The Answer to Your Lonely Saturday Night

Cracked Heels


I think it’s safe to say that we all have something about ourselves that we’re unhappy with, dissatisfied with; something (or some things) that we’d like to change, or alter.

These could be physical deformities, like natty cuticles, or behavioral deformities, like acute narcissism, selfishness or the inability to show compassion.

Lord knows I’m not immune to either physical or behavioral, although I like to think that I acknowledge my shortcomings (being short is not one of my things) and if possible, seek to change that which is in my power. If, however, this thing is out of my control, then I try to make friends with it, accept it and embrace the glory that is I.

I have worked and therapized much to be less judgmental, to respond rather than react and to listen instead of incessantly flapping my lips for flapping sake alone. However, there is one thing that I have been unable to get a handle on, and unable to shake… until last night.

Of course I’m talking about my dry and cracked heels; fissures in my once delicate skin. Thank you for the oohs and ahs but it doesn’t hurt, really.

In all fairness to my heels, there’s been a huge improvement in the past few months. But then, just last week, they got worse. I changed up my fitness routine, and started to do Insanity Max-30, which includes quite a bit of plyometrics (jumping). If you’re pressed for time and you want your ass kicked to the curb, try it. “It may lead to heel fissures.” You’ve been warned.

I’m no P.I. but I’ve deduced that pounding my full bodyweight on my feet is the culprit, and not unfortunate genes as I had previously believed. I’m sorry that I cursed you out mom and dad.

I’m not a doctor either but I read that if my heels aren’t stretching as they should, it’s probably because my skin is dry and inflexible. Mom and dad are going down for that one, however. Super great. The only part of my body that’s inflexible are my heels. It’s so sexy I can hardly stand it.

Enter Amope Pedi Perfect Electronic Foot File. Yes, that thing that’s advertised on television. I was always intrigued but I was also too lazy to drag my cracked heels the two blocks to my local CVS to check it out… until yesterday.

Why do we wait, and put off what we know might help us; perhaps make our lives better, happier, or in my case, softer? Why do we accept what is that which we do not like?

Alcoholics say that hitting bottom was the moment they decided to get help. My bottom was when I tried to roll over in bed and as I turned, my rough and peeling heels kept scratching the sheets, preventing me from completing my rollover.

I will not continue on like this, I thought. I’m better than this. I deserve to have my heels feel like a baby’s ass.

I had my doubts about the Amope. I thought it was a gimmick. My mom told me about it months ago, singing it’s praises after she used it. I listened but thought, Who wants to use something that your 70-year old mother uses? I showed her didn’t I?

While some women spent Saturday night submerged in a bath of essential oils, surrounded by Tubereuse and Freesia Diptyque candles set up along the edges of their tub, munching on bars of dark chocolate, and imbibing a bottle of Chianti while watching Girlfriends’ Guide to Divorce, yours truly sanded down her heels while watching Terror In Mumbai on CNN. Same, no?

As I sat on the toilet lid, with my foot hovering over the garbage pail, I marveled at how eerily similar this was to sanding the two by fours in high school shop class, that eventually became a bird house at the end of the semester. The Amope also sounded like a a vibrator… Hm, I wondered. It was a Saturday night after all.

As I filed, it was like a Christmas miracle. Poof, my dry skin turned to smoke, leaving my heels as smooth as a sheet of ice.

I won’t go into the details (oops, too late) but suffice to say that I’ve got Happy Feet! Next Saturday night I think I’ll try Amope’s Electronic Nail Care System. I never did solve the natty cuticle problem; I just learned to live with it.


Barry White Was In My Mat Pilates Class

celebritynetworth.comBarry White was in my mat pilates class today, which is super weird because he’s been dead for 12 years. Fifteen minutes into my instruction, between the exercises, rollover and teaser, the following blared through all ten speakers in the enormous fitness room.

Oh, baby, oh, baby
(Keep on)
Come on, baby
(Keep on doin’ it, right on)
(Right on doin’ it)

You got it together
(Baby, keep on)
Oh, you got it together, baby
(Right on, keep on doin’ it)
I will get it baby, oh, I will get it
(My my baby, keep on)
I swear you got it together, baby
(Keep on, keep on)

I knew the lyrics to the song therefore I knew what was coming up, and I started to feel very self-conscious. I felt compelled to address what I perceived as the elephant in the room before I led the class in the abdominal series and leg circles.

I was certain that some of the participants laying supine on their mats with their legs spread eagle were silently (unlike Barry’s deep bellowing vocals) questioning my inclusion of Mr. White in my pilates playlist because it clearly, and most obviously, did not belong in the rotation.

What did they think? I was’t trying to set the mood, hoping that I would get laid once the class was over. Was I? The subconscious mind is a crafty one.

This particular playlist was made for the road trip that I took a month ago with my ex-boyfriend’s daughter. We wanted to expose each other to new music and I thought, hey, she should know Barry, although thinking about it now, it might have been an odd choice.

I forgot that I had included Mr. White, when I chose the playlist for class on this particular day. “Before we continue, I must say something. Yes, you are hearing Barry White, and I apologize.” As I continued to explain, the following provided the soundtrack.

I’ve got to keep you pleased in every way I can
Gonna give you all of me as much as you can stand
Make love to you right now, that’s all I want to do
I know you need it, girl and you know I need it too

You know what I needed? To stop talking. Instead, I spoke faster and incoherently. “I know it’s weird because you know what Barry songs are usually played for… I wanted you to know that I know and…”

Great, now the class thought that since I had consciously chosen to add the sexy mood music to my playlist that I was having sex, and sleeping around, and there wasn’t time to tell them about the road trip and…

Never, never gonna give you up, I’m never, ever gonna stop
Not the way I feel about you, girl, I just can’t live without you
I’m never, ever gonna quit ’cause quittin’ just ain’t my stick
I’m gonna stay right here with you and do all the thing you want me to

Thank god the class laughed at my idiocy, and neurosis or else my idiocy and neurosis would have been for naught. Now reading these lyrics again I see that Mr. White sings, “I’m never, ever gonna quit ’cause quittin’ just ain’t my stick.” Stick? What does he mean? What stick? I always thought he was saying, schtick, as in, quitting isn’t his thing, his bag, his gimmick.

I have to ask myself, why would Mr. White, the bass-baritone romancer from Galveston, Texas, and Grammy Award winning sexy soul and funk singer of raunchy lyrics use the Yiddish word, schtick, anywhere in his songs?

I’m just thankful that I didn’t sing along in class, or I would have really looked like an idiot.

I No Longer…

IMG_5183I no longer open my front door and half-heartedly expect to see a flower, a post-it… some physical gesture from him, boldly and loudly, placed delicately and unannounced on my doormat.

I no longer come home from a wonderful night out, but still hoping to see a sign, connecting me to him, proof that I was still on his mind.

I no longer need proof. I no longer need proof to validate what I meant to him. I no longer see the point. No longer do I believe that his mind will change. No longer do I need his heart to ache for me, or his body yearning for mine.

I no longer ask myself, “What if?” I no longer ask myself, “Was it supposed to happen like this?”

I no longer wonder about closure, and its absence. I am no longer tempted to ask those questions that used to haunt me. They’re fading like an old black and white photograph.

I no longer shed tears at the mere mention of his name, or the mental images that I used to draw of his body laying with another.

The memories of our time together, like those made with others before him, slowly assemble themselves further and further into a corner of my mind.

My heart has worked overtime, mending itself, putting its fractured, frayed and broken pieces back together, with only time as it’s little helper. Only now does it seem ready for another love, other loves.

And yet…

My Vagina Has Bluetooth

My Vagina Has Bluetooth


I don’t mean to brag, or boast, but while my gynecologist had her face between my thighs the other day, she had to confirm my age because my va-hoohoo was in such amazing shape. It did not, as my Gyno continued, resemble that of a peri-menopausal woman; for it had kept its youthful glow. Thanks Doc.

You know why my hoo sparkles and shines like a brand new appliance? Because I’m careful what I put in it, how long it stays and what it does while it’s visiting. I bring all of this up, again, not to brag or boast, but to mention a product out there that is ridiculous, useless and in my humble opinion, dangerous.

I was dumbfounded to learn that there is a company, Loon Lab Inc, that has invented a product called the LoonCup (I’m guessing that the name was chosen because of the expression, crazy as a Loon) which introduces bluetooth into a woman’s vagina.

You read that correctly. Apparently these Loons believe that there’s much to learn about a woman’s overall health by tracking her monthly flow. Funny, there’s no mention of a similar product to be inserted into a man’s penis, or in their ass, to track their overall health.

The cup collects a woman’s monthly fluid. Bye-bye diapers, disguised as sanitary napkins and tampons. One of the cup’s functions is to alert the user, via chime or buzzer, on their iPhone, iwatch, or laptop, when the cup runneth over and it’s time to empty out. Sorry Android users, you won’t be able to get the cup until January 2016.

Thank goodness for this because women are too stupid to know when they’re saturated. Even when we do forget, (and sometimes we do) eventually we feel the warm liquid dribbling down our inner thighs, and we’ve ruined a nice pair of white shorts, but I hardly think that this is a compelling reason to be hooked up by bluetooth.

The cup will also track the color and cycle frequency. What woman does not know her Aunt Flo intimately? And unless you’re color blind, I don’t need any assistance in that area either. Some OBGYN’s weighed in and most of them said that there wasn’t anything to be gained by looking at color. I suppose if it was black, or neon green, you might want to see a doctor, but I’m pretty certain that you wouldn’t need a LoonCup to get you there.

This is a Kickstarter campaign. They’re hoping to raise $50,000. Yeah, please don’t waste your time raising money for an orphanage in Malawi, for example, or the UN Refugee Agency, this is far more important.

Why are people trying to get up all in my business? How about funding a product for men where healthcare professionals can track erection frequency, or what happens to the body of those suffering from ED, or how many times a day men grab their junk, or re-shift, while lounging on the couch.

Every other day there’s a story about how we should keep our cell phones far from our reproductive organs, and away from our heads, or not to stand in front of microwaves. We wear lead vests when taking X-rays of our back molars. Tampons can cause Toxic Shock Syndrome. Now Loon wants me to stick a friggin’ cup, with bluetooth capabilities, transmitting god knows what, into my youthful lady parts? That is so wicked smart.

I like, and enjoy, technology, especially now that I know how Instagram and Apple TV works but I am not looking to combine technology with my vagina. I suppose you could say that I’m discerning when it comes to what gets through the pearly gates of my cooter. Sex toys? Sure. A selective piece of fruit or vegetable? I’m game. But I must cross my legs and squeeze tightly at inserting a foreign object that will track what my vagina is, and is not, doing during my monthly menses (I still hate that word) thereby turning my flower into a smart device.

Trust me, my flower is smart enough.

Trust Yourself

LoganKickingI was going to cancel. I was going to let fear paralyze me yet again. I was going to allow the past to dictate the present and ultimately the future. I was going to renege on plans. I was going to make up an excuse, “something came up.” I was unsure if I could trust myself to know what to do.

But I did know what to do. I wasn’t going to repeat a behavior simply because it had become commonplace. There wouldn’t be an encore performance. It wasn’t the time, nor the place. A child was involved, and that made all of the difference.

Would he have cared, or given it a second thought, if I canceled, and I didn’t show up? I didn’t know but it didn’t matter. That wasn’t the point. I said I was going to be there. Period. I decided that any bullshit remnants from what used to be was not going to find its way onto the high school football field.

Something shifted over the last couple of weeks, and it felt a lot like healing. It felt a lot like strength, confidence, and maturity, oh and I was also super ass bored of the bullshit. I was tired of feeling weird about who was doing what, where, and how. I couldn’t contort myself into any more knots, trying to ascertain what the right thing to do was. It was time to stop worrying about how my actions might be perceived. I wanted just a hint of normalcy.

That’s why I didn’t cancel. The unknown would be just that- unknown, and it wasn’t going to stop me. In spite of getting lost in the dark, parking a ways away from the football field, and having to go to the bathroom something fierce, I made it in time for the singing of the national anthem, and I excitedly watched my ex’s son, wearing his bright orange cleats, kick off to the Woodbridge Barrons.

I can’t imagine having missed that.