My Cat Has No Hair. How does he smell? Like a bald....

I love a good tale.
Who doesn't?
And I have never bothered to let the facts get in the way of telling a yarn.
Why would you?
The dull and the ignorant may have their stories, but usually they are batshit boring involving the return counter at Marks and Spencer's and a particularly arduous pair of black slacks.
Yawn.......pass me the nail gun, my eyes need new holes in them.....
No, if you are going to regale your audience with a thrilling piece of narrative worthy of an extra slice of cheesecake and a fresh bottle of Pinot Griz, you'd better get your patter in order.
The punters want salacious details and they want names.
They want to hear words that make their insides wriggle and squirm and their outsides go all hard on the soft tissue parts.
They want to hear things that make them secretly repeat every detail over and over in their heads so that they can dine out on that same story to a new audience a week later.
Thank Christ there are no intellectual property rights on gossip.
Yet.
So when it comes to earning my keep at the dinner table, I set my mouth to 'hyper' my brain to ' creative licence' and my moral compass at 'zero'....which is where I manage to keep it most of the time anyway.
I have told this story in person to others, and possibly on stage at one point, although those days are somewhat hazy.
There was a time in my life when I 'Lunched'.
I have lunch now, in fact, almost every day.
But this was when I 'Lunched'.
I was a 'Lady' who 'Lunched'.
Truth be told, I was never terribly good at this job.
Don't get me wrong, I loved and I fancy was rather good at, the 'sex in return for money' part of this arrangement.
I was even good in the kitchen ( and the living room, and the bathroom, and....oh COME ON, you know that joke was in there).
But it was the dreadful hours between sending the kiddies of to school, and waiting for the return of the Great White Hunter that got me into trouble.
Hours and hours of endless " what the fuck am I doing ?" meant I fell into a hole of selfworthlessness.
It was shit.
But every cloud has a silver lining....and mine was the material I gathered for those moments when you are out to dinner with a bunch of the girls and someone mentions that they had a HIDEOUS experience just the other day at Marks and Sparks......
"Did I ever tell you about the first time I met The Bottle Blondes of Stepford Cove ?" I shout " The ones who all had their beavers electrocuted"
That usually gets us back on track.
Here is the story I tell.
I once had lunch with a group of women- obviously I can not actually NAME names, as not all of them are finally divorced and living back in the motherland with their kids and his alimony- but these woman were the real deal.
Actual middle aged, middle class women living the dream of being married and never having to work except inside the bedroom and then, not even, if he found a quiet bit of tart on the side who knew what the deal was and stayed in her place........or if he was secretly gay.....
Anyhoo.
These women were 'lead'- and I use the term loosely- at this time by a striking, rather Amazonial, big titted, high waisted, fake tanned behemoth of A type personality whom we shall name 'Babs', for the sake of an argument.
Babs was everything the others aspired to be.
Not only were her ducks in a row in terms of her retirement plan- her womb having pumped out several genetically correct offspring with the same DNA as her benefactor- but everything about her shrieked success.
Her house was bigger and better than most, her diamonds were larger and crasser than most, she had a husband who didn't actually drool at the dinner table and her thighs - whilst admittedly being vacuumed free of fat at least once every two years- looked great in Jodhpurs, even on non riding days.
She was The Biz, as the bookies say.
I had never laid eyes on her until that lunch, but I had heard The Legends.
So I sat down next to Babs, and personally, I think she was curious to meet The New Girl.
" Your hair looks lovely" I said.
My Mama didn't raise no fool, I know how to crack open a conversation.
"mmm, thanks" she replied" I had it done this morning....I get it done every two weeks....the roots that is.....I have too....on account of my husband, you see....he doesn't know I'm not a natural blonde"
Now, curiously I had met her husband the week before I had met her.
He didn't seem any more intensely stupid than most......
" Oh really?" I asked, not actually giving a fuck and clawing desperately at the neck of a bottle of chardonnay. Why the fuck do they still insist on using corks in France? " do tell...."
" Well, when we met, I was blonde and he said he really liked blondes, and in those days, I used to shave my nads, you know, as was the fashion"
20 seconds, at most, and she was talking to me about her vagina.
" uh huh" ....dear God, this is going to be a long day.
" Then, when waxing became more in vogue I just did that, and I was always careful not to let him go down when the hair was growing back, plus I hid my roots"
45 seconds and cunnilingus was on the table- so to speak.
" But these days it's so much easier, ever since I went and had all my pubic hair lasered off, full Brazilian, clean as a whistle, front and back, no hair anywhere on or in any of the cracks. Yup, when it comes to my punani, I am as bald as a badger"
60 seconds. Max.
From "Hi, I'm Babs" to " My pussy is naked and my husband doesn't know the real me" is less than a minute.
That's got to be SOME kind of a record, surely?
But this was not new territory for these women.
Within minutes I knew exactly whom else at the table had gone the laser route, and who still waxed or shaved, or merely trimmed.
I knew which their husbands preferred and why.
I also knew the upkeep of those same husbands genital hairwear.
When you do nothing but shop and drink -with domestic staff do the other things- the details of private grooming make excellent public conversation.
Numbers and price lists are valuable commodities, and there is a certain hierarchy to be set in place and maintained by the mention of 'THIS' name in a beauty salon or 'THAT' plastic surgeon.
I guess none of it shocked me really, pardon the pun ( hells bells, I've used electricity on my genitals, but only with a trusted companion and always with a safety word).
Perhaps what surprised me was that her partner of 15 years was unaware that his lady love was living a lie.
Would he REALLY have loved her less as a brunette?
She will never know.
And nor will he.
Curious, no?
That same group of women used to take- still take- regular Girly weekends to the mighty Burumgrad Hospital in Thailand for a lube, a tweak and an oil change.
I can not tell you how many post operative breasts and hairline scars I have been subjected to over a plate of fresh scallops and a bottle of crisp dry white.
I do not judge these women.
If I had the cash, I would ditch this whole ' going to the gym' bullshit for a week on my back in Bangkok with a drip and a drainage tube.
Trust me.
Huffing and puffing will take it all away, but NOTHING short of a well trained butcher is going to smooth it out.
So that is my story.
I once met a woman whose life was so tenuously tied to her identity that she removed who she really was lest the people she loved rejected her for being herself.
It's not a very happy story when you put it like that, not really, but it's a true one.
It could have been a story about having too much money, and not enough sense, or vanity, or brainlessness, or blatant attention seeking or any of the things we like to point and laugh at.
It could have been an 'I'm better than you' story, or a 'it serves you right' story, or a 'you get what you pay for' story.
Instead it's a story about a woman with no pubic hair.
A cougar, with a bald pussy.

Bend over, this won't hurt a bit.

Do you have a little guru in you?

Would you like one?

False prophets.

The only thing they are really good at is making real profits from our misery.

Feeling lost?

Give me 50,000 dollars and we will light the path to your happiness.

Where we come from there are literally hundreds of millions of us light seekers.

We can find the light within you, and if you are ready we will show you our own special lights.

We come from Darjeeling....so these will be.......Tea Lights.......

Feeling alone?

Join our organised religion.....we have people everywhere....millions and millions of lonely people feeling alone together.....we hold weekly meetings about being alone....these meetings work because there is singing involved and and stained glass windows and oil paintings.

We'd love to have you join us if you work in the legal profession, because we have a LOT of...ummm......issues.......due to some fairly vague laws about men in dresses, children and sex.

But mostly we like to meet with vulnerable lonely people.

Our organised religions are so good at bringing lonely people together we have held meetings for hundreds of years.

Never once have any of our members quit because they feel fulfilled, so we MUST be doing SOMETHING right........

To join is free, although we do ask for a little donation towards our art restoration costs, but for every dollar you donate to us, you get to say a wish to a magic invisible fairy that listens to all our secrets.

Feeling stressed out?

Come and breath with us.

Most people think breathing can happen anywhere, but that is why most people never fully understand how it works.

To breath, you need to be at one with your oneness....to be at one with your oneness, you need to breath.....but not just everyday in and out breathing.....oneness breathing.....

We want to spread the love of breathing to those less fortunate, so all we ask is that if you discover breathing is beneficial to you, you donate whatever you can to assist with our daily breathing costs.

After all, our superior air is not free......

Feeling smarter than everyone else?

Perhaps you are an alien.

We are.

That's why we are so smart.

We come from an angry planet and we are trying to get home.

Lots of very rich and very pretty people come from our planet.

When they come to Earth they have jobs like Actors and Property Developers because these jobs attract the most stable and trustworthy sectors of the community.

Of course, getting back to our home planets costs a SHITLOAD of money, so if you are really really super smart like us, and want to get home as much as we do, you will give us ALL your cash, pronto......

Feeling threatened by the modern world?

So are we, so we have come up with a simple solution.

We are taking the planet back to the dark ages, one woman at a time.

No more of this 'the earth is round' modern malarkey....no no no....that type of thinking's what got us into this state in the first place.

OUR God is a wrathful God, the good old fashioned kind with plague and pestilence and punishments worthy of the crime.

When OUR God says " cover up your hair you sluttish whore because your ringlets are giving me an erection or I'll beat you with a whip, then cut off your nose and ears and stone you to death" he means it.

No fucking around with OUR God.

No fucking at all, in fact.

A month with us, and the 21st Century will be nothing but a distant memory.

Feeling like you might be headed for a midlife crisis?

Come to our workshop.

We are not really qualified to fuck with your head, but that's never stopped us in the past, so why should we care?

Come, sit in this hotel ballroom with 500 other suckers whilst we ask you to turn off your phones, take off your watches and pour out your heart to strangers.

Tell us EVERYTHING.

Leave NOTHING out.

Then cry.

Cry like you've never cried before.

Feel better?

Great, now hand over your wallet.

Does that seem brutal?

Listen loser, it works for the casino's.

If you want to get better, you need to REALLY want it, and that means you need to prove it by signing up for the next 3 sessions.

Plus to get a 5% discount you need to sign up your family.

After all, they're the ones who fucked you up in the first place, so they owe you.

Feeling nothing?

Perhaps you are dead?

Being dead is cool, because more than half of the religions available on our list feature an after world where you will either find 45 virgins ( obviously no one we know) or a whole bunch of badly dressed people who can sing and understand art, OR you might even find you have come back to the planet as an Elephant, or a really interesting beetle.

Or perhaps you will find yourself beamed home?

Or perhaps you need a therapist?

Or a day in a spa?

Or a reality check......life is sometimes tough and sometimes shitty.

Sometimes you will feel alone, and lost, and misunderstood and vulnerable, but this is not a time to hand over your money to anyone other than a trained professional or a luxury chocolatier.

If your bank account feels too full, you can always trade away your middle class guilt with an anonymous donation to a worthy cause.

Or a frivolous one.

I, personally, have a RIDICULOUSLY large collection of earrings that can only be worn one set at a time.

Does this prevent me from donating money to retail stores?
No.

I give, and give and give to the prophet H&M....and I willingly accept donations to assist me in my cause.

I take cash, cheque or plastic and you can place it in my special 'box with the slot' at anytime.

Self love is what it's all about.

So why not become your own guru and stuff plastic into your own box?

Chances are you will get to Nirvana with a hell of a lot less effort, and you won't even have to go down on your knees......to pray.

I want more of that, and I want it faster and harder.......

Dear 2011,

How are you?

I realise you have only existed for a day or two, but I figured we may as well start our relationship by discussing some basic ground rules so that we both feel comfortable with the direction we will take together over the next 12 months.

No doubt you have spoken to the previous years to get a little background on me, and might I recommend you also do a little research as to how best to handle me.

Please do not be shocked by my forthright way of speaking.

I know there are times when I need to be handled.

Self awareness is not a new state for me, and it was one of your brave predecessors who held up a mirror long enough for me to see the truth.

That was a tough year.

Literally and figuratively.

But like all great friendships, the bonds forged in that difficult time have held strong to this day.

I hope that we too can be such great friends.

2010 and I had a hell of a good time together, and I will forever look back on our shared seconds, minutes, hours, days and months with warmth and a smile.

But this is a new beginning for us both and we both have desires and objectives that we would like to reach before you leave me.

This year I should like to continue a few habits I picked up last year, namely my excellent health and greatly improved fitness which 2010 helped me to work towards.

I am hoping to take up marathon running this year as I am aware that without strongly defined goals I tend to vacillate.

You could help me with this by placing a store in my neighbourhood (that being Asia, so it's a big area) that sells reasonably priced sports bras that offer athletic support for women with actual breasts.

The ones 2010 supplied could not have held a ripe cherry to plywood and at the risk of being graphic, I would prefer to cross the finish line without self blackened eyes.

2011, I am not getting any younger. I do not wish to end my days rolling up my titties and placing then gently into my bra like a well loved pair of socks.

A sports bra made from a fabric stronger than spiderweb would greatly assist in this cause.

Also, as I am making requests, can we keep some of the more stupid people off my path this year ?

Particularly the ones who think they are clever, but they are not.

Granted, these people are EXCELLENT material, and I really really DO look forward to the day when I finally finish all these threatened manuscripts and wait for the lawsuits to start rolling in, but this year can we try and keep it to only one or two per month?

Last year, you will have no doubt heard, there were one or two repeat offenders whose astoundingly bloated self belief caused me more than the odd sleepless night.

True, I am partly responsible for bringing these people into my path myself, but this year, is there a way we can fix a flashing red light above the heads of people who, on first perusal, appear quite reasonable and then, on closer inspection, turn out to be the type of adult you wish had died in childbirth?

I am far from perfect, and my tendency to believe others also know that they are not perfect does me no favours whatsoever.

It turns out that the most obnoxious cunts on the planet are either never told, or never hear, that they are obnoxious cunts.

A large flashing red light and perhaps a 160 decibel alarm placed near or actually ON these people may help make identification easier.

I have a boring request too, can you help me do my paperwork and boring admin shit with a better attitude?

It's just so fucking boring, and I hate it.

True, I am much better than I used to be, thank you 2007, but even though I am better at getting it done on time I find it so boring that it is often difficult to type out invoices or bank cheques because my eyes are rolling so often I can't see.

It seems stupid to stand in bank queues sighing and eye rolling like a drugged up porn star when all I have to do is remember that cash flow is king, but even the threat of possible eviction or being disconnected from the city water supply is not enough to prevent the petulant song and dance routine I insist on carrying out every time I receive bills with the words URGENT written in red.

"What AGAIN", I sigh, rolling my eyes " But I had to get money in and send it out LAST month as well !!!" and then I set off down the street bashing into people Gruffalo style, blinded by my rolling eyes.

This is what I mean when I refer to 'handling' me.

I can get all emo on your arse faster than John Travolta fill a tight hole in a Turkish Steam Room.

The good news I can usually be tempted out of my own sphincter by the promise of some delicious tidbit of gossip about someone more ridiculous than myself......if the stories are true then even better.........but I'm not fussy.......

So 2011, lots of silliness please.

Lots of wacky behaviour, lots of crazy ideas that will never work and some that do.

Send me as many challenges as you think I can handle and then add one.

Other years have taught me I am stronger than I ever believed possible and I am not afraid.

Help me to grow.

Keep my children safe, help them to remember that they are the choices they make.

Help me help them make good choices.

Help me set boundaries, but keep all the gates unlocked so that I can look into the other fields.

I have never been one to envy other peoples greener grass, but I do like to look at the flowers.

All in all, lets work together to end the year with a tally of one more smiley face than sad face, one more fit of giggles than set of tears.

You will find I am fairly self reliant when it comes to achieving my plans and goals, and I take full responsibility for my own happiness, but we have been brought together by a quirk of the Universe and I am delighted to be able to share everything the next 360 plus days will bring.

I have great faith that we will be a great team, and I look forward to working with you,

best regards

Wendy.

I like to watch.

Forgive me Christmas Father, for I have sinned, it has been two months since my last blog entry and I am really....oh what the fuck.....I can't even fake it.
I've been busy.
You know how it gets.
Besides I am not even Catholic so the only beads I own are either bright and sparkly and designed to go around your neck and be worn with matching earrings or purple and rubberized and designed for play in the bedroom, and I'm not sure what sort of purgatory I would be invoking on myself if I started saying sorry poems to the Virgin Mary whilst counting off anal beads on the MTR.
Perhaps none.
I read the papers.
They like the twisted ones in the Catholic church.
But back to me.
The year is coming to a close, and I have started my annual " What have you done today to make you feel proud?" summation of my life to this point.
It's pathetic, and a bit heavy, but it's become the habit of my lifetime, and I'm at peace with it.
Those of you with access to either my haiku blog or my facebook page will have no doubt observed my tendency towards public documentation of my days.
If I can sum it up in 17 syllables and/or a photo, I'm good to go.
I think there are some who misunderstand the motivation behind such observances, believing it to be ego based and therefore ego driven, but this is not correct.
I document because I am forgetful, and the pace at which I live has forced me to accept that if I don't write it down or record it, it will be gone from my mind within days, if not moments.
I would like to lay the blame for this early onset 'out of sight out of mindedness' on the excellent years I spent harming my delicate brain cells with class A drugs, but it has, in fact, always been thus.
I have selective memory.
Often my mind makes arbitrary decisions about what is important and nothing is selected.
Therefore I write stuff down, usually in poetic form because it's shorter and it makes me look creative.
Plus , if I diarised the way others do it would reveal my secret fetish for exploring the lives of others.
Yes, I like to watch.
And do, of course,
But watching is my favourite.
I'm a Leo, we cats are naturally curious.
So this year, rather than list a bunch of things I have achieved and create a public wish list of improvements I should like to make to myself in 2011 ( HOLY FUCKING JESUS) I shall instead put down in writing some of the things I have come to observe and state them here without comment or judgement.
And about this I feel very strongly.
I have opinions, strong ones that I am not shy about, but the older I get the more I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that my opinions are only that.
Opinions.
My thoughts.
They are relevant only to me and MY lifestyle choices.
There are things I would never do, but if you want to do them, go ahead.
I shall continue to watch from a safe distance and be standing by with gauze and Vasoline should the need arise.
This list is about love.

Observation Number one:
No matter how intelligent a woman is, she can and will, make stupid choices about men.
This has something to do with the desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
If the man is handsome and/or arrogant, this is even better.
If he has money that is a bonus, but most woman over a certain age accept that a functioning circulatory system and a cruel streak is just as rewarding as a bottle of Piper Hendrick brought to the table at 4 in the morning.
Younger women do not know this and place a full wallet at the top of the 'must have' list.
They fuss and flutter over his ability to sign credit card receipts whilst holding court in a crowded nightclub with a nose full of blow and permanent hard-on brought about by his own awesomeness.
Older women will love a man if he can make it home by 1am without actually vomiting on himself or her or pissing in his pants.
When that same man dumps her for a younger model, she will cry heartfelt sobs about his inability to appreciate her accepting manner.
She will question herself endlessly and try and rationalise his revolting behaviour by diminishing her own self worth.
She will find excuses and make allowances for treatment that she would never accept from herself.
His 'being male' will be enough for her to cut him so much slack that eventually they will both be killed by the rope.
Then she will snap out of it, and start the process again.

Observation Number two:
No matter how intelligent a man is, he can and will, make stupid choices about women.
This has something to do with a desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
Men love to make goals and achieve them.
Men do not have vagina's or wombs.
These two facts seem cruel when placed side by side.
If I was designing a man I would defiantly give him both placed somewhere handy on his body.
I think that if men had built in vagina's the world would be a much nicer place for a whole bunch of reasons.
Men think flattery is real.
They think that a woman will hang off his every word because she has never heard words before.
Remarkably, the younger and more financially disadvantaged the woman is, the more amazing the words seem to be.
When he has run out of words, he can use his penis to express his feelings.
This is a great convenience indeed because his penis is an excellent judge of character and does an awful lot of the thinking for him that would otherwise require his brain, and that brain is busy thinking up words.
When his penis discovers an older woman it would like to meet it tell the man by taking over his whole brain.
He is then free to think, sound and behave like a dick.
When the young, financially disadvantaged woman his penis fell in love with becomes old, she will repay this prickish behaviour by removing his balls.
He will cry heartfelt sobs about the injustice of a life spent dedicated to warming her cockles with his remarkable blood flow and hard earned dollars.
Then he will snap out of it , and start the process again.

Observation Number three:
No matter how intelligent a gay person is, they can and will make stupid choices about love.
This has something to do with a desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
I love the gays. I have children who have The Gay and I love them.
Being gay means you run the risk of falling in love with someone whose preferred genital position does not include bits that look like there own.
For woman gays- and this is a bit of a guess- I think this poses less of an issue.
The trendiness of lipstick lesbianism is such that most girls below a certain age will happily admit to a bit of drunken girl on girl action if the mood seems right, and most hetero men will pay money to watch same.
If a lesbian comes onto a straight woman in a bar, a straight woman will most likely be flattered, if not slightly aroused, and there's no harm there.
If a gay man comes onto a straight man at a bar..........well, you've no doubt seen the news reports.
As one of my gay sons said in a moment of massive understatement " it's a bit of a risk".
But when it comes to love, and not just lust, the same rules apply to homosexuals as they do heterosexuals.
Broken hearts an non-exclusive.
Whether you are a man or a woman, the man of your dreams can heal you and hurt you with equal force.
Everything written in parts 1 and 2 applies to you too.

Observation Number four- and my final observation about love this year :
People need love, they need kindness and they need someone to hold at night and sometimes in the day, and they need to feel included and to be invited to dinner parties, even when the numbers at the table don't add up.
The lesson that has been re-enforced to me time and time again by my voyeurism this year is that in order to be loved for who we are, we must learn to love ourselves first.
That means we must stand up for ourselves and demand decency, we must place a value on our feelings and not be prepared to sell them for any less than their worth, and we must not use our hearts as bargaining chips.
I have seen people I love be hurt by the selfishness of others, and punish themselves for being human enough to feel the pain.
I have also seen people I love be warmed by the glow of kindness and friendship and watched with joy as they open their arms to the hope that springs eternal.
What a wonder to watch people who matter fall in love and blossom :)
It gives us all something to hold onto on those cold winter nights eating dinner in front of the telly.
Wow, told you this reflection stuff can get heavy.
Meh, if it helps, I also learned this year that eighties fashion looks shit on everyone no matter how thin you are and that I love blue cheese- and I always thought I hated it, so there you go.
I hope this year has been as interesting and as thought provoking for you as it has for me, and that the new year brings us all lots more stuff to watch, wonder at and write about.
And at the risk of projectile vomiting blood exorcist style due to my complete atheism-
may the road rise up to greet you,
may the wind always be at your back,
may the sun shine warm on your face,
and rains fall soft on your fields,
and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
Thank you for being with me in 2010, and Happy New Year,
Wendy.

If I pretend to be stupid, will you pretend to love me?

At my age, 41, I have seen a lot.

A great number of it more than once.

Sometimes that's a good thing. I will never tire of watching sunsets and soft serve ice creams being dipped into chocolate and Han Solo being a rascal in The Empire Strikes Back.

Then there are those other things that are unwelcome repeats.

I have been consciously donating money to children less fortunate than myself since I was 7. Surely 34 years on we have sorted that out? But no.

It's cool being over 40. I feel at ease. I know myself fairly well, I feel I have done stuff and I know stuff. I am a woman of substance, and if you are anywhere near my age, you are too.

But age, my darlings, does not mean jack shit when you insist, as some of my sisters do, in reverting to becoming a bubble headed portable snatch when it comes to men.

Age really is 'just a number' when you dumb yourself down to other women because you don't wish to be perceived as 'a threat'.

Years of experience pale into shadow when you stand there flapping your hands at the most obvious problems because taking a stand and taking control might appear to be too ' dominating' or 'intimidating' or 'masculine' or 'scary' to everyone else.

An idiot once said to me " better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to ask questions confirm it". What a retard. With all due respect to retarded people who would no doubt be insulted to have this man compared to them. That man- lets call him Jim ( although that's not his name but it's close enough) makes retarded people look bad.The concept of 'shutting up and playing dumb' as a lifestyle choice has to be considered one of the all time lows of human evolution.

But it happens.

And it happens all the time.

And I have to say, it happens to women 500,000 times more often than it happens to men.

Last week, I was working in a large middle class area in Hong Kong known for it's clean outdoor lifestyle, it's birth rate, it's drunken middle aged white population, and its key parties. I am certain you can see the links. Those of you from HK can no doubt guess where I am talking about.

Anyhoo. I was waiting for a bus. It was a pleasant night.

Beside me sat two women with babies in push chairs. As they were speaking in English I could not help but overhear.

" That's a lovely necklace"

"Thanks, yes, I don't often wear it this late in the year, It's more my summer jewelry, but it's still so warm I thought I could get away with it"

(Wendy now turns to look at this so called 'Summer Jewelry'. she observes a gold chain and pendant that COULD be considered summery.....she thinks........)

" Oh, yes, I think it's still warm enough to wear Summer Jewelry"

(Wendy now makes mental note to inspect her own jewelry to check she has not been wearing earrings out of season.)

"I saw your Paul the other day, he's got a little grey on his temples"

"Yes, he does, and a small patch on the back of his head, it's quite bizarre"

" I know what you mean, Jasper's got a small amount of grey at the top of his head, and a small amount of grey on the left side of his chest, just under his nipple- it's TOTALLY crazy"

( Wendy starts to feel as if she has entered the twilight zone)

"I told Paul about the grey patch on the back of his head and he said he hadn't noticed, how insane is that?"

" Men are so silly aren't they?"

"by the way, did Lily sew your stroller blanket?"

"Yes, how did you know, did she do yours too?"

"yes, but with mine she was able to sew it so that you can't see the seam, see, the pattern on my fabric repeats, whereas your doesn't"

"Oh yes, you're right, but it's because my fabric has Elephants and Giraffes, so the pattern is less consistent, your one has flowers so it's easier....."

I had to push my fingers into my ears to stop the blood from squirting out.

It was chronic. I know it's only small talk- excellent term btw- but imagine if that was ALL you EVER did.

For these women I suspect it is.

I know, I've been there. I turned to drugs.

Playing dumb is not just for housewives either.

I know of a woman who is soooooooo enamored of a talented but broken man, that she allows him to pretend she doesn't exist publicly whilst bonking her privately. She plays along in spite of her education, talent and beauty.

She could have anyone, but because this man wants to maintain some sort of independent image to the rest of the world she is a carefully guarded secret. Like having Herpes but shagging sans condom.

Of course eventually the truth will out, but perhaps not until she has become a little broken herself. This one is young, so I forgive her. One only hopes that if her plans and dreams all come to nothing, she will be able to forgive herself.

He is my age. She has my permission not to forgive him.

Over the years I talked at some length with hundreds of woman of substance about the proliferation of middle aged men wearing the latest seasons 20 somethings as accessories.

Unfortunately it starts to sound like sour grapes.

Perhaps.

But so fucking what? It isn't always. Sometimes it's the incredulity at the men and the equal incredulity at the women that makes it open for discussion.

As someone who is not prepared to limit myself to small words and lengthy silences to please a male I find it breath taking when I meet woman who will.

For what girls? For a PENIS????

How long can you smash at a glass ceiling with one of those things before giving up and going to lunch?

There is a woman of substance in my circle with a highly technical, senior management style job. Very much the sharp end of the stick.

And yet the minute a man enters the room she forgets how to open an envelope.

He could have his knuckles trawling the floor and breath that would kill a seal, and yet his presence alone means she can no longer perform simple maths.

"Oh I don't know how much the bill is, lets see, there are 3 of us and it's 300 dollars, you work it out Roderick, you have a hairy chest".

This woman is hot. Seriously hot.

And rich, and smart, and funny.

I like boys in bed and I'd do her.

Guys will do her too, but the only ones she seems to want are the ones who see past all her amazing qualities and are looking straight into her pants to see if childbirth has made her kitten parts stretchy.

"Stop looking at my substance, and treat me like I am nothing" She seems to say.

And they do.

Surprise, surprise, surprise.

I started this by saying I have seen things more than once.

I am putting out a call.

My sisters.

Stop this pattern of behaviour now.

You are worthy.

You have value.

You are worth more.

And the world will still like you even if you speak your mind, take a stand and have values and standards you wish to uphold.

It's OK to be smart.

It's OK to be you.

Men are OK with you being you too, at least, the good ones are.

I'm too old to get angry about this issue anymore, and my frustration is now directed at the women who perpetuate the myth rather than the men whom I used to accuse of creating it.

If women continue to treat themselves as objects then how can we accuse men of doing anything other than copying our example?

We have been through the period of the Female eunuch, we have tried emasculating men- to the point where THEY don't know who they are anymore either- now it's time to get back to nature and let the men have the dangly bits and the ability to fight mammoths without the need for a group hug and some counselling and for the woman to get on and do what they do best, which is pretty much everything else.

Ignorance is not bliss. Bliss is Bliss. Ignorance- even pretendy ignorance- is still just ignorance.

Hi, I'm looking for a Penis, and you look like a Dick.

I am about to open up about my sex life.
So if the mental image of me gettin' jiggy wid' it is likely to cause permanent retinal scaring, it's best you change the channel now.
Right, now that my kids are no longer reading this, lets talk.
I love sex. I truly do. Always have, and hopefully always will.
There have been times in my life when the 'on' button has been temporarily 'offed' as the ESLers say, but these were miserable times.
After the breakup of my marriage I took a voluntary vow of celibacy, which was lucky because it coincided with a drop in libido that could at best be described as an Arctic winter and at worst a nuclear decimation of all things physical.
My spiritual self was in desperate need of repair, my physical body was also a wreck having spent an amount of time in purgatory being punished for having the audacity to house my wounded soul.
My heart was barely beating, and there was nothing short of a small car battery and a set of nipple clamps that was going to make my clitoris thump in time to music.....which it did, but we will get to that part later......
Being celibate by choice is incredibly life enhancing, but only for short periods of time and not really if you are a man of the cloth.
What?
You don't read the papers?
Give me a break.
In fact, if I may just talk about something other than myself for a moment, can we all just admit now that asking people to give up all sexual desires and dedicating ones self to an organisation based on guilt and secrecy is NOT what any God- (if in fact there is a God which I personally believe there is not but back to the burning bush issue )- would have had in mind when he designed genitalia.
It's for reproduction, that sex organ in your hand gentlemen, and if God didn't want you to have sex, he'd have left it out of the blueprint.
He's like that.
He's a GOD.
Anyhoo, back to my sex life.
Back then, I was celibate because I was broken and I needed the energy to repair, which I did.
And then, I found a fuck buddy.
Well, actually, I didn't FIND him, I knew him- hence the term buddy, we'd just never had sex before.
Now, this town is small, so there will be no names, but I just want to acknowledge publicly that THAT sex was the best sex I had ever had in my life up to that point, and I know my way around the fleshy bits.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was just pure, unadulterated, no other agenda, hard core fucking.
Perhaps it was the fact that with no fear of judgement attached I could ask for, and receive any old kinky shit I wanted.
Hell, he was getting free sex, what did he care if I needed to be blindfolded and trussed up like a turkey just to get the engine ticking over?
His needs were somewhat secondary, no offense.
I was trying to raise the Titanic, his job was to provide the ropes, not lead the orchestra.
Anyway, it worked. I climbed down from my mountain hideaway and back up into that saddle and onto that horse.
And for that I shall love him always.
That was a while ago, and my buddy and I - having sorted out my shit- are back to being friends without the benefits.
Since that time, things in the bedroom department have veered from the pedestrian to the outlandish depending on a number of factors some of which have been spoken about here before.
Singledom for a White Woman in Hong Kong is a tremendously complicated emotional maze designed by blind architects and built by packs of rabid out of work circus performers lacking opposing thumbs.
If you wade your way to the centre of the minefield you will be met by marauding hoards of tone deaf musicians murdering love ballads whilst standing on mounds of broken hearts and piles of shattered dreams.
Then, if you can make your way over the tinder dry flammable bridges littering your path and out the other side with a sense of humour still attached to your lips, you may just meet someone almost worthy of sharing a taxi and an AIDS Test Appointment with.
If not, it's back into the maze you go for another round of shits and giggles.
However a bonk- as the British say- is not quite as complicated.
Getting laid, if one wishes to get laid, can happen rather more easily and without the need for a ball of string, a compass and an emergency matchbox filled with Mercury.
Now I know as I write this, that there are many ladies- some of whom I know will read my drivel- who will disagree.
Often I hear my sisters in arms complain of the lack of a hard man coming into their neighborhood or coming anywhere near ANY hood for that matter, but I think that this 'Donger Drought' needs some further investigation.
Because girls, it is out there.
You just have to know a) where to look and b) what it is you are ACTUALLY looking for.
Men do not multi task.
We know this.
Evolution has dictated that the male of the species, being generally bigger and slightly simpler, be used to carry out important tasks like hunt and kill.
You will note that these two things are not actually two things, but one thing with two different names.
Therefore, men can do one thing at a time. And they do that one thing with skill and high levels of concentration.
This was once useful because if they fucked up, they would die.
Woman do multi task.
Evolution has dictated that the female of the species handle every other bloody thing on the 'to do' list whilst men are busy concentrating on a task such as taking out the garbage or drinking beer.
And yet woman think- and for this they have only themselves to blame- that if they can get a man to have sex with her, he may be thinking of a way to form a partnership and maybe buy a house together.
Sweetheart. When a man is having sex with you, he is thinking about the sex he is having with you RIGHT THEN AND THERE.
When he has orgasmed, he falls asleep. He is no longer thinking AT ALL.
When he wakes up, he is thinking about either food, his full bladder or his next task.
He is NOT thinking about the 'love you just made', that's your job, along with finding out where the condom went so the maid doesn't find it and wiping the strawberry flavoured fun jelly off the mirror.
I know this is true because- remarkably for a woman so clearly marked by oestrogen overload- when it comes to sex, I am wired like a guy.
Which might also go some way to explaining how it is that no matter what my waist size, my beauty regime or the height of my heels, when it comes to 'Booty' I get what I want, when I want it.
It's mental.
And by this I don't mean "Oh my God Wendy, you are totally mental" I mean the sex you want to have is available to you if you adopt the right frame of mind.
But there is a MASSIVE clue as to what is real in the last statement.
THE SEX YOU WANT TO HAVE.
Many women I know tell themselves, and others, that at their age, the only sex they want is with a 26 year old Swedish back packer named Gustav who is working his way 'round the globe with little more than an beaten up old guitar and a 9 and a half inch prick.
Bullshit.
These are the same ladies- and girls, I love you, I do- who will weep into their skinny lattes when Gustav discovers that for less than the price of a happy meal he can hump a 19 year old named Wincy and stay in her families beach house for free.
Such is the way of things.
He was NEVER thinking about tomorrow, he was thinking about THEN and THERE and when you are not THEN and THERE his mind, and his lovely prick, will wander.
It's not because he's an arsehole, it's because YOU told the universe that all you wanted was mindless sex, when what you REALLY wanted was someone to hold, and there is NOTHING wrong with that, it just wasn't the truth.
Last night I heard the words Cougar Town being used within earshot of my good self.
I am not a cougar.
I do not hunt in so narrow a field.
Some days I do not hunt at all.
I am a busy girl.
I have a MAJOR 'To Do' list with me at all times.
I do have 'needs', but I do also have an alarming number of toys that buzz and whirl and I am excellent at wand work.
If time is short, and the urge arises, I will set my vibrator to 'Stun' and still make my lunch meeting, hair and make-up in place.
If time is less pressing, and there is no 'significant swordsman' filling my inbox , I will survey the landscape and send up the smoke signals.
If I decide I may want more than the fulfilling of my immediate needs, then I shall sit still and wait.
The Ox is slow, but the Earth is patient, little grasshopper.
It's about knowing what you TRULY, TRULY want, and then having the courage to ask for it, and the balls to grab it when you see it.
Sound like hunting?
I guess it is.
That's how guys do it, and if you want to get some-just like the guys always seem to, even the fat, bald, old ugly ones - then you will have to embrace that attitude or forevermore be at one with the power of the AA battery.
Tell yourself the type of sex you want, whisper it to the Sun, and then walk out the door and get it.
Simple as that.
Do not lie to yourself, or to the Wind, because your lie will sit there like a fart in a still room.
Do not shy away from being satisfied.
Why should you?
Have you done something that means you are no longer worthy of succumbing to pleasures of the flesh?
Are you dead?
I think not.
And if you should find yourself yearning only for true and deep love, DO NOT SETTLE for anything less.
You deserve that too, and no one will judge you- least of all me.
Once at a party, I sat next to a woman who was clad head to toe in Red Latex.
I never learned her name.
I was not supposed to.
She was in total submission which was, I was assured, her unbridled desire.
Her 'keeper' informed me that this behaviour was the very thing that had kept their 24 year strong marriage together, such are the exotic tastes out there in the marketplace.
I sat quietly beside her and ignored her as best I could.
Ever the talker, the list of questions I did NOT ask her nearly drove me to distraction.
Having endured the silence for as long as I could manage, and with the arrival of a man pierced through the cock ( a Prince Albert) with a chain linked to his dog collar being led around the room by his huge and hairy boyfriend to distract me, I stood to leave.
Without wishing to break The Rules, I turned away from Little Red Rubber Hood- the name I had given her- and started to leave.
She suddenly gave a shudder and a moan, looked up at me and whispered " Thank you".
We had just had sex and all the while, I had had no idea I was even playing.
Jesus wept.
If only it was that simple for everyone, think of how much money we'd save on booze.
Happy hunting Girls.

With Balls Like These, I Don't Need a Parachute.

"Sometimes the reason we go off the rails is because we are at the end of the line".

Ever heard someone say something so profound that the next 5 minutes are a total blur as your mind struggles to process a truth so significant all else becomes white noise?
That happened to me the other day over a chicken salad and a bowl of suspect pumpkin soup.
I was lunching with a friend whom I have known for a number of years.
This man is noteworthy for a number of reasons, namely his creativity, his intelligence, his accent and his startling blue eyes. Mostly his eyes. And perhaps his accent.......and the colour of his eyes.....anyhoo......I digress........

It got me thinking as one does, about the importance of sexy eyes, as well as the importance of courage.

I am a fan of people of all sexes having Great Big Balls.
I have the words "Fortune Favours the Brave" tattooed on my forearm so that when I'm dead, I will still be bear witness to the concept of being fearless.

Guts, intestinal fortitude, ticker,pluck, grit, call it what you will, being able to close your eyes and step off the ledge with a great big "Fuck You I'm doing this anyway" on your lips is the stuff legends are made of.
Sometimes, outright audacity is a silent kind of quality unrecognised to the untrained eye.

Here I am thinking about people with serious challenges just going about their daily lives.

Blind people cross roads every day. Ever closed your eyes and tried to go about YOUR day?

I wouldn't make it much past the getting dressed stage.

Autistic people sitting in shopping malls having lunch when every cell in their body is screaming ' get the fuck out of here, NOW'.

Quietly, calmly, these people climb insurmountable heaps of 'too bloody hard', without a single person witnessing their heroism.

And sometimes the approach to venturesomeness is so loud it attracts words like 'recklessness' and 'derring-do'.

When it works, when the leap into the abyss means you landing safely into a bed of success and happiness, everyone around you says " Wow, that was amazing , what cliff will you be jumping off next?"

But when it doesn't.....oh, ho ho ho.......as the fat man in the red suit says.

No matter.

Valor and tenacity are placed side by side in the Thesaurus.

If at first you don't succeed, build a better mouse trap and all that.

Well, that's the theory anyway.

Truthfully walking all the way up the hill just to jump off the bastard to land in the pile of shit that forms at the bottom time and time again can be wearing.

But then of course, there's the thrill of the jump.

The definition of courage is not 'winning', or 'being right'. The definition of courage is 'the quality of spirit to face danger without fear'.

That 'spirit' is a hungry little bugger, and it feeds on one thing, and one thing alone.....the rush that comes when you realize you may have seriously fucked up, so you had better stay and kill The Dragon or run away.

Good old fashioned adrenalin.

Such an overwhelmingly sensational drug that chemists and Bolivian farmers have been trying to replicate it for thousands of years.

And yet there is NOTHING on the market, and let me tell you I have researched the market THOROUGHLY, that comes anywhere near it.

So having big kahunas, and being prepared to whip them out and use them when required is the most potent form of sexiness available to man, and it's free and always on tap.

Then why the fuck are we living in a world afraid of its own shadow?

Fear of saying the wrong thing, of failing, of succeeding?

Fear of exposing ourselves as being human, and with faults.

Fear of speaking out our desires, expressing our needs, owning up to our anger, our disappointment, our hurts, our love, our passions.

Bland may be bland, but at least it's safe, and on that you may quote me, but only with lashings ginger beer and sarcasm smeared over the top.

Most of us at some point struggle with just being who we are.

And yet to express that struggle is seen as dangerous by those for whom hiding the truth seems somehow less twisted.

So what does this have to do with Old Blue Eyes?

Not much, except in that one statement he managed to free me from years of guilt about a dark

time in my life.

What a fucking liberation, let me tell you.

I kept completely still for a good 10 minutes after he said it- a record for my fidgety self- and breathed in the air of self forgiveness while my internal organs exploded, a carpet of peony's instantly bloomed inside my brain and my heart resumed a rhythm it had not played since I was a very small child.

You see, I once had to be very brave and hurt people in order to save myself.

I have laid blame squarely on my own shoulders for a long time.

But the truth is, I had just had enough, I was at the end of the line, and I faltered, and I came off the rails.

That's hard for me to say.

I have always believed myself to be strong enough to carry as much burden as was needed.

But lionheartedness -what an amazing word- is not always about standing on the precipice all by yourself preparing to leap into the great unknown.

Sometimes it's about looking around and asking for help.

Intellectually I know this.

And in fact I have done it, but never without the secret shame of believing myself to be weak at that moment.

So now you know.

I am strong only because I am afraid of being weak.

You see the irony in there?

Please tell me you see the irony in there because I'm shit at drawing diagrams on this computer.

After lunch I went home and had a little cry, but they were not sad tears, just wet ones.

Into every life, a little rain must fall, as they say.

This morning a horrible Faux European woman with cartoon sized watermelon breasts, a moustache and the unenviable skill of appearing even more stupid than she actually is, accused me of 'having a lot of gall'....which in her head appears to be considered some kind of insult.

I have never been more delighted in my life.

Perhaps for her gall implies bitterness and rancor,certainly that is one of it's meanings, but I prefer the Yiddish interpretation of the word.

For them, gall is audacity and audacity, as we know, is courage.

"You" she seemed to be saying " have a lot of courage".

Well, tie me to the Old Oak Tree and stick Peacock feathers in my VJJ.

Guilty as charged.

So back up the dung heap of human spinelessness I go, wings, wax and a ball of string in hand to once again leap into the cavernous spaces left open by the fainthearted, a renewed sense of self my torch to light the way.

I may land in the fire........or maybe even in a soothing pool just the right shade of blue.