Man-ho, Ho!

I had a co-worker, Jim, who was a Navy man since before “It's Not Just a Job, It's An Adventure” was the official slogan. All it took were three little words - “See the World! – and it was “Anchors Aweigh!” for Jim. At the time we worked together, he was in the Reserves, waiting for retirement. But to a sailor, even a landlocked one, shore leave is shore leave: Jim likes the ladies, and the feeling is more than mutual. 

Frankly, I would call him a “hound,” except that hounds have been known to lick themselves. Jim has the ladies do that for him.

I was always dazzled by the Monday morning tallies at the nursery where we worked, and wondered if the house plants were blushing. I was even more impressed with his masculine finesse as he would catch a smoke near where the bags of soil got loaded into ladies' cars. Trust me, it wasn't the only manure flying around. These ladies, who definitely had fertilization on their minds, would arrange with Jim to “meet later.” However, I'm sure these encounters were anything but “garden variety” (aren't euphemisms fun?).

But of all Jim's stories, one in particular blew me away: being assigned a girl for the weekend – no dates, no promises, not even money exchanged. WTF?

Jim had visited an old “swabbie” buddy in San Diego where, apparently, there is a breed of girl who “follows the Navy,” another way of saying “Fleet Groupie.”

Understand, I do not mean that in a derogatory fashion – I completely know what it's like to go weak in the knees over a hot bod in tight white pants – I came of age in the era of Disco, after all. I'm just being blunt about how easy it is to turn a hobby into a lifestyle. I'm no one to judge: I, for one, can say without shame, that I am an “It's a Wonderful Life” collectible Whore.

It seems that on said visit, Jim was assigned a “Follower.” “Bro,” his buddy informed him, “Tiffany's gonna take care of you this weekend.” Apparently, Tiffany was more than happy to comply and they were off to the races. No muss, no fuss, not even money was exchanged – just Jim and Tiff partying all weekend long. Sunday night, he stepped back on a plane, a grin plastered to his face the whole ride home.

It's here I must cry, “No fair!”

What I want to know is: where, oh where, is the correlating party for the ladies? Not the faux-fun shriek-fest known as the “Bachelorette Party” - why would an impending marriage be a reason to celebrate? No, no,no, I'm talking about a weekend visit to the home of a dear friend who knows my preferences. She puts my hand in the large hands of a tall, gorgeous man and says, “Stephanie, this is Francesco. He'll be taking care of you this weekend.”

Francesco's warm blue eyes would lock into mine, he would gently kiss my fingertips, and the rest would be a blur. Neither of us would feign interest in each other's lives. No pointless “get-to-know-you” chatter. No wondering, “Where is this going?”, since I'd already know. Just Francesco and me, and more Francesco.

To answer your timeless question, Dr. Freud: that's what women want. I mean, penis envy? Really?

For once, it would be nice not to worry about who makes the first move, and who's being too forward and all that. It would be especially nice not to have to endure attempts at seduction, a la Pepe LePew. Case in point – and this is just the introductory email, mind you – a Europlayer tried to lure me with this response to a profile picture I posted of myself, san makeup.

“I am empressed (sic) . . . What a wonderful idea it is to be naturally yourself. I like it. By the way, why wear makeup at all when you are blessed with beauty? Ah! Being beautiful naturally has its benefits. Look at the money saved not buying makeup . . . Something about me . . . When I meet a woman and begin to know who she is, I would ask to see her without the makeup. You see, if and when two people become involved, a time may come when the two of them may share the night (sic!). So here comes the morning, that is when you see each other at your best (sic!!!). I feel you are understanding what is to unfold. So this is why I am so empressed (sic) with your truth – and I await your reply . . . “

I hope he's not still waiting.

I'm flattered that Pepe is “empressed with (my) truth,” but I don't think his “understanding (of) what is to unfold” and mine are remotely similar. For starters, let's just say that, “comes the morning,” I am definitely not at my best. Let the Good Ship Le Pew sail on without me.

But you never know: a Francesco just might wander by while I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, someone who knows what it means to care of an “empressive” woman.

Francesco will understand: it's not just a job. It's an adventure.

Miss Thing is Delighted to Announce

It just hit me: I've been having sex for more years than the cute guy who bags my groceries has been alive.

There I was, admiring his behind, visions of scented oils
dancing in my head, when he suddenly turned around and
 flashed me a mouthful of braces. “Ma'am?” he asked, concerned, “Ma'am, are you all right?”

Don't you “Ma'am” me, whippersnapper!

Up until that moment, I foolishly believed that the world could look past a few extra chins and see me for the Fabulous Vixen I Truly, Truly Am. I mean, I could still be considered “fair game,” couldn't I? All I would have to do would be to sling a backpack over my shoulder, wander onto any college campus and I'd blend right in. I might even get my own still-fine behind checked out. Right? Right?

But then I thought about it: that one-night fling some gal my age had after the A Flock of Seagulls concert (you don't know her!) could have produced the stellar young guy that stands before me. The one who now shaves, drives a car and is eligible for jury duty. And that his lovely behind? Could've been one I diapered.

When did all this happen, exactly?

The buildup is as gradual as a new laugh line and the result is just as hard to get rid of: I simply wasn't aware of it until it was too late.

And how about the fact that when Mother Nature turns the heat up on our 40-something hormones, she winds up scrambling a few brain cells as well? On the same day I was entertaining lewd thoughts about the bag boy, I simply could not remember what time I was supposed to pick my kid up from karate – or was that a music lesson today?

Meanwhile, the song stuck in my head was the one Wilma and Betty sang to Fred and Barney when they disguised themselves as car hops – and I knew every word. (“Here we come, on the run, with a burger on a bun” – oh, you get the idea.) If anything, my long-term memory has gotten sharper: I could be blind- folded and find every light switch in every house I've ever lived in, all the while reciting dialogue from “Gilligan's Island.” Tell me, what is the use of knowing Carol Brady's maiden previously-married name (Martin) from decades past when I can't find the car keys that I was holding in my hand five minutes ago?

It's as if an invisible finger hit the “Delete” key in the memory section of my brain, vaporizing vast stores of vital information like names of co-workers – or, for that matter, my children. How come useless factoids stick like ticks?

By the way, the Bradys' dog was named “Tiger.”

What's going on?

It's Mother Nature, that's what. You would think a mother would be more sympathetic to women as they age. I ask you: who would put a hormonally-challenged woman, who checks out bag boys and can't find her wallet but knows the entire theme song from “My Mother, the Car” – in charge of teenagers?

Mother Nature would. Mother Nature does.

Mother Nature is not a nice lady.

Well, two can play at that game, MA'AM! What I lack in sex appeal and short-term memory, I more than make up for in attitude. From this day forward, the Fabulous Vixen I Truly, Truly Am will no longer accept the dreaded appellation of “Ma'am.” In fact, in celebration of my Fabulousness 2.0, I hereby declare that the hideous word be banned from the English language. Can I get an “Amen!” on “No More Ma'ams!” Truth be told, I'd rather be called “Sir” than “Ma'am.” Yes, well, at least “Sir” connotes a royal title bestowed for some lofty accomplishments, not to mention a boatload of serious swag. Yeah, now we're talkin'. Hey, if Elton John can be a “Sir,” I can darn well be one, too.

Ooh, wait, I take that back: call me “Miss Thing!”

According to the Urban Dictionary, “Miss Thing” is a gender-blending slang term used by male homosexuals.” And as we all have seen, know everything before the rest of us do, bless their hearts. Apparently, it can be used negatively (“Miss Thing thinks she's all that!”); it can also be a positive thing, the gay equivalent of “homes”: (“Hey, Miss Thing! Look at you, girl!”). I would rather be called “Miss Thing” than “Ma'am any day. With “Miss Thing”, there's some wiggle room: is it being said out of admiration, or spite? There's nothing ambiguous about “Ma'am”. It only means one thing: “Hey, you with the cellulite and the bags under her eyes – pay attention.”

But more to the point: I want to be called “Miss Thing,” cause, honey, I am All That – and More!

I know, I know: I sound like one of those pathetic older broads using the expressions the kids use today, but I've freakin' earned that title.

Yeah. I say: “Miss Thing” or Nothing! Because if you call me “Ma'am,” frankly, I'll just ignore you.

Either that, or I genuinely won't be able to hear what you're saying.

However fabulous I am, you'll have to speak up. “Miss Thing's” hearing isn't what it used to be, honey.

If Insecurity Were a Handicap, I Would Qualify for Disabled Parking.

(This is a "repeat treat" from earlier this year.)

Guess what? I am not shy. I love interacting with people. Put me in the game, Coach!  

Still, I can't help wondering: am I like that big dog that forgets it's not a puppy and jumps into people's laps and licks their faces? Yes, folks indulge me, but do they secretly wish I would jump down and chase some squirrels? Their thin veil of politeness keeps me from finding out whether I'm genuinely connecting, or merely being tolerated, the way you would with a guy blowing his nose next to you in the elevator.

In other words: how do I know when I'm too much?

This occurred to me when I realized that, in living alone, I may have lost some of my discomfort-detecting skills. Believe me, there are many blessings to living alone, like eating directly from containers (you betcha!) and relaxed personal hygiene (Showering? What's that?!). But there is no one there to tell me if I have spinach in my teeth, or I'm wearing my t-shirt inside out. I'm free to do as I please - wheeee! - but then there's always that lingering doubt: do I look OK? More to the point, Am I likable? When you're by yourself, you start to wonder whether you simply chase everyone away with your poor people skills. My critical inner voice begins to chime in and there is no "Off" button (please see my essay, K-F&%K). Worse, the echoes can be deafening.

There is a garbage truck that comes every week to pick up the trash. How about a reassurance truck that takes needless worries away and leaves compliments? I've got barrels full of insecurities that need to be taken away and replaced with kind words.

I used to be at the center of activity, steering the riverboat and blowing its whistle. Now, I'm just one of those silly ladies waving her handkerchief from the dock. My friends don't have any time for me with all their pesky family obligations. How selfish of them to think only of their loved ones and not allow me to complain about my miserable life! 

Hm, this neediness wouldn't have anything to do with the number of invitations I'm not receiving, would it?

I've come up with a name for my condition: Pervasive Insecurity Stress Syndrome (PISS). My Medic Alert bracelet would say, "Apply ample amounts of approval." I could start a 12-step program for all my fellow PISS sufferers and call it "PISS Off!" We'd conduct meetings like AA: "Hi, I'm Stephanie and I'm insecure." The others would shift in their folding chairs and chant in response, "Hi, Stephanie, you look great today." Our fundraiser would be a 5K, and every participant would have someone assigned to run next to them, chanting "Wow! Great job! You can do it!"  

The money would go to research: we could discover a Reassurance pill! Chant with me now:  Find a Cure for Insecure!

But first, a shower. 

A Showcase for Fabulous Vixens!

As some of you may know, this website was originally called "Fabulous Vixen." My intention was to celebrate us "ladies of a certain age" who are still rockin' it at 40+. I got sidetracked by the hideous profile pics of men claiming to want girlfriends, but never forgot my Vixen roots. 

Well, it's time to highlight the beauty and splendor of my "Vintage Vixen" Tribe! I will be posting pictures of Vixens (or "Vix-Pix") who radiate joy and a love of life. If you're feeling down about yourself (and isn't every ad, magazine, TV show and movie telling you you MUST?), seeing these feisty, fabulous females might be just the thing to inspire you.

Who knows? You may see your own fabulous picture posted here soon!

Featured above is my friend, April. She made this her profile picture on FB, and here's her quote:
"I don't care how old I get - I'm ALWAYS gonna wear band shirts!"

All I can say is: Rock on, April! (I'm of the age where I can still say "rock on," thank you). You are an inspiration to us all!

Feel free to send me your pictures with a quote (one or two sentences, not a manifesto).  I would be thrilled to post them. But most of all, please become a Member of this blog so that I can increase my revenues and buy SHOES!

Stay fabulous, Vixens!

Stephanie
aka "Mama Vixen"

Congratulations, Ladies! 
More Liberty, more Justice and more Happiness.

The Scavenging Titseeker

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Aging Out of Being "In"

Much as a foster kid "ages out" of the system when he or she turns 18, so it is with our fashion sense when we get to be women of a certain age. You may think, Hey, I can totally rock this look! It makes me feel kicky and free! But the line between sassy and sad is a thin one: no one, no one, wants to see a woman over 40 wearing the "kooky schoolgirl" outfit. Short plaid skirts, high knee socks, and clunky shoes just scream "I'm clinging to my youth! And it's not working!"

It's not ironic: it's pathetic.

In my case, it also tells the world, "I live alone and have no one to throw themselves in front of me to keep me from leaving the house looking this ridiculous!"

This disparity in age-appropriate fashion was made clear to me by the surge of 70s-era styles that have appeared in stores. Low-slung jeans and midriff baring t-shirts are just not my flavor anymore. Furthermore, you do not acquire the ability to go back in time simply because you wear that era's clothes. Although whoever brought back embroidered peasant shirts, thank you!

I found out the age-appropriate style rule also applies to hair; the trend is the long ponytail braided into a plait, which then is draped down over one shoulder.  Nothing too outrageous, I thought. It has the kind of "mellow vibe" I radiated in junior high. Yes, I said it - mellow! Everyone remembers the 70s as the disco era, but they forget about us girls who wore bandannas with big, gold loop earrings and overalls while listening to Gordon Lightfoot. Crunchy granola, anyone?

So I went to my stylist, Frankie, and I told him I wanted a weave for braiding purposes. He asked me, "Are you sure?" at least three  times. But the customer is king, right?

The weave went in, the braiding did begin.

Shit.

I. Looked. Like. I. Followed. The. Rodeo.

Within days, I was frantically calling Frankie and begging him to remove the rat-tail royale that had high-jacked my look. Mercifully, he did de-weave me. No "I-told-you-so's" were necessary, but I did catch him smiling to himself a couple of times as the adhesive melted.  

I had learned my lesson: stick with the decade you're in, at the age you are. Leave the kooky, kicky, ironic look to the Zooey Deschanels of the world - especially if you're old enough to be her mother.

Just remember: mini-skirts and cowboy boots don't go with crow's feet. 

My Last Meal?

In looking back on my love life (and I need my glasses to see that far), I can rate my experiences on a bell curve. On one end, there are seven-course gourmet meals with between-course sherbert to cleanse the palette and a delightful cognac afterwards. On the other end is airline food. Thankfully, most of my "meals" fall in the "Country Buffet" category: not all the food is tasty, but I always leave satisfied. 

Lately, I've been wondering if my last "meal" is actually going to be my last meal. It's been six months since He Who Must Not Be Blamed and I were together; frankly, that experience was in the Applebee's category of reasonably-priced entrees. Shouldn't I be allowed to splurge on a hot-fudge sundae just one more time?

In our 20s, men themselves were like meals: just stay at the table, because another one will be along shortly. Nowadays, the men  seem to be bringing their own sandwiches.

I know I shouldn't compare my "meals" today with the ones I had in my 20s. The great Satchel Paige said, "Don't look back -  something may be gaining on you." In my case, if I look back, I might find out nobody's after me at all.

He also said, "If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts." I like that idea, but it's hard to keep "cool thoughts" in mind, when the dessert cart keeps rolling by. 

Eventually, a girl's gotta eat.

Gang Way for the Pirate Queen!

As many of you know, I have posted pictures of 

myself dressed as a lady pirate on several online
   
dating sites. Hey, you gotta stand out, right?
  
Well, stand out I do, and the ol' salt who begins 

his  response with, “Ahoy, me lovely!”, or 

something pirate-y, goes to the front of the line. 

Unless, of course, he asks if I can be “boarded” or 

“walk the plank,” in which case his profile gets 

tossed overboard along with the rest of the bilge.

Pirate Queen don't play that. 

Recently, though, I exchanged texts with a guy 

who could talk the pirate talk and walk the pirate

walk: he was actually building a boat. He posted a

picture of it with his dog aboard. Hmm, good with

his hands and loves animals. I was intrigued.

So I suggested we meet for a drink, and he 

replied, “Shouldn’t we chat a bit first? Get a feel

for ourselves?” OK, he's willing to take it 

slow.  Nice.

Then the conversation took a starboard turn. 

(From here on in I have corrected the spelling and 

punctuation for easy reading; italics are mine.)

“I swear you are going to be in disbelief as 

to my abilities . . . we will get to the 

attractiveness, ‘what drew our attention’

soon. Yes, I think you’re a hottie ass but

‘first things first.’”

Hmm. He brags about his “abilities” right off, then

becomes a bit bossy. Who died and made him 

skipper?

I thought about this a while. Too long awhile for 

him, apparently, because then he sent this little

gem:

              "Also would help to respond, 

               otherwise you're

               in the life boat."

Ooooookay, definitely bossy.

My yeshiva-trained zayde used to toss out neutral 

remarks to gauge the mindset of whomever he was

having a discussion with. Little did the listener

know these casual sentences were more like hand 

grenades with the pins pulled out. Here’s what I 

said:

        “Well, I have to go to work now. 

         I’ll talk to you later.”

How’s that for neutral?

To which he responded:  

“No hurry here . . . when you‘ve got time. 

Just don‘t hang on the phone long. Ain’t 

heard nothing about ‘bout you . . . I’m 

seeing you (were) married and just wanting

attention. You want an evening of lust, 

something fresh and fun. Adventure, 

excitement? Got (it) all for you but I don’t 

do shit blind.”

Now we see the scurvy knave for who he is. 

Thanks for being so obvious, Pirate Dick! You 

just saved me a lot of time.


Usually, you have to wait till the third date before

you find out the truth about your “first mate.” He

knows all about what I’m “wanting”? Wow! Can

you imagine if he actually met me? Think how

much he would know then! He’d even find out I 

don’t really like that kind of language right off the

mast!

I had to extricate myself from this as gently as 

possible, so I texted back:

“You are very cute & clever & 

VERY INTENSE . . . However, a mellow, 

easy-going guy is more my speed. I’m 

 sorry – it doesn’t look like it’s in the stars

for us. U R cute and should have no

problem finding a match. Best of luck in

your search, Stephanie.”

Or at least it was the most gentle letdown I could

come up with. I deserved points for not saying, 

“You sound like a real asshole.”

Welllllllll! Hell hath no fury like a pirate scorned!

Here’s his response. (I will withhold comment

until after he’s had his say.):

“Like I thought. Looking for a fake! I ain’t

that boy. I’m a man that’s fun as fuck. Step 

up and quit being scared. I too think you’re 

delicious ;p but I’m just a dude that likes 

 his life. I don’t play (games) unless it’s 

role-playing in bed or elsewhere. Not a 

mind reader. Been married three times, 

have three kids. Not a knight. Surely no 

angel not the devil, just a man that has been

hurt, loved, committed and deceived. Want

a man you’re attracted to? Tell him you’re

buying the wine. Then pick up the tab on

dinner. Stand out!

I clearly see a woman that wants (a man)

but stands in the shadows unwilling to see

the light in fear exposure to self. I’m sorry

for your pain, as I too lived my share. 


Survivor of incest. Alcoholism and wealth

is unbeatable (sic) as a child.

Where am I going with this??

I live in the present, exposed my pain, fears

and entrapment of secrecy (sic), only to

regain me and find who I (was) once.

‘So intense?’ Yes, I am for clarity at first,

intense in a life now of creativity and 

thriving endeavors. Painfully real and

TRUE to self. Courage and bravery (give

me) the mark of the PIRATE . . . entitled

with honor.

So, my dear, I regret(fully) depart your ship

as asked! Chart your destiny with truth, 

courage and integrity.”

Well, that was forty lashes with a wet text. This 

may be the first time someone was keelhauled via

iPhone.
 

Let me get this straight: I'm the type of woman 

who “stands in the shadows” for “fear of 

exposing” herself? Me?! Nobody who’s ever read 

this blog or met me would accuse me of being a

shrinking violet.  Like, ever.

Oh, right: he never actually did meet me.

Dodged that musketball, didn’t I? 



So now I say -

      

Be warned, all ye Pirate Dicks! Steer

clear of these waters! The Pirate Queen 

has cast off her bowlines, and she'll not

brook any foolhardy lubber while she

searches for real booty. 


Watch out, laddie, or that dead man's chest 

might be yours. 

G-d Bless Ye, Ass-men, Everywhere!

When you’re a woman busy raising a family, you tend to lose track of certain things: world events, names of former co-workers, and, oh yeah: your ability to attract men. Once you’re elbow-deep in diapers and breaking up sibling warfare, you tend to stop caring whether you‘re a “hottie“ or not. You’re too busy working to “work” it, and you no longer care that your unwashed hair is tied back with one of your kids’ socks.

But when you find yourself “unhalved” and on your own after a decade or two, the differences between you and the other gals tends to get spelled out in vivid relief. Suddenly, little things begin to loom large: skin of younger women, firm and glowing; the ability of their breasts to defy gravity without the use of pulleys, weights and levers; the sounds of males necks snapping as they swivel to get a better look. Meanwhile, you've got new problems: turkey-like loose neck skin and wisps of scowl-hiding bangs getting caught in your crow‘s feet. You’re darned right it’s not for sissies.

The hell with it: post-divorce, I went to work at a nursery. Plants, that is, not kids. Primarily because plants don’t talk back or look at you funny when you try to flirt. Plus, the clientele at the nursery tends to be benign: gentle retirees, young moms toting pre-schoolers, lost husbands seeking anniversary gifts. Sweetly unthreatening, just the way I wanted it.

But as it turned out, there were unexpected perks to the job. It turns out the perkiest one of all was something I had been sitting on all my life! I don't want to brag, but it turns out I have a cute butt. Yes, my behind, which I had never noticed (mainly because it’s not in front of me) was suddenly attracting a great deal of attention from my male co-workers. I’m convinced the nursery job application included the question: “If Male, are you an Ass-man? Yes/No. If "No," please do not continue.”

I seemed to have stumbled upon a Secret Order of Worshippers of the Female Gluteus Maximus, and they had made me their Goddess Divine.

Now, there are those of you who think I’m being all conceited, so let me just say this to you: Shut up. I have gone from being a nondescript soccer “Ma’am” to a “Spank-a-licious Mama,” and if you ruin it for me, I will hunt you down and stick my finger in your eye.

“Are you going to wear those black pants tomorrow?“ our 21-year old Houseplant maven, Paul, asked anxiously. I had to laugh: that was Paul’s day off, and he didn't want to miss The Show, starring my Lil Ol’ Moneymaker. Pinch me: younger dudes were anticipating my outfits and hoping for wardrobe failure!

Our 27-year-old Pond-and-Chemical guy, Sean, was particularly pointed in letting me know that he wanted to take my ass-thetic attributes out of the showroom for a road test. It’s flattering, but it’s not the chemistry that’s stopping me, it’s the math: as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I’ve been sexually active longer than he’s been alive, and it’s my policy not to erase the fine line between “Who‘s the hottie?” and “Is that your son?” (See my essay, "Miss Thing is Delighted to Announce.") But when Sean invited me out to a bar recently to meet his friends, I figured, Why not? By the time I got there, he had already had a few drinks, and greeted me warmly.

“You made it!” he called out. He gave me a bear hug and lead me over to one of his friends for introductions. I got a glimpse of the young man’s face before Sean turned me around, pointed at my bottom and announced, “Dude, check out this righteous booty!”

Before I could say anything, Sean was leading me around the bar, backwards, so my still-fine behind could have a meet-and-greet with the rest of his posse. I didn’t get to see what they looked like, and you know what? I didn’t care.

I've written a song for Sean, for my co-workers, and for Dorsal Fanciers everywhere. It’s a bar ditty, of course, to be sung in an Irish accent, in Sean’s honor. Please keep in mind, this song is not about me, but a tribute to Ass-Men everywhere. It's best sung with a cold one in your hand, and begins with a hearty: 


“Ohhhhhhhhhh!”
Oh, back her on in
And feast yer eyes, lads,
On the finest caboose in the land!

It rides firm and high,
From her back to her thighs,
In a way altogether most grand!

Oh, the way that it sways
Makes the angels sing praise:
"Hallelujah! We've seen the Divine!"

Raise yer stout and yer beer,
For we're all Ass-men heeeeeeeeeeeeere!
Thank the Lord for the Female Behind!"

G-d bless you, Fanny-fans, one and all! We know you're behind us 100%!

This is a Repeat Treat from 2008. For more essays, go to the Home Page and click on the year you'd like to view.