Archives for posts with tag: turning 40

Photo courtesy of web

I’ve been absent. Again. And feeling horribly guilty about it.

But I have an excuse.

I caught a bad cold, that had me laid up in bed, gasping in a consumptive haze for hubby to come home early to relieve me of my diapering duties.

Then, I turned 40. You’ll be surprised to hear that, in the vaunted words of Ronald McDonald, I’m lovin’ it. Give me a burger and fries with my newfound “Don’t f with me, I’m 40” status.

And finally, I’ve been organizing details for our move in August and preparing for a giant stoop sale this weekend.

So I’m announcing my blogging comeback with another culturally inspired, sophisticated post.

The subject today?


Sitting comfortably? Right, let’s begin.

First, a rant. What is the deal with these young boys wearing their trousers below their arse? I know I sound like an old biddy and I shall swing my chewed up handbag at anyone who declares otherwise. But the other day I was walking behind two such bepantzled young men, and aside from the fact that I wonder how these young ‘uns can keep their trousers up and walk at the same time – I find it a revolting and fascinating site to behold.

Am I an just aging old fogey?

Or am I subconsciously on the lookout for customers to buy my newest invention?

You see, right before I got that cold and then turned 40 and then unfortunately threw up the entire contents of my birthday dinner the next morning, ushering in a new era of reformed responsibility, I went for a run. Two runs, actually, in the peaceful, tree-lined park several blocks down from our home.

I was feeling good about myself, as I gently jogged past the playground, casually bumping into my upstairs neighbor.

“Beautiful evening for it,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, as if I’d been doing this for years.

In truth, this was the first time I’d attempted to exercise in over a year, since before little B was born. And while I was surprised at being able to do an entire loop of the park (it’s small) without pulling a Wicked Witch of the West and dissolving into a puddle of steaming sweat, I soon realized that my body was in need of something a little special. Something not on the market, to my knowledge. Something that could potentially be my next career venture. And something that perhaps these young boys with their bottoms hanging out of their trousers could do with.

An arse bra.

You see, before my run, I had no idea that my little buns were in need of support.

[Apologies to hubby, who to my surprised delight, expressed mild concern about the content of this post.  He would like me to keep an aura of mystery about my womanly bits. Hubby: I’m sorry, but you have no say in the matter.]

My little unexercised booty took on a life of its own during that run, causing me mild consternation and slowing down my run time by about a minute. Of course, I thought to myself! The jogging bra was invented to help women for a reason. And now, the arse bra shall not only provide another essential service to exercising women, but perhaps start a whole new trend among the strange, bepantzled young men roaming our streets.

So bottoms up…er….cheers…to new inventions, turning 40 and a more pert future.


Fierce, but friendly.

A couple of weeks ago, during my unforseen blogging hiatus, I spent the weekend with three dear, old friends from college.

We are all turning 40 this year, and if you’re sick of me bringing up the fact that I’m turning 40 this year, I’m sorry. I keep bringing it up because I have a habit of living in denial. It’s my way of coming to terms with the fact that really and truly, once and for all, now and forever, I am no longer 25. Or even 30. It’s not like the lines around my eyes aren’t telling me the same thing.

Oh, hell, I might as well embrace it. Aging. Turning 40. There has to be a 40 year old me in there somewhere.

So my friends decided to get together during this momentous year of our lives, and gathered at my friend’s family lake house in Joisey. One flew in from Los Angeles. Another drove up from Virginia. We all have children. We all like to drink. We’re all free spirits beneath the mountain of responsibility we bear. And we all still like to ogle the bodies of firm, young boys under 30.

Well, at least I do.

So we dubbed the weekend “Cougarfest.” And indeed, we did have one opportunity to flex our Cougar claws, as on Sunday, a nice young boy of about 22 came by to look at the lawn as it needed mowing. But seize the moment, we did not.  Instead of running our stubby fingernails up and down his hairless chest, we giggled coyly into our wine glasses like teens at a drive in ignoring the boys in the adjacent convertible.

Cougar failure.

And it got me thinking – why Cougar? I mean, the word “cougar” – a predatory cat –  implies that us women are basically initiating any encounter with a younger man, which may not always be true, ladies.

I just want a little respect.

And then, when hubby started referring to the weekend as MILF weekend, that got me thinking that the other name for older women who are mommies, paints us as passive recipients of some Godawful unrequited adolescent fantasy – “Mothers I’d like to…” – conjuring visions of a perverted, acne-scarred teenage boy ogling some poor woman out of his window with a periscope as she bends over to pick up a piece of lego she’s just stepped on on her way to retrieve a burnt chicken from the oven.

And then I thought – gee whiz folks – there has got to be a better, classier term for women like us – mothers, nearing early middle age, who still have some sex drive (goddammit) and are vaguely attractive.

How ’bout SUDs (Sexy Unavailable Dames)? Too soapy? Or SOBs (Smart, older and beautiful)? I know, that doesn’t work either, for obvious reasons.

Really, I’m stumped.

Any ideas?

I’ve got the Monday bluuuueeees.

I’m in a serious post-whoop-it-up funk after a glorious Saturday night celebrating my closest friend M’s 40 birthday.

Bonus track: My dear hubby has graciously allowed me to stay in bed all day (after all, he left me alone yesterday afternoon with the kids – raging hangover in full force – while he jetted into the West Village to watch the football game with friends, during which my patience level with the 2 kids plummeted, people. I well and truly lost my soggy noodle when the boychild nonchalantly decided to unravel an entire roll of toilet paper while looking me straight in the eye.)

I know this much is true #1: I have a very dear hubby who is willing to cut me a lot of slack. I am getting better (I hope) at doing the same for him (are you reading this, dear hubby??)

Additional bonus track: Reuniting with M and her lovely hubby, who live in Virginia and drove many miles for her celebratory fest. M and I went to college together and though I missed our first ever on campus girlie coffee-date (I overslept and woke up at 2pm, a concept which is now as foreign to me as having sex with an armadillo…oh hell, having sex at all….) we soon became fast friends.

Through our 20 + year friendship, we’ve coached each other through break-ups, job angst, existential yearnings, self-loathing, self-love and just about every other topic two close women friends prone to deep questioning and with high expectations from life could cover. Today, we both find ourselves stuck in mommy land – she is home with her two boys age 4 and 2. She is a true lifeline and I adore her more than I have words for.

To leave poop and diapers and demands and our precious little beans in another compartment of our brains for the night was much needed, as was the glam Manhattan bar and restaurant hopping we indulged in. Joined by other dear friends, we started off in the meatpacking district (or as hubby dubs it, the “backpacking district”) supping on frothy cocktails in the rooftop bar at the swanky Standard Hotel, followed by dinner at Fatty Crab and dessert at Perry Street.

Fatty Crab, for those of you haven’t had the pleasure yet, is a fantastically delicious Malaysian/Pan-Asian joint – with a laid back vibe and absolutely scrumptious drinkies. We spent the better part of 2 hours there, gorging ourselves. The only downside:

I know this much is true #2: Getting drunk on a full stomach does not work.

Bring me another, bartendah!

Countless tequilas later (we must get drunk, dammit!) we met up with more friends at Winnies, a karaoke bar in Chinatown. The crowning moment of the night? M and my’s rendition of Spandau Ballet’s True. I’m a closet exhibitionist, and so after pouring our heart and soul into the song, I was most disappointed to realize that a. no-one was clapping or cheering and b. one of our friends had fallen asleep at the bar. He’s prone to narcolepsy, but still….

I know this much is true #3: I am never going to make it to American Idol. Even though I routinely wonder whether they will ever have a 39 year old contestant on the show and fantasize about blowing J Lo’s mind with my rendition of Private Dancer.

Watch the real deal here, and enjoy a bit of goodness from the 80’s: