting our troops, but which war are we upset over? I need clarification. Iraq? Afghanistan? War on drugs? War on Wall Street? I wanted to raise my hand and ask, but I felt that would send my cool stocks plummeting. Not willing to risk it, I kept my angry face intact by thinking about my HMO.

The music comes to an end and everyone crowds around the merchandise tables. Feeling the need to prove my coolness by purchasing a black shirt, I approach one of the black-garbed, bored-looking assistants and ask her what the name of this particular band means.

 “Standing together, united, in a state of aggressive euphoria,” she disdainfully says to me.

Oh.

“Well, can I have one with the pretty colors in a small?” (cool points shot to hell after this remark)

Overall, the night was a fun experience and yes, I would do it again. Once my ears stopped bleeding, the music was actually pretty good. My kidneys have stopped trembling and I will feel major cool when wearing my anti-establishment t-shirt.

Best of all, I’ve already chosen my rage-against-the-machine topic for my next venture. I needed something to whip me into a mental frenzy. Nothing so mundane as hatred against the oil companies, Wall Street or the intrusiveness of Big Sister/Big Brother into our lives. I needed something REAL.

Magazine subscription cards.

I hate those things. Every time I buy a magazine I have to go through it and remove those annoying cards before I can enjoy my reading. That just riles me up, I tell you.

Someone has to take a stand and that someone is… me. And I’ll be my wearing pretty-colored shirt, too.

 Til next time,

Lisa D 😀

Grow Old Gracefully? Bull*%t!

14 Nov

One of my favorite movies ever is The Parent Trap with Hayley Mills. I received it (finally!) as a Christmas gift a few years back and my daughter will attest to the fact that I watched it so much the DVD now skips. There’s a classic line where the father of Margaret, the mom, says to her, “Margaret, I can see you’re the kind of woman who accepts the coming of age with grace and dignity.” She, of course, blows her top and retaliates by going on a huge make-over, shopping spree thereby turning back the clock and looking years younger. How I wish it were that simple.

Now that I’m single again, I can’t help but notice that parts of me look waaay different than they did the last time I was single. Part of it is the usual, “Oh, you’ve had a child. A little wear and tear is to be expected.” Really? Wear and tear? Personally, I found the effects of pregnancy to be more along the lines of, say, the aftermath of a train wreck. A really bad one involving lots of carnage. Although when I point this out to my loving daughter hoping for a smidgen of remorse, I get, “Well, it’s not like I wasn’t planned. You brought this on yourself.” How I ever lived without her love is beyond me.

 I decided that a mini-makeover was in order. It was time to take inventory of what could be repaired and to hell with what couldn’t be repaired. I figured an exercise routine, proper nutrition and beauty products would be an excellent way to kick-start my new lease on life.

I began with beauty products. Holy shit. Have you ever really looked at what’s available in the beauty aisle of your local store? I was overwhelmed with the sheer volume of products that promise to “Make you look younger overnight!” or “Your friends will secretly wonder if you had a facelift!” Most of them are creams, serums, lotions, some form of something or another (probably sheep placenta) that you slather on your face before going to bed with the promise of looking younger in 7 weeks. RESULTS GUARANTEED! My personal favorite is the semi-mask you put under your eyes before going to bed. It’s these little sticker-like doohickies you put under your eyes and supposedly you wake up one day with no wrinkles. Right. Personally, I refer to them as character lines or the old tried and true, laugh lines.

During a conversation recently with my mom she made the attempt to compliment me. At least I hope that was her intent. She commented, “Lisa, honey, you still have a lot to offer. I mean, you ARE showing your age a little bit. I’ve noticed you have a few wrinkles, but you wear them well.”

“Mom, I would rather call them character lines, if you don’t mind.”

Silence.

“Sweetie, you can call them anything you want. But at the end of the day, it’s still a wrinkle.”

It’s impossible to argue with the truth so I shut it.

I ended up purchasing items that I trusted – Noxzema for washing my face, Oil of Olay for morning, Pond’s skin cream for nighttime. That’s the biggest commitment to reducing wrinkles that I can make for now.

I did discover one trick while doing facial gyrations in front of the mirror one night. Stand in front of your bathroom mirror (lights on, no cheating) and look at your reflection straight-on. Every character line is visible – no getting away from that even when you squint. I tried. BUT, if you tilt your head back just a bit, the lines tend to fade away. Yes, I am aware that I couldn’t see them as well helped considerably; but gravity was finally working in my favor and pulling my wrinkles, er, ‘scuse me, laugh lines away from my face. Why, I looked years younger!

 My solution: only be friends with tall people. That way, you’re always looking up and they’re always looking down. It’s perfect if you ignore the fact that walking around with your head tilted back does make one look somewhat Norma Desmond-esque from Sunset Boulevard.

Whatever.

“All right, Mr. DeMille. I’m ready for my close-up”

Next up: nutrition. For the most part, I’m a pretty healthy eater. I tend to eat a lot of brown rice, chicken, steamed vegetables and yogurt. I’ve also made the switch to 1% milk. (That stuff’s friggin’ nasty. It looks like cloudy water, but I’m determined to develop a taste for it.) I also try to drink a lot of water, but I gotta tell you if there’s a Diet Pepsi Max within walking distance, the soda wins every time.

My bad food habits include the bowl of miniature candy bars in my fridge (small ones don’t count), the pork rinds in my pantry (loaded with protein, ignore the fat) and my inability to avoid cookies. I adore cookies of all kinds. I bought a box of gingersnaps thinking, “I hate gingersnaps. These will last forever.” Pfft. More like 4 days. While I still hate 1% milk, apparently I’ve developed a taste for gingersnaps.

Exercise: simple enough. I do like to run, but during Minnesota winters, an indoor alternative is best unless the idea of freezing your ass off (and that’s in the literal sense) is your idea of good workout. I bought Jillian Michaels 30-Day Shred workout DVD. Now, I’m thinking to myself that I’m in pretty good shape; this should be easy. Maybe I won’t be shredded in 30 days, but I’ll take frayed around the edges.

I thought I would die on day 2 of Level 1. I wanted to die. Every part of me hurt so bad, even my hair was sore. I survived (4 weeks of torture) and was congratulating myself on making it to Level 2.

Big mistake.

I was halfway through my first Level 2 workout and was convinced I was going to throw up my pancreas along with a kidney. My quads were burning, my shoulders were trembling and I had tears in my eyes as I cursed Jillian Fuckin’ Michaels. I hate her.

Why are you doing it then, Lisa, if it’s so miserably painful?

Two words: Fwappa Fwappa.

I had been slacking off on the workouts a little bit when just the other day I had a funny, enlightening and yet strangely terrifying conversation with a friend. We were laughing about an old episode of Golden Girls and how they discussed that as a woman gets older, you never want to be “the one on top.”( I’m sure I don’t have to explain the semantics here.)

As we’re laughing, I’m remembering a similar conversation with another woman a couple of years ago. She was more descriptive as she discussed a recent encounter with her husband.

“Good God, I’m sure from below I looked like a shar-pei! Bat wings and boobs flying everywhere! It probably sounded like Fwappa! Fwappa! But hey, the lights were off!”

I thought I had completely repressed that particular conversation, but now it’s come back to haunt me. So here I am on a Sunday evening finishing up this post and waiting for Jerseylicious to come on soon. But before I indulge in my new favorite trash TV show, I have one final task to complete: yep, a workout. I will turn on Jillian Michaels and spend the next half hour cursing her existence yet ensuring that I will not hear that horrible phrase in my dreams for at least tonight…

Fwappa! Fwappa!

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀