So one day I couldn’t help it and asked my then teenage son if he thought I could be considered a MILF? Did I want to be one….NO…but let’s face it…anyone who remembers the movie The Graduate and who suddenly finds herself of a ‘certain age’ can’t help but wonder if she could possibly be a Mrs. Robinson. I’ll spare you (actually me) the embarrassment of my son’s reply. To add further insult to injury he couldn’t wait to tell his older sister about my inquiry. OK…I get it you two…I wasn’t wanting to actually be a MILF because quite honestly that’s disgusting…but could you possibly have played along with my ego for just a moment? NO! AND that is the moment I witnessed for the first time ROFL. REALLY??? Talk about over kill!

But then it happened. So….I was out for one of my regularly scheduled ‘girl’s night out’ otherwise referred to by my children as Girl’s Gone Mild. A group of women of ‘a certain age’ who join up weekly to play trivia because lord knows…we can’t remember what we had for breakfast, but we cheer with great excitement when we can recall the name and artist of a one hit wonder from the 80’s. Contrary to popular belief…we may have wreaked havoc on the ozone layer one spray of Aqua Net at a time, but amazingly we retain completely useless knowledge that pays off in bar bucks.

For whatever reason said son, as referenced above, showed up one night at my gathering spot to surprise me with a bouquet of flowers. (TALK ABOUT A ONE HIT WONDER as he’s NEVER done that again) and along with him he brought a very handsome and yes, equally young school mate of his. Upon greeting all of us, my son proceeded to introduce his friend to the table of women at which time one of my oldest and dearest friends jumped up and proceeded to introduce herself to him as Mrs. Robinson. (A joke that went completely over his head).

Fast forward to the following morning…I awoke feeling more than old for having stayed out way too late and having consumed one too many adult beverages. Trying to ease myself in to the morning and on my second cup of coffee; my son appeared. There’s a standard rule of thumb in my house…Momma likes quiet with her morning coffee and so conversation and eye contact are to remain to a minimum until the caffeine has taken effect, but said son was oblivious to the rules and my grumpy attitude and proceeded to spout off with great enthusiasm for a story he HAD to share.

Apparently, on the way out of the pub he and his good friend nearly came to blows over a comment that was misheard and misunderstood due to the volume of music playing. The equally young and handsome friend of whom I will refer to as “TJ” was reportedly heard as saying, “Dude, I’d bag your Mom.” My son of course took great offense to such a statement and reminded TJ that he was talking about HIS MOM. OK; truth is known, at this time in my son’s story telling I was suddenly sitting much more erect and feeling ever so sexy in my 12 year old bathrobe. I might have even tossed my hair back in one of those Hollywood glam type ways while celebrating in the fact that that’s right…I’m a MILF!

Well like the old car commercials that bragged on a certain model being able to go from 0 to 60….my moment of milfness went from 0 to 3 minutes. Apparently TJ worked at the grocery store that I frequent the most and was excited to share with my son that he had bagged my groceries numerous times, but never knew I was his mother. So much for “cu, cu, ca choo Mrs. Robinson.”

So there you have it…my sad and sordid tale of being a MILF. Don’t get me wrong…I still secretly yearn to be a MILF. Menopause I’d Like to FAN. I’m still hoping….

Share this:

I started small…a couple of tomato plants just outside of the patio. I took such pride in my crop and tended to it daily. Having enjoyed a successful harvest that first year, I decided I could expand and dreamt of all kinds of wonderful produce just steps from my patio that we could dine on all summer long. Armed once again with my trusty pick axe and a shovel I said goodbye to my over grown azaleas and made more room for my ‘victory garden’. I was so proud of my babies. I planted tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, green peppers and hot peppers. Can I just tell you that of all that I planted, the basil was my favorite? Every morning when I went out to water my plants I would reach down…rub one of the beautiful basil leaves and then smell the intoxicating aroma on my fingertips. As an Italian I swear it is the Coco Chanel of the garden and I was not against dabbing a bit of it behind each ear. The garden was hugely successful that year and there was so much harvested that it reached the point we couldn’t give it away fast enough. Nearly every dinner was accompanied by a tomato and cucumber salad.

The following year I anxiously awaited the last frost so I could once again play in the dirt and with great enthusiasm I set about my garden plans. I carefully tilled my soil adding the necessary nutrients and was so certain I would once again reap the same bounty. I patiently waited…and waited…and waited. The tomatoes didn’t disappoint…in fact, they were delightful in every way possible. The peppers were abundant, the basil made for the perfect seasoning to my home made tomato sauce, but the cukes…well the cukes were a major disappointment and I was sad. The plants themselves had grown to great heights, but the cucumbers looked like a pathetic mutant science project just begging to be sacrificed. With a heavy heart and feelings of failure I did what any good gardener would do and headed straight to Google for assistance. That’s when I met him…a fabulous character out of Virginia who had a way with veggies that made me swoon. I signed up for his blog, his newsletter and even stalked…I mean followed him on FB. He encouraged questions and so I enthusiastically contacted him as my savior of the cucumber. I begged for his assistance and anxiously awaited his reply. He did respond and offered me his wisdom of which I wasn’t quite ready for. Apparently my cukes were not being ‘fertilized’ properly as in the birds and the bees fertilization as depicted on those grainy old movies shown in the 6th grade. UMMMM…so I have frigid cukes??? I didn’t see that on the tag when I bought them. I swear, I think the man busted the button on his bib overalls in laughter, but when he regained his composer he told me there was a simple solution….all I needed to do was self pollinate. SELF POLLINATE??? Does that involve batteries and a brown paper bag delivery? Why that sweet man didn’t tag and remove me from FB at this point is beyond me, but comes to think of it….I haven’t heard a word from him in months. Hmmmm…..anyway, he patiently guided me through the steps necessary for self pollination. Can I just tell you I have never felt more out of my comfort zone in my life? I was instructed to take a small paint brush and transfer the pollen from the stamen to the piston…or was it the piston to the stamen? DAMN it I should have paid attention in biology 101. Truth be known…he wasn’t quite certain either and told me to just ‘have at it.’ It was one of the most awkward experiences of my life…I’m not kidding you. I was worried the neighbor’s would get a glance and the next thing I would know was that I was a youtube sensation gone viral. On a positive note…the PTA phone calls seemed to lessen and I was not on the hook for 120 cupcakes for teacher appreciation week. SCORE! I couldn’t help but hear the sound track to Marvin Gaye’s hit Let’s Get it On. (In fact…I have that playing in the background right now as I type.) Well…long story short…yeah, right…I’m Italian, there’s no such thing…despite the best efforts I was cuke-less.

Fast forward to this year’s garden, I have survived the nay-sayers who told me I was planting too early in the false security of the early appearance of spring. I have run out back 3 different times covering my tender babies to protect them against the frost and thought I was on the home stretch to garden goodness. BUT WAIT…what’s this??? Where have the leaves on my broccoli plants gone? On closer inspection I spied them…uninvited party crashing caterpillars.
I would have stalked…I mean, inquired my garden guru, but I’m not quite sure he’s forgiven my last bib overall button poppin appearance on his wall so I turned to the masses on FB. I was immediately told that I must remove the little vermits (okay…it’s supposed to be varmints, but I am taking creative license here) by hand. WHAT??? OK, I’ll admit to self pollinating, but you want me to TOUCH these things? Armed with a tweezers and an old plastic tub that at one time served as a proud feta cheese container….I headed out to the garden to do what a girl’s gotta do. I patiently picked each uninvited guest from what was left from the leaves placing them in to the ‘container of death.’ Just when I thought I had gathered them all…I spied ‘her’. An oversized, well fed, big, green ‘Kahuna’ of the bunch. She too must die.

But then it hit me. As I prepared myself for the death of my uninvited feta cheese container guests…I witnessed the ‘momma caterpillar’ making her way towards her babies and I crumbled. She was just trying to do what all of us momma’s do…provide for her babies and it just so happened that my broccoli plants were her means of doing so. I became weepy…I know, big surprise to those of you who have bared witness to all my recent Mother of the Bride rants via FB and I could not do anything to harm them. I reached in to the ground and pulled out all of the broccoli plants knowing that this year anyway our broccoli would come by means of Birds Eye and that was a battle to be fought another day. For now…I took what was left of them and brought them 100’s of feet away from what I hope will still be my successful garden. I then gathered my container of momma and baby caterpillars and gently shook them loose from their container. Tonight they will dine on broccoli! For me, I gathered up my tweezers of which I will dispose of in the garbage because they have gone where no tweezers have gone before…dabbed a bit of basil behind each ear and downloaded Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On to my soundtracks. My hormones might be out of balance but they ain’t dead. Goodnight y’all.

Share this:

THE END

Share this:

Teary: Pop a tear jerker in the DVD player and have at it. Some of my personal favorites are Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail, The Way We Were and God help me…Folger’s holiday coffee commercials. Add a box of tissues, your favorite pint of ice cream and enjoy a Chic Flick. Should someone enter in the middle of your tear fest and ask, “What’s wrong with you,” all you need to do is point to the television screen; fill your mouth with a spoon full of ice cream and no additional explanation will be necessary.

Sappy: Longing for days gone by? That’s okay. Spend some time reliving what was. Browse old photographs while enjoying music from back in the day. Seek out old friends or lovers on one of the social networks. Be however strongly advised that some things are best left to memory like the hair that use to exist on the head of your old high school sweet heart. If however you come across a recent photo of the high school cheer captain a good 30 to 40 pounds heavier than you remember…that’s a bonus!

Weary: Thanks to those recent episodes of insomnia, it’s easy to find yourself feeling out of strength, energy or freshness. Throw some cold water on that face and get thee to the mall pronto! Nothing works quicker than a little retail therapy to get the heart pounding and the energy soaring. Cautionary note here…AVOID the clothing racks…stick to items like lipsticks, perfumes and handbags. This mood is best remedied with one size fits ALL! Lord help the twenty something that approaches and says can I help you find your size? This will automatically send you to Witchy Mood as described below.

Momma said there would be days like this…so accept the fact and know this too shall pass. Take a time out!!! Put a big Do Not Disturb sign on the bathroom door and draw yourself a glorious hot bath complete with luxury bath salts and scented oils. Instruct all family members that the only acceptable reason for disturbing your peaceful sanctuary is the threat of fire and not just any fire…one that they couldn’t put out on their own. Failure to follow the above will almost certainly guarantee an introduction to the following mood swing.

Witchy: This is by far the worst of the mood swings. No one is safe from the wrath of the witchy peri menopausal woman. There is usually no need to provide instructions to anyone in the vicinity of said mad woman as a simple glare should send anyone who meets it high tailing in the opposite direction. This is true of family members, co-workers, neighbors and even loyal and loving pets. My personal advice is to avoid social situations which will include bubbly people as nothing makes a witchy woman witchier than the annoying happiness of another. Happy people have a tendency to want to make those around them happy and will use expressions like, “Oh Come On, Cheer Up”, putting said person at risk for a bitch slap. It is highly advisable that women experiencing the witchy stage also avoid the operation of heavy machinery, sharp objects and the internet. One well meaning email from an unsuspecting friend that ends in ‘send this on to 20 people in the next 10 minutes’ could cause a loss of a friendship as well as a void of your computer warranty and need for a drywall repairman. The safest place to be is at home where it is not only okay, but therapeutic, to be a martyr. Gripe loudly about the fact that the last you checked every member of the household had two good arms and two good legs, but amazingly can’t seem to be able to empty the dishwasher, start a load of laundry, walk the dog, empty the cat litter….( fill in the blank )…you get the picture. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned or a woman with raging hormones.

Bitchy: Contrary to popular belief, bitchy is witchy on sedatives and nowhere near as dangerous. The peri-menopausal woman has a license to bitch! Here we are in the prime of our lives and someone has flipped a switch without our consent. Just as soon as we have accepted and embraced this magical age…the plumbing starts to go haywire. Never before have had we felt so in control of our lives while so out of control of our bodies. Be not afraid and be not alone. We needn’t suffer in silence and help is just a phone call away. The phone conversation usually starts like this…” Got Wine?” That’s about all it takes to generate a rally call to come to the aid of a friend and all the support you could possibly need to see you through this phase. Laughter is indeed the best medicine and no one administers it better than your closest girlfriends who will gladly share in the opportunity to bitch right alongside you while assuring you that you are not crazy, it is just water weight and yes it’s hot in here!
Viva la mood! BTW…got wine? It’s been one of those days.

Share this:

SOOOO….where was I? Oh yes…my story. SO I bank where I shop. Sounds like a great concept on the commercials and lets face it, it would make a whole lot of sense according to them. “Since you are shopping here anyway, why not make it easy on yourself and do your banking too?” BUT…what about the days when all you need to do is BANK? Gas prices being what they are…I try my best to consolidate my trips and so if I have to go to the bank…I might as well find a reason to shop. SO today despite my highly hormonal condition…I headed to the bank/store. I whipped into an up close parking spot only to find that it was marked for “Expectant Mothers”. REALLY???? OK, where were these things when I was a waddling prego all 3 times? As one of my favorite comedians says….the expectant mother parking should be ALL the way at the back of the parking lot cuz in a couple of years their arses are going to be chasing after a defiant two year old and they’ll need the stamina AND the exercise. I reluctantly backed out of my prized spot, but truthfully as an egg carrying female, who’s to say I am NO LONGER qualified as an Expectant Mother???

As a matter of fact…the longer I stewed ( and I had plenty of opportunity to stew while taking my mile long walk from where I HAD to park to the entrance of the store) the more I realized I had every right to that parking space. What mother isn’t EXPECTANT? As a mother we EXPECT our children to clean their rooms. We EXPECT them to do well in school. We EXPECT that they will grow up to be outstanding, productive members of our society. We EXPECT that someday they will MOVE OUT and allow us the thrill of an empty nest and then we will EXPECT them (Insert Mother Guilt Here) to call us every Sunday if that’s not asking to much! Need I go on??? I’m an EXPECTANT mother damn it and thus entitled to the coveted parking spot!!!

Now if you will pardon me I need to go move my bracelet AND pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle I had to purchase due to the rising cost of gas and the need to consolidate my banking and shopping needs. I EXPECT to feel less cranky in a glass or two.

Share this:

Despite what I felt were adequate and acceptable workouts, a friend recently started making me feel guilty about my lack of on- purpose exercise. You mean people really go out of their way to run around in circles and this is suppose to aid in both our physical and mental health?

Reluctantly I decided to secretly give this whole exercise on-purpose thing a try and reached out to another friend who is quite the fitness guru. I told her I was considering taking up jogging and asked her if she had any advice for this newbie. She suggested I invest in the best pair of shoes I could afford and remain well hydrated.

Can I just tell you…I bet I didn’t make it 10 feet in those Louboutins before the olives bounced out of my glass and hit the sidewalk. Maybe I should take up yoga?

Share this:

Welcome to “The Stiletto Monologues,” Put on your Big Girl Shoes and Heel yourself with inspiring stories from women who have walked a mile in their OWN shoes. We offer a light hearted and informative format discussing numerous issues regarding women between the ages of 35 and 65 as well as the shoes they wear.

Share this: