Bitch and Ye Shall Receive!

Photo by carbonNYC.

So....if you read the post "Stuck in the 1950's", you were privy to some particularly heavy handed husband bashing.  If you are a woman reading the post, you likely recognized the nature of the rant, and appreciate it as the way chicks talk to each other about their boyfriends or hubbies.  It doesn't mean we don't love them, we just happen to share with each other the negative things our husbands do, while seeking support and commiseration.  We seldom share the good things.  It doesn't mean we take them for granted, we just don't need a shoulder to cry on about those.

A man however, reading that blog might become defensive on behalf of the poor guy, and suspect his wife doesn't appreciate him, and is somehow being unfair.  Trust me, your wife or girlfriend has shared such chats with her girlfriends, about you, at least that harshly, and perhaps even more so, depending upon how much you have pissed her off.  The thing about her girlfriends is, they get the purpose of the conversation and understand that the aforementioned rant does not reflect on the entirety of the man or the relationship.

My husband has assured me that he did not read that blog, after I sheepishly asked him.  I told him that I had bashed him pretty good.  I was a little worried about what he might think if he did read it.  I am not sure what specifically triggered him then, to offer to cook and clean for the full two weeks of our recent vacation.  We have a home in the desert, and we keep it cheap by eating in most meals.  I usually do the majority of the cooking and cleaning on vacation too.  At first when he offered, I was skeptical.  This would be something!  He assured me he wasn't joking, and intended to do all the grocery shopping and cook all meals!

And, he did it!  Early on in the vacation, my inner micro manager came forward at the grocery store, to gently prod him in the direction of the organic dairy products and steer him away from the frozen food section.  He told me to "Back off! I've got it!"  I did my best to butt out, and reasoned that drinking the cheap store brand milk or big, white, genetically modified eggs, wouldn't kill me in a mere two weeks.  So I zipped it, and watched him fill the cart with items that I generally would steer clear of.  Things like rainbow color "fruit" roll-ups, sold by the foot for the kids, frozen french fries, hot pockets, chips and dip...you get the picture.  I made a decision at check out, to butt out, and go with it, and let him do it his way.  If he wanted to do it, I wanted the full experience, for him and me.

I was worried I wouldn't be able to stand back and just let him do everything.  At home, I am up and running constantly.  Every moment occupied with completing some detail of the to-do list. I seldom sit still. It took a day or two, but I was surprised how easily I slipped into this new role.  I have spent a significant amount of time lounging on the couch.  I briefly tried to tuck my hand in my pants whilst sipping beer and watching football, but that was pushing the limits of this experiment.  I settled for plowing through the Twilight vampire series, reading one 600 page book a day.   I slept in.  I didn't wash one dish!! 

He made meals that were surprisingly, okay.  We had fish several nights, with some form of rice or veggie.  A couple of times I had to intervene for small things like, undercooked sausages or near raw baked potatoes.  For the most part though, he did a great job.  I began to realize how much I probably inhibit his participation in these day to day tasks by my constant interference and personal expectations.  It is like I had subconsciously set a standard that he couldn't possibly hope to achieve. When I stepped back, and wasn't critical, or comparing what he did to what I did, it was pretty much fine!

I found my mind unfettered by frustrations about the state of the house cleanliness, or whether or not everything we ate was organic.  I cringed when he served the hot pockets, and didn't partake of them myself, but of course, the kids loved them.  I realized that often, issues are only issues when I decide to make them issues.  Stepping back like that, I could more clearly see how unimportant some of these things were.  I have never let him take over this area because I never really trusted that he could do it.

It reminds me of our honey moon in Mexico, when he excitedly took me sailing on a small catamaran.  I had no idea he possessed these skills from his life prior to me and so didn't trust the experience.  I was in panic mode the whole time, certain the boat would flip, or we would end up helplessly drifting out into the open ocean.  He laughed at my nervousness and confidently handled the boat.  I realized that he had a set of experiences and skills that were in place long before I came along, but for some reason, I only trusted the ones that I had witnessed during our time together.  I think this applies to my feelings about his household skills as well.

When we first started dating, his condo was a mess...clean, but not really clean.  I spent a day scrubbing it down and furnishing it with essential items, like dish towels, that he was missing.  Somehow this imprinted on me that he lacked the capacity to do these things, and I stepped in and assumed the role.  I realize now, that he can do these things, but I have just assumed that because he doesn't do them like me, he can't.  I told him on our final day of vacation, that I was impressed, and that I was going to start delegating more.  Now that I had seen him in action, I was expecting him to keep it up.  For my part, I have to butt out and accept he'll do it differently, but he will do it.

I learned alot these last two weeks.  One reason I have failed to motivate him in the past to help out more, is that there were always unspoken conditions.  Another thing I learned is that some of my frustration is self inflicted...I make issues where there aren't any.  Should I lose sleep over counter top clutter or untidy shoes in the mud room?  I am not taking all the blame here.  Somehow he never communicated that to me or stepped up to do his fair share.  The rules are reset now.  I have new expectations.  Now that I know he can do it I will be more resentful if he doesn't, and you can only imagine what that blog will be like! 

Caution: Content May Include Pubic Hair

Photo by art_es_anna.

As I write this blog, and supportive friends return to read and comment on the contents created herein, I realize that the personal-ness of the content, may be TMI (too much information), for most of them.  I understand the reason that writers use pen names...more so when the main topics of said writer are pubic hair and husband bashing.  Writing is really personal, and it can't be good or very interesting if it isn't.  A quote from Kafka I read recently states "Writing means revealing oneself to excess".  I think even if I weren't telling people what style of pubic-coiffing I was sporting at the moment, the excessive revealing would still be true.  Even say, if I were writing about being worried about writing about pubic hair.

Great art, painting or writing, is created without fear or judgement.  The judgement that matters most is the judgement brought to the work by the artists themselves.  If a writer or painter were to put pen to paper, brush to canvas, and think at each idea or stroke "What if this isn't good enough?" or "What if people don't like it?" the flow of creative juices would be stoppered up, and the artist would fail to create anything spontaneous or meaningful. Once the creator begins to pre-edit his own content, originality and and creativity are stifled.  I am finding it harder not to pre-edit my personal girly-girl experiences, worried that I will begin to enjoy prolonged stares at the local coffee shop. If you know what my pubes look like, will you still respect me?

Great artists do not give a flying flat what other people think of what they create.  This takes an admirable amount of pilotes (balls), effusive self-esteem and leaden oblivious-ness, not present in the average human.  Most of these people I feel are also socially inept and disliked.  Part of humanity is caring about what other people think; about you personally or about the effect your actions might have upon the lives of others.  I am a big fat wuss.  My self esteem has been externally motivated for the majority of my life.  If you tell me you love it, then it is good...I'm not sure what I think about it, unless I know what you think first.  Pathetic really.  The worst of it however is how it hovers over the things I try and create.  Even when I go shopping, before I buy something, I look at it through someone else's eyes first, guessing if they will like it. 

The first few blogs were written in complete anonymity...I didn't really expect they would be read, and so I just wrote stuff.  Now, I know some people are reading it, not very many, but some, and I have begun to filter and edit. The same thing happened with my painting.  The first few times I messed with it, I had no expectations...I just did it, tried it, and waited to see what happened.  Somewhere I learned to have expectations...I could create some interesting things, and so everything from that moment on needed to be just as or more interesting as the thing before.  If I didn't think it was, I feared I'd lost whatever ability I had had, and began to doubt my ability to create anything good ever again.  When I began golfing a few years back, I was pretty terrible.  I recall during one especially high scoring effort telling a friend, "Man, if I had any expectations at all, I would be really pissed right now!"

I think it is too late for a pen-name.  I confused an editor recently by trying to change the author credit to a pen name before she printed it.  I told her I thought a pen name would be prudent, given that the article was about blow-jobs.  I finally just told her to use my name.  There is a lot of learning and skin thickening that must go on as you begin to write.  At first I thought I could write without concern for what other people thought, but I'm not so sure anymore.  I have an understanding of the concept of writing and creating without fear, but enacting it is a work in progress.   

Theoretically, if I pretend nobody will read what I write or ever see anything I paint, I won't care what it looks or sounds like.  If I stop caring who reads about my waxing habits, I should be set free. As a precaution, I think that I will start putting warning labels on my blogs.  If a blog is about pubic hair, and you would rather not read about pubic hair, you will be warned to move along.  Some of you will be personally instructed to never, ever, read the pubic hair blogs, and for the sake of our coffee shop encounters, please respect my request!

The Hairless Cat!

Photo by The Pug Father

I am now officially bald...downstairs that is.  As the newest member of the Dare to Bare club, I survived the ordeal of waxing a Brazilian.  Well, I didn't wax a Brazilian, I got a Brazilian. In previous posts I bashed the Brazilian as one more oppressive beauty requirement imposed on women.  As any good reporter should, I decided to consider the other side of the story; the possibility that this decision can be driven by the woman herself and not be something society has forcethed upon her.

Nikki, a self described waxing expert, convinced me that I might consider the possibility that women who get a Brazilian are sexually empowering themselves.  "Trust me," she tells me, "You are going to feel really hot!"  I admit, for the first 48 hours I did indeed feel hot.  And red, and irritated.  Surprisingly less than I had anticipated however.  I have yet to test drive the new coif in the sack, as I am making sure all is calm down there before getting down and dirty.  My hubby however has shown signs of interest, including remembering I had the appointment in the first place, and asking me how it went.  This is huge evidence that this procedure means something to him, as he does not remember ANYTHING!

When I entered Nikki's office for my appointment, I still wasn't convinced I was going to go through with it.  It just sort of happened.  Before I knew it, I was up on the table, naked from the waist down, and Nikki was up close and personal, slathering my bits with wax and tearing away.  She was so matter of fact about it, I just went with the flow.  We chatted and exchanged stories, with the occasional "Pull here" and "That was a tough one".  Of all the strips she did, only four of them hurt moderately and then, only briefly.  Nikki commended me for not flinching and being pretty stoic.  I must confess that I did flinch a little and rated the pain of the tougher strips (those closest to the clitoris) at a 6/10, but only for a moment.  She uses a blue wax that is gentler on the skin and targets the hair more directly. 

She got a bird's eye view of my nether regions, as the positions we got in were reminiscent of the gynecologists office.  I am glad I used my feminine wipes!  She was strictly professional, and I felt very comfortable.  The whole thing took her about 15 minutes.  She informed me that many waxers can drag this out over 45 minutes.  She proudly says that she can do the whole thing, most of the time, in under 20 minutes, and get all of the hair.  "Some waxers who try to do it faster, end up not doing a great job and missing alot of hair.  Even though I do it quickly, I make sure I get it all."  We had decided to leave some hair behind, something Nikki recommends.  We discussed my shape options.  I could get a tortilla chip or a mini-chip as she called it, or a rectangular landing strip.  For special occasions I learned that I could dress it up a bit and get a heart for valentine's day or a Christmas tree (with a very special present underneath) for Christmas.  Nikki told me she doesn't mind doing some custom shapes, but letters and other requests are very challenging to create with the wax.  I opted for the tortilla chip and she went to great pains to make sure it was even and straight.

Then it came time to do the back...this was my biggest fear for some reason.  I just imagined that this would be incredibly painful and sensitive, not to mention awkward and embarrassing.  She had me turn on my side, and grab one cheek. I was to lift it up and out of the way to allow Nikki free access. Another woman I had heard of was required to get on all fours for this part of the program, something that other waxers have commented reduces the dignity of the client. Nikki is adamant that a waxer who claims to be giving you a Brazilian but who fails to do this part of the procedure is not in fact doing a Brazilian wax. "Anyone who waxes and says "Yucky" about any part of this, should not be doing it. Period", she says.  "If they don't do the butt, they should not charge you for a full Brazilian".

Surprisingly, this part of the procedure was a piece of cake (other than the part where she was staring at my asshole).  Asses are ugly!  I was having another women's panel that very evening, of which Nikki is a member, and I told her "Wow, here you are seeing my butt, and we will be sharing cocktails in a few short hours!"  "Trust me, I won't remember your butt", she answered back.  Hmm, I was slightly disappointed that my butt was forgettable.

Finally, after the last strip was pulled away, Nikki handed me a mirror, much like a hair dresser, to inspect her work.  By this time I was so not-self-conscious, I grabbed the mirror, took a long look, and poked around a bit, exclaiming, "Ooh, it's so smooth!"  She asked me to check for any strays and encouraged me to share, "I am not offended like some waxers are if you critique my work".  I found no stragglers.  I hopped off the bed and got dressed.  Just like that, I was a porn star in the making!

As I settled up, Nikki warned me about a possible pee issue to be aware of.  Now this was completely new information.  "Most women love the way it feels to have a Brazilian.  Some women don't, and one reason is the possibility of spraying when they urinate, and some dripping afterwards.  Pubic hair helps direct the flow of urine, and once it is removed some women discover they are sprayers."  Eww, kinda makes pubic hair sound even grosser! 

 I spent the rest of the day noticing if I felt any different.  When I ran into a friend I asked her, "Do I look different?"  I kept looking at people, thinking  "  I got a Brazilian!  I got a Brazilian!" Fortunately, things in the bathroom were the same, so I was good with that part of it.  Washing in the shower is a little weird, as there is nothing down there to lather up anymore, and everything is baby smooth.  I have been hiding from my kids when I am naked, not sure how I will answer any questions about how different it looks down there, and it does.  I have to admit though, it does not look creepy or like a child, it just looks clean and organized.  Women have different anatomy downstairs, so each will look different after getting waxed.  There are innies (the inner labia and the clitoris are inside the outer lips) and outies, where the inner labia and/or clitoris pass beyond the outer lips.  Most women are outies, Nikki explains. (I am an inny).

So now there are a few more things I have to experience before I can give my final verdict.  How is sex and does it make a difference?  I am not sure if my sexual "hotness" is closely tied to my pubic hair or not, but it might be to my husband.  How does it grow in and how long does it last?  Nikki tells me that with regular waxing, the hair will soften and less and less of it will return.  It is definitely something that I am no longer afraid of, and would be willing to do again.  It really isn't the big deal I thought it was going to be.  More updates to follow!

Bye Bye Bushy!

Photo by DanBrady flickr.

The appointment is made, and my apprehension is growing.  If I can muster the courage, I am getting a Brazilian on Friday...this Friday.  I phoned Nikki, booked my time, and hung up.  Moments later, she called back and suggested I take a couple of advil about half an hour before the appointment, "To take the edge off", she said. "If you're nervous."  "I am", I told her.  Don't tell Nikki, but warning me to medicate prior to the appointment did not reduce my anxiety.  Now my mind is racing.


I am really freaked out about this.  It has to hurt, right? That hair has been around for a long time. The roots have grown deep. I am not sure they will surrender without a fight. I am also not sure if she will go after the back door or not.  Technically, a Brazilian means the whole enchilada or taco if you must.  I also wonder if my skin will freak out after the waxing.  Generally, after I have any waxing done, my skin becomes fiery red, and irritated.  This look, down-town, would be less than flattering.  I have read scary skin infection stories where bush-wacking has lead to the tragic death of the vain waxee.  Is this worth risking my life for?  Most of my attempts at vanity have led to vile repercussions.  Like the time I tried self tanner, and was so deathly allergic I ended up on prednisone.

What will I say to my daughter if she sees my baldness?  "Where did your hair go, mommy?" "Well honey, your daddy likes it this way?" or "This is a sign of a sexually empowered woman".  Some wax patrons intentionally keep a small amount of lady hair down there to minimize the reaction by their children.  I can get on board with that.

Much like a woman anticipating her cleaning lady's next visit, I am pre-cleaning my house.  I don't want Nikki to think I am a slob, after all.  I have been doing a little styling, for fear she might be overwhelmed by my au-naturalness.  I even bought some "Refreshing Feminine Wipes" to make sure my bits are immaculate.  Waxers get up close and personal with y'all, and I hear tell they can tell if things are getting stale down there, if you catch my drift. I am going to stash them in my purse, and visit the ladies room right before the appointment.  Surely she will believe that "Spring Fresh" is my normal perfume.

I am probably over-reacting.  Women do this everyday, and even on a regular basis.  Heck, I may even grow to love it. My husband might like it too. Right now though, I am as nervous as a child about to get a shot. 

Staying Regular

Photo by istolethetv on flicqr.

I have a hell of a time managing my body hair!  It's all in the scheduling.  I could just shave, and stay on top of things, but I am told this is archaic and I should never do it!  Shaving for a woman is a shameful practice...waxing is the only way to go (so saeth waxologists the world over).  The problem with this however, is that I need to know when I will need my next wax appointment, in advance, and make it.  The hair can't be too long or too short, or the waxing will not work. Given that hair must be a certain length before you get waxed, I am curious how other women live in this inbetwixt world of smooth, glossy, naked, skin and stubbly, fuzzy, abrasive skin.

I am told that most waxing salons can get you in at the last minute...it is sort of how they schedule.  Women like me everywhere, wake up one morning, look at their sasquatch legs and overflowing bushes and realize they need to get waxed right friggen' now!  No longer able to keep their eyebrows from poking them in the eyes, they call their waxing professionals, hysterical, pleading, hair removal is overdue!  I usually just break down and shave. When I finally realize the dire need for hair removal, I usually have a shit load of stuff to do, and I can't make time for an appointment.

Take today for example.  I was heading to the gym and noted my leg hair was getting unacceptable.  I couldn't not shave as the length of it surely made it visible from across the room.  Running on the treadmill would likely create a swooshing sound, as the hair from each leg, rubbed briskly against the hair of the other.  Pinning it back or pony tailing was not an appropriate option.  Thus, I shaved.  My legs shall now be smooth and lovely for about 10 minutes, before the stubble begins to reappear.  Waxing lasts for weeks!!  Why the hell can't I get it together!

I have made up my mind to make an appointment in one weeks time with Nikki the super-awesome-waxer!  A self-professed expert, she is an advocate of regular waxing, and sees the Brazilian, not as a burdensome- man-imposed standard on women, but an empowering sexual ritual.  I admit, I am afraid.  I even had nightmares about it!  Really! Actual nightmares!  I dreamed I was at the wax hut for my scheduled appointment, but my wax professional was waay overbooked.  She had 85 clients scheduled that day.  They kept politely telling me they would be right with me, as I lounged and napped in the waxing lounge.  Intermittently, someone would come in and do one waxing strip, then hours would pass before they would come and do the next one.  It was reminiscent of the waxing scene in the "40 Year Old Virgin".  I ended up, partially waxed, leaving the establishment in an indignant huff, shouting out expletives and constructive criticism as I left!

I have been conciously timing my hair growth...figuring the exact point that my hair is at critical mass.  I am going to do my legs (which is no big deal, I have done this a number of times, sporadically before), my bikini...maybe brazillian if Nikki can talk me into it (it just sounds twisted and painful...maybe I will just do the Mexican Tortilla chip), and I am going to consult about my underarms.  I would love to not shave them so often!  They grow at the pace of male facial hair after all these years of shaving. I threaten my husband that I am so tired of shaving here, that I will let it grow and just braid it.  It amuses me how much body hair on women can turn a man off.

I tried to wax my armpits...once.  I was pretty young...maybe 18.  I purchased a drug-store wax kit...and vaguely remember having to heat it up.  I had never been waxed before so my technique was improvised.  I slathered my entire armpit with the warm, waxy goo.  This was my first mistake.  Waxers generally only do small patches of hair at a time.  I pressed the cloth strip to my armpit and started to pull (you are supposed to pull rapid-bandaid-style).  The pain quickly overwhelmed me.  Because one hand was stuck over my head, I was unable to pull the skin of my armpit taught, which increases the comfort of the proceedure.  I spent a long and painful hour, slowly ripping the wax and hair from my armpit.  I had no choice but to slowly torture myself, lest I be covered in wax for the rest of my life.  It took many long years before I would consider waxing again.

I am going to call for my appointment ahead of time...which should virtually guarantee I get one.  I'll report back on the results and experience in an upcoming post.  Wish me luck!

Stuck in the 1950's

Photo by Throw Her in the Water.

We’ve come a long way towards equal rights for women. On the surface it seems that we are pretty equal with our male counterparts. As a teen, I was convinced that the man I married would be an equal partner in everything. He would cook and clean, help raise our children, and I, in turn would be a career women, bringing home some bacon of my own. I looked down upon the women of generations past who were slaves to their husbands. For these women, no retirement date was in sight. They continue working as full time housewives, long after their husbands get their gold watches. That, I swore, would never happen to me!

I laugh bitterly at this thinking, as I clean one of our many household toilets for the umpteenth time, whilst my equal opportunity husband naps on the couch, having fallen asleep watching golf. That he can so easily relax knowing full well that I am working my ass off cleaning the house, yet again, perplexes me. I rarely feel such a sense of time entitlement that I will abandon all household duty, kick my feet up, and tune everything out. The image of a woman with her hand in her pants, feet up, cold beer in hand, doesn’t exist. The phrase “A woman’s work is never done” is an understatement. I tell my husband he is like a bad roommate.

I blame my mother in law for some of his ways. I witness her continuing to serve her man, and it infuriates me. Despite his retirement many years ago, she continues in her full role as house wife, cook, laundress, house keeper, etc. Were he left to his own devices he would simply starve. Growing up in this type of household, my husband’s DNA is imprinted with the belief that women do the house work, and in fact, enjoy it. They like it so much, they don’t want or need any help. Helping them would be more of a nuisance really, so best stay out of the kitchen lest we interrupt their merriment! No matter how many times I bitch, complain, rationally discuss or present flashy power-point presentations, he hasn’t change his ways. I worry that my son will learn the same things from him and drive his future wife bonkers too!

Men benefited most from the equal opportunity pursuits of our forebears. They have their proverbial cake, that we bake in our immaculate kitchens, and eat it too, while we are at work making the dough! My mother-in-law did not work outside of the home. Her full time job was her home. Women today have two full time jobs, housewives and career women. I bring home the majority of the money, and pay the mortgage, but somehow I still have to do all of the house work! Don’t get me wrong, my husband is a hard worker and successful, he just never added anything else to his plate when his woman went to work. Some might blame me for enabling this, but I tell you, I can be a nasty biatch about this issue, and no amount of this generates any sympathy from him. I could cattle prod his ass, and he still would not learn how to turn the vacuum cleaner on. Our house could be buried in filth, and as long as it didn’t block the TV, he would ignore it.

For many years, I hired a cleaning lady, primarily to remove the possibility of me resenting my husband for his household laziness. I witnessed my mother, for years, grating at my step father, for not doing a damn thing around the house. When the economy turned, I let our housekeeper go, figuring we as a family could pick up the slack, and save the money. Well, I have been picking up the slack, and I am getting angrier and angrier, every time I mop the floor and do the laundry! Ironically, my income has increased during this economic downturn while my husband’s has decreased more than 50%, but I am still the only one doing housework!

When my husband goes on boys trips and regales me with stories of all of the great meals they cooked up for themselves, I could slit his throat! Are you kidding me?? You rarely cook at home for our family, but you can get off your ass on a boys trip and cook flank steak?? WTF? I don’t even know how to cook flank steak! He shared an ironic story with me about men who fail to contribute anything in their households, yet when golfing will rake a bunker to smooth perfection, and remove a fragment of grass from their putting line to insure the ball’s undisturbed travel to the hole. I laughed so hard I choked. He finds his behavior funny! Funny to whom? Him and all of the other lazy ass, free loading, dirt bag husbands who sit back and watch their little women toil their lives away in the never ending hell of housework? Just writing this I am getting pissed!

Sometimes I can get him to pick up groceries, but I have to make a very detailed list, else he will return with Cheese Nips and Dinty Moore Stew as our weekly staples. His household jobs are garbage removal (which he does about 80% of the time) and dishes. His definition of doing the dishes however, involves only what goes in or out of the dishwasher. Everything else accumulates on the counter top in bubbly soaking water until it rusts or I break down and wash it. Recently I had another teary, pleading break down, asking for his help. Couldn’t he, a reasonable and intelligent person observe the unfairness of this situation, and couldn’t he summon up some compassion to help a little around the house? He agreed that he could, and would take on the chore of cleaning the sinks and toilets in the house. I thanked him, telling him that anything he could do would help. That was four weeks ago, and he has yet to do either of those things.

I am at a loss. Somehow I was misled as a young woman into believing that equality was the norm, and that men were enlightened enough to recognize that if they benefited from a second income in the family, they would need to step up too, and take on their fair share of household duties. That memo apparently never got sent out. Maybe we are just at a generational crossroads. Husbands of my generation were raised by housewives. They seem to expect their wives to provide the same services.

I read recently that in relationships where women make more money than men, divorce rates are higher. My first thought was that men must grow to resent their wives for making more money and diminishing their manly role. I now realize that these marriages end because these hard-working exhausted women, are sick and tired of doing everything! I imagine they come home from work, deposit their big fat paycheck into their joint account, and their husbands call out to them, from the sofa, when they come in the door, “Honey, what’s for dinner?”

You're Such a Bitch!!

Photo by Juliana Coutinho

I am perplexed by the extremes of experiences I have had with women. On the one hand, I have been the benefactor of such deep and meaningful friendships, studies show my life expectancy has increased. The foundation of these relationships is trust. In these women I open my soul to the best and worst of me, and they in turn share their deepest and darkest. We hold these secrets as a bond without judgment…unless of course we have a better friend with a stronger bond, then we are beholden to dish-up this juicy information, trusting them to hold their tongues…unless of course they have a better BFF. And so on. Usually though, even if they blab our soul-secrets, our friendship is true enough that they don’t do it maliciously, and they are so good at it, I never actually know they spilled their guts. What a lucky gal am I to have such friends!

On the other hand, I have had relationships with women who were much more devious and their intentions seldom honest. These women I refer to as “psycho-bitches-from-hell” (PBFH). Some are so conniving and skilled, they can fool you into thinking they are the good kind of friend. You might even trust them enough to bring them into your inner circle. These women are looking for connections that offer two benefits. The first is status building. The second is safety from competition. As they scope you and your inner circle out, they will target the women whom they believe can enhance their coolness by association and at the same time, won’t steal their husbands. They are wary hunters, focused and discerning about who is good enough to be associated with.

Friendships with these women seldom have an up-side. If they pick you as a cool-enhancing accessory, your friendship lasts only as long as the moment they find someone with greater coolness increasing potential. You can be replaced and they will, dropping you like a fat ass on the biggest loser! They leave behind a trail of wounded women, who’ve lost what they believed was a lifespan-increasing-sister friend. It’s just as well…although now the evil PBFH knows all your shit, and will use it like stepping-stones to reach the highest echelons of social networking. Our dirtiest laundry is catalogued and repackaged into self-serving versions, used to undermine us and reduce our ability to form friendships with her cooler crowd, lest they like us better or believe our warning tales about her devious intentions. She will ruin your reputation so fast, your head will spin!

If they don’t pick you and don’t feel you are a threat, they will simply ignore you. This is probably the best of all possible options, although incredibly confusing. I am not very threatening or socially elevating, and so, am often ignored by bitchy or competitive women. When we cross paths, I like to jump in front of them, like the village idiot, and say an eager and toothy “Hello!” You know these broads! They’re the ones you’ve been introduced to a zillion times and each time they act like they’ve never laid eyes upon you before. At your next meeting with these memory-challenged ho-bags, you should devise a story that falsely elevates your cool status. (eg. I am so excited! My first novel is going to be made into a movie starring Brad Pitt! You should come to the cast party at my house next week!) This is the surest way to fuck with their heads and the storyline possibilities are endless! Better yet, start flirting outrageously with their husband or boyfriend, and at least they will perceive you as a threat and turn their bitch-faces on.

Woe unto you if they believe you are a threat! Maybe you are skinnier, better dressed, prettier, funnier, sexier, whatever, they will work their nut-job asses off to bring you down a notch. A mad kind of social war-fare will begin. Anyone whose attention they are trying to divert away from you and back to them, will be told all manner of un-truths about you. I have a friend who has been the victim of the musings of two different PBFH. She is beautiful and kind, and most men are envious of her husband. She unfortunately is pegged as a significant threat by these women. She could elevate their status, but lacks the desire or mean-spirit for the all-important bitchy-gossip collaboration necessary to cement these cool-girl bonds. Thus she can only be shunned. Called a prom girl by one, and told her husband was a misogynistic bastard by another, and lovingly warned not to marry him, she moved away from these false friends. I on the other hand threaten neither of these mutual former friends. One thinks I am white trash, although recently discovered I’m a little cooler than she thought, and the other is so unthreatened by me, she treats me like the village idiot (even when I haven’t jumped in front of her!) and could only look down her nose more at me if she stood upon Mount Everest.

These types of women deserve a certain amount of our pity. They will likely never experience the deep, real, unconditional friendships we on the outside fill our lives with. Many will have no long term friendships but flit through brief loyalties until something better comes along. Studies show this kind of bitchy competitiveness is linked to mating competition. It peaks in high school and college aged girls (surprise, surprise!). Apparently, around the age of 50, competitiveness for mates fades away and women become warmer and more welcoming friends. I am looking forward to that time as bitchy women freak me out!

Maybe this will also mark a time in my life where bygones will be bygones and I can more easily forgive the transgressions of these PBFH. They should mellow out more, and be able to assess the value of a friend more by who she is than what she can do for them. I have a few more bitchy years ahead of me but feel better armed to deal with it. I am now able to recognize the role a women has sorted me into: friend, stepping stone, invisible loser or husband-stealing slut. I will embrace the friends and continue to work on my mind fucking bullshit for the others!

Bedroom Workout



Photo by montroyaler, Flicker

 Getting back in shape is a key component of my effort to look better and take care of my body. I exercise sporadically. I find it hard to fit regular workouts into my schedule. Yoga is one thing I really enjoy and it kicks my butt. The problem is I am usually working when the classes are scheduled and I haven’t been able to get consistent with it. Each time I can make it to class I feel like a beginner and my body creaks with every pose. I curse under my breath at the woman who can put her face between her knees when she “forward folds”. “She musn’t have to work”, I think bitterly. ”If I didn’t have to work I would work out all the time! I would have a bevy of personal trainers, a personal chef and have an awesome body. I would be so yoga gifted I would be able to wrap my ankles around my ears!” But at this moment I can’t even reach my toes.

I resent my job for the effect it has had on my body and my ability to do something about it. One evening, whilst I sat munching mini candy bars and watching my evening programming, I noticed a channel called Fit TV. Curious, I scrolled through the programming and found some interesting content. There was a thirty minute yoga program which seemed interesting. I wondered if this might be a solution. Perhaps I could record these episodes and play them back at my convenience when a free moment became available? I also found a program for abs, butt and thighs. Who couldn’t use a little lovin’ in those areas? I set up to record the yoga, the abs and butt show, and one called “Shimmy” which teaches the ancient art of belly dancing.

The next morning I excitedly rearranged my bedroom furniture to clear my workout space and laid out my yoga mat. I had my fingers crossed that this program would be a good substitute for the yoga classes I enjoy attending. I pressed play and waited. I heard the right kind of music start up, and three lovely ladies appeared. The narrator’s soothing voice began guiding me through the poses. At first, during the warm up, I felt encouraged, I recognized several of the poses and the style of yoga was the same as the class. This type of yoga moves you fluidly from one pose to another linking into a series of poses that are repeated. In class we hold these poses for a short time and move slowly from one to the next. As the program continued and the pose series started, the calm and gentle narrator’s voice turned into the frenzied pace of an auctioneer. The poses started flying at me with barely a pause between them. I finally had to turn my mat sideways to avoid all the neck craning I was doing trying to see what these lovely ladies, in alternating rainy day or beach scenery, were doing.

Just as I nailed the series, the program broke for a series of infomercials. I realized the reason she was cranking through the poses was because commercial breaks were eating up the time. I fast forwarded through the commercials and continued with my pathetic efforts to keep up and actually get something out of the class. Another commercial break later and we moved to the relaxation portion where you get to lie down with eyes closed as a reward for the hard work you have done. I always look forward to this time at the end of an hour class. I had barely broken a sweat when it was time to rush and lie down on my mat. I hurriedly relaxed thinking at least this would be nice. No sooner had I closed my eyes, when the commando narrator told me to open them back up. Disappointedly, I realized this wasn’t going to work.

I clicked on the abs and butt program, hoping for better results. When the program started, I realized that this was an old taping of an early 90’s aerobic show likely filmed on the beach somewhere in California. There was a sleazy looking instructor with wiry curly hair, tight bike shorts and a loose wife beater tank top. He had matching black socks and sneakers. He stood on a small round exercise mat in the sand, surrounded by three women in super high cut body suits and panty hose. Who the hell works out in panty hose?? Who the hell even wears panty hose?? A techno beat pulsed in the back ground. The class was reminiscent of aerobics classes where you hop, clap and side step your way to a great body. The blinds in my room were open and I hoped desperately that nobody could see me as I did jumping jacks and high knee marching.

I laughed more than once as I windmilled my arms over head to the eight count beat. My mind wandered back to bikini waxing as the lady assistants did their ab work. Their body suit side cuts were so extreme I was sure they only had enough material left for a full front to back thong. I finished the class, also interrupted with commercials. I must admit the ab part of the program was good, but despite the creepy instructor’s encouragement, I didn’t get much out of it. I did a little belly dancing after that which I think Candace Bergen was narrating. It just reminded me of my lack of abdominal tone and I clicked it off.

Fit TV was a big fat waste of time. Too many commercials and not enough work-out. Looks like I have to figure out better time management and get my ass to yoga. As a back-up, I am off to buy a lottery ticket, in hopes that I can quit my job and hire an entourage.

Mammogram: The Final Saga



photo by jonny2love flickr.com



G ood news!  I got the all clear.  Whew, what a relief.  The technician was the same one I had the first go around, and she was great.  She showed me what the radiologist was worried about...a bright cluster of tissue that looked different than the rest or "irregular" she said.  She explained that they would need to take a few views to see if the cluster moved apart, suggesting normal tissue, or stayed together in a mass in which case it would need further investigating.

She took four more images, one with a boob twist technique, to try and move the tissue around, and one with small pads to focus the study on the trouble spot.  When done, she showed me the images again, and fortunately they looked vastly different.  Now the whole breast looked the same and there was no evidence of a grouping of cells.

To be on the safe side the radiologist recommended an ultrasound.  I was feeling better at this point, but was still nervous, as I had read that the ultrasound could still see things the mammogram had not.  Having to wait a while before the machine was ready I asked if my husband could come in and wait with me.  He wasn't allowed in the women's area unless invited.  When he entered the room, it was immediately apparent he was out of his element.  Jokingly I told the technician that he was not my husband, that she had brought in the wrong man.  Ha Ha.  The streamlined mammogram machine sat looming in the middle of the room, a foreign part of the landscape to the male eye. 

Soon it was off to the ultrasound where my poor husband was invited to hang out.  "Sure, I'll come in," he answered reluctantly.  I whipped out the offending mammary and she went about sounding and clicking views to take to the radiologist.  She was also very nice and said "Umm Kaay" alot like the gay teacher on South Park, which was nice.  When finished she left the room to consult with the radiologist.  A short time later she returned with good news, all was normal, and they would see me in a year for my next routine scan.

I get to keep my boobs, at least for the time being, which is a plus.  I have a new appreciation for how different this experience can be for so many women, how frightening for some.  I hope to keep all the promises I made bartering for a good outcome.  "If it's negative, I will never eat junk food again"..etc. 

Mammogram: The Sequel



photo by thephotographymuse



I'm scared.  Today is the day I go for additional testing on my left breast.  It has been less than a week since my screening mammogram. The radiologist noticed a density in the breast and per her report, stated that they couldn’t determine conclusively if it has increased in size from last year’s test. Additional mammogram views are needed with the possibility of an ultrasound.

Since I was informed of this it has been a strange week. My first thoughts were “What would I do if I have breast cancer?” I felt the area of my left breast where the density was found and couldn’t feel anything. That doesn’t mean much however…growths the size of quarters can be missed by self examination. “I don’t have any of the traditional risk factors!” I thought. I have no family history, low density breast tissue, I had kids and breast fed…I can’t possibly have cancer! According to the brochure I read at my last appointment though, the only guaranteed risk factors are being a woman and getting older. 

I imagined radiation, chemotherapy and breast removal. I really like my boobs, and the thought of having them lopped off, saddens me. Odd how superficial my thinking became. It led to me to thinking of cosmetic breast surgery and tattooed nipples, a procedure done to help preserve as much normalcy in the appearance of the breasts as possible. The only positive with this scenario is I could upsize my chest. How could that change me as a woman? I convinced myself that if it were necessary I would opt for mastectomy without hesitation.

I imagined telling my family, my kids. I wondered what it would be like to know there was cancer in my body, the awareness that my body could hide such deadly secrets from me. My life would continue in the same routine as always and I could be slowly dying without even knowing it. I called a friend. She told me she had had to have the same second screening done, and it turned out to be nothing. I sort of believe that is what will happen with me.

But what if I do have cancer? How will my life change once I know? I started to look at the possibility of that, of a battle for my life, one that I could lose. If I only had a limited amount of time left, was I living my life the way I wanted to? That really set my mind in motion looking at my work, my family, my lifestyle, my goals. If everything is okay, can I hang on to this new insight and apply it to living more in line with what I truly want and need in life?

My husband is coming with me…just in case the news isn’t great, and for moral support. Whether it ends up normal or not, I will be thankful that I gave breast screening the chance to figure this out, and lead me in the right direction, giving me a better chance. There are two ways this could go, and there is the possibility of dramatic life changes today. I am praying for it to be nothing. I am hoping for more time living healthy and without fear. I am trying not to sweat too much (I couldn’t wear deodorant again today). I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Cellulite!

Photo by EDgAr H. creative commons.

I found myself staring at a young group of high school girls today. They were huddled around their coach during a team timeout at their high school regional championships. I played high school volleyball once…ah, glory days! I admit I didn’t remember our shorts being quite that tight or short or my buttock being quite so perky and bulbous. I was sure the majority of them must be wearing thongs as there were no panty lines evident. Thongs still aren’t on my radar, my ass is too sensitive for foreign invaders.

I noticed surprisingly, that these young girls have evidence of cellulite at the back of their thighs, which led me in a new direction of thinking. I recall a friend who is Seinfeld like in his pickiness about the women he dates. No prize himself, he has rigid standards for the women he has on his arm, including a no cellulite rule. As I watch these young athletic girls with their traces of cellulite I start to wonder how many such women exist and why the hell he would judge the entirety of a woman based on the back of her thighs? Hot young women have cellulite! Eva Longoria has it (I saw it in one of those bad celebrity bathing suit pictures in a tabloid once). What about cellulite does he find so offensive?

Victoria secret models don’t have cellulite, but I think that has something to do with their bodies strange habit of distributing all 1 ½ percent of their body fat to their boobs, leaving none for their behind. That and air brushing. (God, if I only had my own airbrush!!) There are only about 12 Victoria Secret models, so their body type can’t be the norm. The normal woman has some body fat and it distributes itself differently in everyone. Cellulite occurs around the hips, butt and thighs, and often the heavier we are, relative to our own body types, the more prominent it seems. It isn’t a disease or disfigurement, although societally we see it as one.

According to a Mayo Clinic Article, it occurs when fat that lies between your skin and underlying muscle is pressured unevenly by taught fibrous cords that connect the skin to the muscle. Depending on the network of fibers and the amount and distribution of your body fat, cellulite will vary in appearance and severity. The only surefire way to reduce it is to lose weight. Creams and massagers don’t work because they can’t redistribute these fat cells or break the fibers linking the skin and muscle.

I have cellulite, and notice that the heavier I get the further down the back of my thigh it moves. The skinnier I get the less I have. Once during a post first-love break up, I became so depressed and anorexic I lost a huge amount of weight. This was the only time in my life I had no cellulite, including my buttock. At an average healthy weight, I have a modest amount of it. Most women I see do (seem to notice it pool side in the summer). Who will be left for my poor friend to date? Victoria secret models are few and far between, not to mention out of his league!

I have a theory about my friend that applies to all other middle aged single, never married men I know. Tragically, these men as mere teenagers were unfortunate enough to date a fledgling underwear model. Each of them became ruined for anyone less than perfection and any subsequent woman could never possibly measure up. They had their hottest women first. I see these young teenage boys today, all gungy and pimply, walking arm and arm with the most beautiful nubile girl, and know instantly that he will be ruined forever, burdened with unrealistic expectations.

I only feel bad about my cellulite because society tells me I should. I am unwilling to starve myself so as to protect others from the offense of my cottage cheese thighs at the pool. When wearing swimwear, I ought to put a sign back there for anyone who is looking, blaming those nasty connective fibers, and explaining there is very little I can do about it. I could also just continue to wear progressively longer and longer bathing suit bottoms as I get older and fatter and my dimples sweep down my legs. Those tankini-maxi dresses aren’t so bad!

On this day of exciting volleyball, I am warmed by the notion that even these sweet young things are haunted by cellulite. I feel comforted that this just isn’t something middle aged women get…it is normal. I expect my friend will one day have to turn a blind eye to all of the little faults in women he finds unacceptable, lest he remain alone forever.

Come in Radio China!!



Bike Boobs
photo by Bilbord99

 W hen the machine that has been crushing my breast finally releases, I am slow to look down, certain my breast will stay that shape permanently. This is only my second screening mammogram and the whole process is still foreign. Just like the annual “girly check up” this procedure remains modestly embarrassing and uncomfortable, no matter how many you have had. It isn’t painful, at least for me, I have heard some women say it hurts a lot. There is just something odd about a total stranger getting that friendly with my boobs. I admit that as I get older, my level of discomfort has decreased, but hasn’t completely disappeared.

My favorite thing about the procedure is all the free breast cancer awareness marketing items-pens and notepads, nail files, mints, brochures, pins etc. While in the waiting room I stuffed my purse with pens for my friends…they are pink after all! You certainly must admire the marketing done for breast cancer awareness! Pink ribbons are everywhere! The worst part of the appointment is looking at my hospital wrist band that states my age…in writing. I am still convinced they are mistaking me for someone else. After 39 I stopped counting, and when asked how old I am I have to pause…and am often not precisely sure if I have given them my right age.

I was told not to wear deodorant… I am a little worried I might start smelling, but so far so good. Must be the aluminum in it or something that can cause the machine to explode…or just make it hard to get a good image. I am still searching for an effective alternative to aluminum containing deodorant. Something about the link between aluminum and alzheimer’s makes me nervous, but not nervous enough to have B.O.

After I swab any residual deodorant from by pits and place on the shawl like gown, I enter the exam room, with a surprising level of comfort with this complete stranger handling and mashing my breasts. The machine is a free standing contraption, situated in a patient friendly, “homey” room (part of the new hospital attempt to not look like a hospital. Don’t tell the decorator, but even their pink wallpaper and plastic flowers can’t hide the conspicuous looking hospitally machine sitting there, waiting to smoosh my breasts. As the technician begins to position me and my chest against the two plate like pads, I focus on getting the position just right…almost like a personal challenge to demonstrate my tremendous body control and ability to follow instructions. I am concerned by how difficult it seems to briefly hold my breath while the image is taken…it isn’t that long but somehow I just can’t wait to breathe. As she shoots each of the four images, I work on improved breath holding techniques, and by the end it seems much easier.

When she is done with the image taking, a strange part of the appointment follows as she puts the images up on the screen and quickly flashes through them. Her demeanor and presentation are so similar to my first experience that I am convinced these technicians are trained to say the same thing. I look closely at the pictures believing that if there is anything nefarious, I will certainly see it. I also look at her face closely to see if there is any indication of something wrong. The first time I had the exam I was convinced I had seen something, and I awaited the bad news over the next week. Happily it was negative and my inferior skills as a radiologist were verified. I am a little more relaxed this time, knowing that these technicians make no attempt at all to read the images, but merely confirm the images are good enough quality. She obviously works very hard to not give any information at all.

I return to the change room and quickly spray on some of the thoughtfully provided spray deodorant. I also continue to pilfer the free pink goodies and fill my purse to bursting. I briefly scan a brochure that illustrates the size of a tumor that self breast examination can miss compared to what a mammogram can pick up, and it surprises me. Tumors the size of dimes or even quarters can be missed with self exam. It is currently recommended that a woman have an annual mammogram starting at the age of 40 even if she doesn’t have a family history (family history has to start with someone after all). The brochure states that your risk factors for getting breast cancer include getting older and being a woman. Check and check. If there is a history of breast cancer in your family, you can opt for earlier screening as well.

There was a recent commotion in the medical community about reducing the frequency of exams as well as delaying the age at which they start. There conclusions were loosely based on a couple of studies. I was so miffed I read the studies and critiqued the recommendation and sent it into the dissenting organization. The Komen foundation fought that recommendation ferociously. Statistically breast screening with mammography saves a substantial amount of lives. It behooves all women to connect with Komen to protect these valuable screening tools and prevent insurers from no longer paying for them. Most insurers include annual mammograms as routine care and pay 100% for the examination.

I should hear back from the doctor within seven days if they find something or get an all clear letter in ten if the screen is negative. I am happy this is just a routine screening, and I can make light of it. When the technician checks you in she asks if this is a routine appointment. I can only imagine how different this experience would have been had the answer been no.

UPDATE:

Ironically after posting this post, I received a call from my doctor!  And yes, it is within the first 7 days.  Seems they found a density, and I am off for some additional screening.  "Probably normal tissue" they say...but we will see.


ww5.komen.org

Crush



Photo by kroszk@.



When I was in high school I had the biggest crush on this guy in my class. Lee. The Lee-Crush lasted  5  painful  years. The amount of time I spent trying to be near him, by today’s standards, would have been enough to get me arrested as a stalker. In class, I stared at him so relentlessly, it truly is a wonder I ever graduated! To be fair, he led me on with cryptic love messages in my annual year book. Once off to college we finally got together and immediately, for me, the crush ended. Poor sod could never match up to the fellow I had been fantasizing about for so long.

After a decade of marriage, my role as a woman is changing. My days are filled with work, raising kids and intermittent connection with my husband. It seems that each decade of a woman’s life is occupied with a different focus, and I feel I am always a few years behind in changing mine. For example, in my 20’s it was party, party! Try and be cute and date a bunch of guys and just have fun. Sure there was college mixed in, but it was a side note to the explosion of self awareness and relationship experimentation.

As the 20’s progressed, relationships became more serious and I pickier about who I would make out with on the dance floor. In hind sight and in a strictly biological sense, it was during this time that I began actively searching for a mate. This was a period of vibrant and exciting activity. Drama and emotional roller coasters of failed relationships were staples of this time. Once I found “The One”, I settled into my 30’s, to the experience of marriage and the trial by fire of having kids. My identity slowly melted away as I got absorbed in helping them establish theirs. My husband and I grew into our routine and now in the 40’s (good lord!) I am settled into this matriarchal role. As the momentum of this period slows, and I resume possession of my identity, I start to miss what has been left behind.

Gone are the days of making myself up and the anticipation of who I would meet or what adventures lay ahead. If I go to a dance bar now, I will be called a “Cougar”. I used to love dancing…I could do it all night. It just isn’t in my repertoire anymore. Some would say that is appropriate and moving on from that stage in natural. Is it wrong then, that I miss it? There was a period in my married life that I didn’t notice other men any longer. I used to tell girlfriends that I never “crushed” on anyone anymore and couldn’t think of any particular man outside my husband who I thought was attractive. I was crush-less.

According to Robi Ludwig, psychotherapist, the “mom crush” may actually be a positive and healthy thing. She writes, “Secret crushes can make a woman feel like a woman again. It’s hard to feel like your sexy self when you’re constantly cleaning up dirty laundry, dirty diapers, helping the kids with homework or cooking all the time. Sometimes being a mom and wife, although terrific in countless ways, can get a woman feeling more like a servant than a supermodel.” She states that when a woman crushes on someone it has less to do with the man than the feeling it gives her to fantasize about the days left behind and what it felt like to be attractive.

I was happy to read this, as I have found myself crushing again! I am noticing other men and taking a second look. It is like I am waking up again to this aspect of my life that for the last ten years has been buried under obligation. I have several friends who openly talk about their crushes. Their awareness of the frivolous role they play is admirable, and they accept them with delight, appreciating the little spark of life they add to their everyday routines. We giggle like school girls when we talk about them and find them occupying a small space in our minds, reminiscent of the drama we lived in decades past. There is a little thrill when we see them and our imaginations might wander. Sometimes I feel a little guilty about them, but according to Ludwig, “having a secret mommy crush doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, about to have an affair, in a bad marriage and/or that you married the wrong guy.” Whew! As with my Lee-crush, crushing seldom has anything to do with the object of the fantasy but rather the feelings associated with it.

In truth, my imaginary comparisons allow me to appreciate aspects of my relationship with my husband and remind me of the qualities he possesses that set him apart from the rest so long ago. Of the crushes I have had, most just wear out and fail to arouse interest any longer, but more often, I learn things about the crush object that are major turn offs, and I again realize most of who I thought this person was, existed solely in my head. The benefit of an active crush is the rekindled motivation to keep my edge, meaning staying in shape or dress up and make time to blow dry my hair now and then. Maybe waking back up to this lost self has been the motivation for this whole girly-girl exploration. Regardless of what it is, I have to admit, it feels good to think about these things again. I don’t have to leave those parts of my life behind me just because I am 40 and married…day dreams are innocent enough.

The next couple of decades will mark the end of my role as an attention attracting female. As one client commiserated years ago, she used to be the cute one, the head turner. Now when she enters a room, her daughter turns heads and she feels invisible. She has lost a huge part of her identity. I have always resented the double standard that older men are attractive, while older women are not. My hope is that it will sit okay with me…wrinkles and the whole invisibility thing. In the meantime, I am going to keep on crushing, and enjoy at least the thrill of possibilities and some fantasy fodder before my role as a woman changes again for good.

Five Ways to Get More Head: From the Mouths of Women

Photo by Josh Semans (really!)

Married men everywhere wonder what happened to the sexual goddess they remember from their courting days. She who would dazzle with all of the Kama Sutra positions in a single marathon session or blow their brains out on a regular basis, is mysteriously absent from the bedroom. There are jokes aplenty about the appalling lack of sex once marriage vows are exchanged. (The joyous look on a bride’s face is actually the moment she realizes never has to give another blow job!) Buddies are bewildered when their friends announce their impending marriage, They ask, “Don’t you like sex?”

During the early courtship phase our bodies are inundated with a potent cocktail of hormones that creates the addictive rush of early passion. Empowered by this intoxicating blend, each partner becomes “their most expansive selves”, according to psychotherapist, Maria Tafuri. “Couples are on their best behavior, including their best sexual behavior”. A man is more apt to be romantic and talk about his feelings whereas a woman will put forth her best sexual effort in hopes of securing her mate. It becomes a bedroom talent contest with each partner open to trying anything and everything as long as it will advance them towards their goal of being the chosen one.

As the relationship matures, this love cocktail begins to fade, lasting on average only 18 months. After this period of time both partners return to their true selves often an unrecognizable version of the early couple. Reality seeps into the relationship. The turbo boost of lustful chemicals may be gone forever but it doesn’t mean that couples can’t enjoy passionate, adventurous sex or that a man will never get another blow job. There are ways for couples to stay sexually connected and ways for men to roll out the welcome mat for more sex, specifically, oral sex. It should be noted that not every woman is interested in providing fellatio and that position should be respected.

A willing group of women were invited to the BJ Panel, the purpose of which was to explore reasons why women avoid giving head. From all walks of life, sexual orientation and professional background, these women (with a few bottles of wine, aptly named “Swallow” and “Purple Cowboy”) giddily discussed the issue of blow jobs. As much as men like getting blow jobs, women like talking about them! Husbands, learning what their wives were up to, eagerly volunteered to watch the kids and encouraged their participation, in hopes that their wives’ desire to spend more time below the belt, would be reawakened. From this evening of wine and dirty talk a list of the top 5 things a man can do to entice his partner to head south was created.


1. Hot For Teacher!

Unless your wife is a paid professional, she comes to the proverbial “blow job table” with very little experience or skill. The BJ Panel agreed that porn was an inadequate and unreal teaching medium (that applies to learning what women like too). Most women had rarely talked about felating skills with anyone before, including their sexual partners. “When I first heard the term, I thought it literally meant to blow on the penis,” one member stated. Most women in the panel report learning their skills on the fly (no pun intended) and hoping for some reaction from their partners to guide them. Teaching her what does or does not feel good is the surest way to get what you want. Otherwise your partners are guessing and feeling insecure about their performance.

Many women will gain a sense of power by being able to drive their men wild. One panel member used to love giving her partner blow jobs because she was told she was amazing at it. Her husband began to critique her which destroyed her confidence. Once this happened she lost her mojo and he stopped getting blow jobs. When you offer feedback, deliver it carefully and with consideration of the incredible sexual gift she is giving you!

Most men like their happy endings to include the full swallow. Women of the panel were mixed on this topic. This is a very personal preference for most women and likely one that cannot be changed. Forcing, coercing or tricking her into swallowing will not be well received and likely break trust.

2. Clean! Baby! Clean!

Some in the BJ Panel thought this helpful hint could have taken up all 5 spots. Mamma always told us “Don’t put that in your mouth, you don’t know where it’s been!” Most women felt they would be more likely to give a blow job right after a thorough shower (front door and back door please!), while others felt doing it in the shower more appealing. Manscaping or pubic hair management was not something necessary for the panel unless there was a preference for ball action.


3. Wash the Dishes

“Men have sex to relax, while women need to relax to have sex”, one member of the group shared from a professional presentation she had given. Something as simple as doing the dishes now and then would make several women on the panel more inclined to proffer head. 

“When a women’s mind is fettered with a list of things she has to do and when she feels unsupported in those things, her mind cannot relax enough to get into the mood”, the panelists shared. One woman told the story of a friend whose husband had done a very simple but
incredibly thoughtful thing for her. Her friend’s reaction was that her husband was “…definitely getting a blow job tonight!” 

Men need to realize that creating the mood is more than shoving their penises in their partner’s faces or tapping her on the shoulder. Begin way before the act. If she gets the suspicion that actions are done solely because a blow job is desired, it won’t work. It has to be sincere. Talking, touching, and connecting with her emotionally, will score huge “deserves a blow job” points.

4. Keep Your Hands Off My Head!

The “Head Tug-O-War” became a comical episode on the hit series Sex in the City. Every woman in the panel had had one or more experiences with her partner grabbing her head and directing her towards his nether region. This often resulted in a power struggle with her pushing back!

Pushing your lovers head towards your groin or pulling her head towards you for deeper oral penetration are moves that will often guarantee that this will be your last blow job. Most women report this is a huge turn off. There is a balance of control in relationships and these maneuvers can make a woman feel that they are being used. Each partner
needs to determine when they are ready to head downtown or how deeply they can comfortably take it into their mouths without gagging. Letting the “blower” direct the show is the best call in this situation.

5. Give and Ye Shall Receive

Like Charlotte in Sex in the City, many women will give head because they know it will entice their partners to reciprocate. Men who ask for this service but are unwilling to perform it on their partners are sending a message that something about their partner’s body is unattractive. If a woman is insecure about her body, she will feel less sexy and be less apt to be adventurous in the sack. When a man shows a woman he loves going down on her, you can bet she will start to love going down on him.