Cougar UP!

Cougar Up! That's the name of a new line of products created by the girlfriend of an old friend of mine. She told me all about it over dinner and wine a few nights ago. She was driving home one day and saw a bumper sticker with "Cougar Up!" on it and she said, "Damn! Why didn't I think of that first?!!" (I don't know. I honestly don't know.) Then she got closer to the car and realized it actually said, "Cowgirl Up!" So she rushed home to see if anyone else had coined the Cougar Up phrase and decided nobody had. Thus, a new product line was born, for older ladies of, well, sexual means.

I have to admit that I plastered a smile on my face as I listened to her tell this story. And I politely (fakely) said, "Oh Wow!" in all the right places when I was shown "the merchandise." And I graciously accepted the gift of my very own Swarovski crystal-studded Cougar Up! black t-shirt (with a peace sign in the "o" of the cougar, no less). I was told that it retails for SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS!! But my older, yet somewhat perky breasts were not aching to make those crystals sparkle. I drove home with that thing growling at me from the back seat.

I guess I qualify as a cougar. But I don't want to be one. I have this judgment about older women (like me) throwing down really young men. It's just fine, I suppose, as long as nobody gets hurt (And who is usually more vulnerable...hmmm?). But, I still think it's cheesy and tacky and undignified and... desperate.

But I've had my comeuppance. Yes, I have. It happened to me in Vegas, as all things tacky and desperate should. I didn't throw down a youngster, nor have I changed my mind about my own lack of cougar tendencies, but I certainly have softened my judgment about other women indulging in this wild-cat sport.

That t-shirt remained in my car as I drove up to Las Vegas, burning a paw print into the fine Corinthian leather. I figured Vegas would be the perfect place for me to unburden myself of the thing. After all, I was going there for my friend Sandee's 60th birthday. Surely I'd find the perfect demographic for that shirt at her party. Hell, I thought I might even just package it up and give it to Sandee for her birthday, since I (and all her friends, family and Santa Claus) had grown so very tired of that antique she'd been dating for 45 years who refused to ever come to her house to pick her up for a date (she had to meet him everywhere), who never, ever slept in her bed and who was a millionaire cheapskate who left the $2.95 price tag on her birthday presents (If he ever remembered to give her one). If anybody needed some "fresh meat" in her life, it was Sandee. Besides, "cougar bait" boys don't wear yellow polyester double-knit sans-a-belt pants and saddle shoes, nor do they have dandruff on their stubbly, age-spotted cheeks. Gag.

The night of my arrival, Sandee invited one of her girl friends over to her house so that I could meet her. Sandee thought we'd hit it off, and she was right. She's a gorgeous redhead whom I'll name Ginger, after the exotic movie star character from Gilligan's Island. Ginger was loads of fun and we connected immediately. She was smart and witty and full of energy. Then this conversation happened:

Sandee: So, have you seen cougar bait recently?
Lisa: (WTF is cougar bait?)
Ginger: Oh honey, yes I have!
Sandee: What's his name, anyway?
Ginger: I have no idea! Don't even care! At one point I said to him, "Maybe we should have a conversation sometime."
Sandee & Ginger: (gales of laughter)
Me: hehe?

So, I can be a little slow, especially with this whole new vocabulary and all. Cougar. Cougar UP! Cougar bait. My oh my. But I slowly started to get the picture. Especially when Ginger said "He's a fireman!" I got quite a picture, then.

The next night was the 60th birthday party and Ginger came over early to help us get all the food and other stuff set up. She paused on the couch long enough to let us know about her date the previous evening with The Fireman.

Ginger: (I must take poetic license and imagine that she's stretched out on the bed, or perhaps bent over the kitchen counter, in some level of undress, panting in a snaggle-toothed, tongue-lolling, cougary kind of way...)
Fireman: (hesitating) Um, you do take birth control, don't you?
Ginger: (working hard not to laugh) I don't have to take birth control.
Fireman: (confused) You mean you use something else?
Ginger: No honey, I can't get pregnant.
Fireman: Oh. ... Why not? (This is a good indication of how little these young men know about women's bodies)
Ginger: Because, I stopped having my period a long time ago.
Fireman. (still confused) Oh.

Later......................................... (I had to draw it out because, from what I hear, this cougar thing is rarely a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm kind of thing. It's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm-let's-do-it-a-fifth-time kind of thing.)

Fireman: So, how old are you?
Ginger: How old do you think I am?
Fireman: Well, how old do you think I am?
Ginger: 38.
Fireman: Close. 37. So, seriously, how old are you?
Ginger: Old enough to be your mother.
Fireman: Get out!
Ginger: Would you like to come to my 60th birthday party in September?
Fireman: OMG! This is my BIGGEST FANTASY!

Well, now. I won't go any further because you can imagine that by this time, The Fireman's hose was primed again and he was ready to get back to work on one hot and burning red house.

Guess who I gave the Cougar Up! t-shirt to? Ginger. She wore it proudly the next day. There isn't a hint of tackiness, cheesiness or desperation in Ginger. She's just got a healthy lust for men life and she's having lots of fun. She's happy with her "cougar bait." He's delighted with her. There are no strings and no last names. Just some wobbly legs and mussed up (thinning) hair in the wee hours of the morning.

Courage

more photo's of todays chaos #iranelection
Originally uploaded by .faramarz

Women of Iran, you are my sisters. We hold the power of NO.

No to violence. No to killing. No to suppression. No to lies.

Of Soylent Green And Love Blankets

I was pumping gas into my car yesterday when I heard a woman's voice very close to me. I looked around and there was nobody but the dusty wind. Then I looked up and saw the TV screen atop the gas pump, playing an infinite loop of advertising. I felt like I was in the movie Soylent Green, and Big Sister was repeating the litany of what I should believe and what I should buy. Her voice, a little out of sync, echoed simultaneously from the tops of every gas pump.

Many men in Arizona shave their heads. Is this a new trend?

Men have a distinctive uniform here. Casual: Long baggy shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. Dressy: Large Tommy Bahama or Hawaiian shirts worn untucked over slacks... and flip flops.

Women dress in corporate mall wear. While I sneer at that, I'm wearing the jeans I bought at Monoprix in Paris, and the top I bought at Target in Carefree. Oh... and the flip flops I bought at Target as well. Arizona women - feel free to flip me a bird right now.

Rubio's is still my favorite Mexican food chain (or possibly the only food chain I would ever set foot in), with the freshest made-to-order mahi-mahi tacos and chipotle salsa. I went there after the car wash yesterday and the woman behind the counter was so incredibly, genuinely, direct-eye-contact-big-smile friendly, that I became shy and looked down at my wallet as she beamed at me. I lingered after eating, thinking I might ask her where exactly in her heart and mind all of that love comes from. But she was very busy pouring it, like fresh salsa verde, all over the next customer in line.

I had my second experience meeting a virtual blog friend a few days ago, Rich from The Daily Husband and Mister Richard's Bloggerhood. I enjoyed it very, very much. The first time I did this was with The Wishful Writer, who I don't have to talk to or read about, in order to know she's still my friend. Rich and his lovely wife met me at a Starbucks, where he said he had 501 questions for me. We only covered about 42, but that just means I get to see them again so we can cover some more. They graciously invited me back to their home and fed me scrumptious Chinese food and we sat outside in the unseasonably cool air and talked about politics and blogging, and why we both kind of feel like it's been a useful release of pent-up rage for us, but perhaps not something to do long-term. He quit his political blog; I haven't yet. I must have some lingering rage to express...

I love my family, even though we are all so different.

One of my friends from waaaay back in the early '70's drove all the way over to my brother's house to see me. She said, "This was a huge stretch for me. I rarely leave my house." I was honored she would overcome her fears just to see me. Then I told her that I am just as afraid to leave my home as she is. We're all afraid at a certain level. We just express it in different ways. The world would be so much better if we believed more in the power of grace in our lives, than in the false power of darkness and doom.

I would like to invent a magic cloth that I could drape over people's heads and shoulders, snuggle them into it. And the cloth would soften their brittleness, calm their fears and most of all, allow them to forgive themselves. I would buy one for myself, after I watched the people I love begin to love themselves as much as I love them.

I miss Paris like a new lover. It's that bittersweet feeling - a painful tug in my heart followed by an excited thrill when I imagine the next time we meet. With my eyes closed, I conjure up memories so I can believe that she's still in my life.

Sun-Kissed Mouse Pad

I love my friend T. She has the strength and energy of 40 he-men packed into an eentsy beentsy little body. She mows the lawn, slays bees, climbs ladders, reattaches window screens, empties the trash, cleans the house, chases down car thieves (and attends all their trial hearings) and lets me sleep in her smiley-face guest room.

She also washes her mouse pad. Have you ever washed your mouse pad? And set it out in the Arizona sun so that it dries properly? I certainly haven't. This is why I love my friend T.

Smokin' In The Parking Lot

I've been in Arizona since Memorial Day, hanging out with my family and taking care of bidness, both Uhmerkin and Françaises. It's been interesting, so I wanted to write a few observations before they slip out of my brain.....

I have never been a chain restaurant kinda gal. Can't do corporate America. Can't do prefabricated corporate food. But when hangin' with the relations,  I go (mostly) happily wherever I'm taken. These restaurants remind me of a few things...

America is like Disneyland. We fabricate fantasy environments so we can pretend we're in a 50's diner or a Mexican cantina or a thatch-roofed beach-side Bahamas burger joint or a British pub. None of these incarnations come vaguely close to the real thing, either in decor or food. But we get to "escape" the reality of our lives and pretend we're on vacation for a moment or two. The problem is, this escape is a temporary fix, and not a very satisfying one to boot.

We also create fake little "villages" and gated "communities" to create an illusion of neighborhoodiness where none can possibly exist. There's nobody sitting on their front stoop, sipping an ice tea and playing their accordion, waving and saying, "Hi Mabel! How's your granny doing? And Hank? How's his lumbago?" Even though you've been going to the same Walgreens for years, you have no idea who the checkout girl is. (She's your next-door neighbor by the way. You pass each other in your cars every day, but never notice.) There's nobody walking along the fabricated village pathways. There's nobody outside at all. Everyone is hiding in their houses and cars.  Watching really bad TV. All 395 channels of it. I will bet you a million dollars (chump change these days) that they are also saying, "395 channels and not a fucking thing to watch." But they continue to pay an exhorbitant amount for the privelege of that "entertainment."

OK...back to the restaurants...

There's no possibility of a lingering lunch or dinner spent with friends and family talking about life. Everything in American restaurants is built around turning the table as fast as possible. The chairs are purposely uncomfortable, the music makes it impossible to talk, the bussers are constantly asking if you're finished yet so they can take your plate. I keep saying, "No." I half expect them to say, "Well, when will you be done then? You've got to get moving, you know."

The freaking waiter never leaves you alone. I know from experience that this intrusion is restaurant policy ("touching the table"), but it's the single most annoying thing I've experienced. Not only do they ask if "everything is ok" within two minutes of delivering the food, but they ask you that question after the appetizer is delivered, after the wine is delivered, after the main course is delivered and after the dessert is delivered. It's as if I have an overprotective mother who is also a complete stranger, pretending to be my friend for a few moments and then discarding me, and his/her "concern" for me, as soon as I disengage my ass from that rock-hard seat and pay the bill.

The amount of food on a plate is horrifying to me. (America is obese because why?) I went out to breakfast in my tiny little town of Carefree and I ordered eggs and bacon. I got two eggs that were the size of soccar balls. I feel sorry for that damn chicken. I got 5 pieces of bacon that were about 9 inches long. They were thrown on top of a 3-inch-high mound of potatoes that was the thick dividing line between the huge eggs and four 1-inch-thick pieces of raison bread slathered in butter. I ate the eggs and some of the bacon. I never tasted the potatoes and had one bite of toast. The rest? Thrown out. Terrible waste. You can take it home in a container (a big no-no in France, or most of Europe), but those containers sit in everybody's refrigerator for weeks until somebody opens them out of curiosity, gags, and throws them out.

During this same breakfast outing, I just wanted an espresso. That's all. But here's how the conversation went: "I'd like an espresso." "OK, sure! You probably want a Latte." "No... an espresso. You know... an espresso?" The waitress looks at my friend for assistance with me, the weird woman, and says, "You mean a double shot?" My friend just smiled at me, knowing what I was thinking. I said, "If you only serve espresso as double shots, then double shot it is." Incredibly, the conversation continued. "You don't want cream or sugar with that?" She was actually kind of puzzled. I said, "No. Just black." Incredibly (did I say that before?), the conversation continued. "You don't want any flavoring like vanilla or amaretto or..." My smile was now glued to my face. One cannot punish the child for the errors of the parent, I reminded myself. "Nope. No flavors. Just black. Thanks!" I bet she's still telling her side of the story, too.

When she walked away scratching her head, I finally looked down at the menu. I saw that one entire page was dedicated to coffee. One entire page.

All alcoholic drinks come in giant glasses. Giant. Humongous. Herculean. When my flight arrived in Phoenix around 6pm, my brother whisked me off to a really fabulous (non-chain) restaurant owned by his friend, Eddy Matney. Most of my family and a few close friends were there to greet me. It was wonderful. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. My wine glass was almost too big for me to pick up, and it contained a half bottle of wine. I'm not kidding. And I had two! Holy Moly. The next morning, I was hung over beyond redemption.

You'd think I would have learned from the wine experience. But... I went to the office with my bro to go through my mail and do some copying and stuff, and he asked me if I wanted to go have Mexican for lunch. When he ordered a Margarita, I said, "I'll have the same." It was the size of a urinal. With salt. I needed two hands to pick it up. I also needed to go directly home to bed after lunch. Jet lag my ass.

And of course, I'm still smoking. But I have to say, and you'll be surprised at this one, the French smoking laws are much nicer than American smoking laws. In France, you can slip out the front door of the restaurant and light up. You can even stand in the doorway and continue chatting with your friends at their table or the owner behind the bar, as long as you blow the smoke out the door. Or, you can sit at an outside table and light up. That night at Eddy Matney's, the night I arrived, I stepped out on their patio and lit up. This is what I heard: "CAN'T DO THAT HERE!" I looked up from my bic lighter. All the people at the tables were staring at me. This cute little waitress said, "You can't smoke here." "Can I smoke out there on the sidewalk?" "Yes, but you have to be twenty feet from the front door." That would put me in the parking lot. Which is where I went.

Mystical Adventuress

Or, I guess I'm an adventurER, since my name is Allan Quartermain, whoever the heck he is. With the double L's... even. Hmph. (OK, I looked him up and he's very cool. Just like me.)

But I just had some fun playing this little quiz game so I thought you might like it too. Click on the little text link at the bottom of the image to see what kind of an adventurer you are.

Quiz brought to you by
Tripbase - Vacation Ideas

Konnichiwa Spaghetti

On Friday I met a friend at the entrance of Galeries Lafayette so that we could find somewhere to have lunch near the Opera. While I waited for her, I found a little spot amidst the motorcycles parked on the sidewalk, so I could get out of the throngs of people on Boulevard Haussmann. What a parade of fashion faux pas, fetish and flair, all to the unceasing accompaniment of a tall, spindly and wizened organ grinder who might have had sticks for legs, but whose arms were as taut as harbor rope. He never stopped turning that crank the entire 35 minutes I was there. He had a sweet orange tabby cat on a red satin leash. She sat placidly, in the perfect cat stance, with front legs and paws in a straight furry line, and the tip of her tail delicately tap-tap-tapping as she calmly surveyed her corner of the world. Pigeons cooed and pecked around her with impunity. Every once in a while, the organ grinder would open up his free hand, and a white pigeon with brown spots would settle on his wrist and peck at some food in his palm.

If you spend any time in a foreign country, you become skilled at identifying the nationality of passersby. Americans love their glaringly white brand-name sports shoes, logo bags and college sweatshirts and Dutch women wear wide-legged three quarter length slacks and geometric tunic tops with colorful, wide-toed, flat shoes. Japanese hipsters have big shaggy hairdos and skinny-jeans or costumes of pink fluff juxtaposed with chains, as if they had just stepped out of a Manga cartoon. There's always a smattering of Muslim veils, but there wasn't a single North African in site. I'm always interested in the French women, mostly makeup-free, who invariably wear simple, classic clothing, even if a bit scuffed or worn, but they always carry themselves with understated elegance. One petite woman wore a Chanel suit whose wool had balled up or had been pulled in several places. She'd had that suit for a long time, and would wear it for a long time to come.

My friend arrived, an American who knows how to pull off an international look, in black slacks, practical but elegant medium black pumps, a soft red blouse and coral sweater. We kissed and then pondered which direction we'd walk to find a sidewalk cafe. There are several cafes in the area, where you can sit outside and look at the historic Opera building and watch people go by. The weather's been beautiful in Paris for the last week or so, not yet reaching 70 degrees, but gloriously sunny. So, we wanted to sit outside and enjoy a lingering, chatty lunch. I generally avoid the touristy parts of town, because the waiters can be a bit impatient and haughty and the food is high priced and mediocre, but this was close to my friend's French school, so... what the heck.

We selected a cafe, mostly because there were seats available outside and our waiter had a big welcoming smile. He motioned us to a table in the front with great flourish. When someone left at the back of the patio, we asked if we could move and he quickly whisked all the dirty dishes off the table and reset it for us. He was warm and friendly, which isn't often the case. I ordered a kir and my friend ordered a diet coke, which came out in a big fat mug that looked like an old-fashioned root beer glass.

My friend and I were soon too deep in conversation to pay much attention to the ebb and flow of cafe customers. She told me how she uses an evening meditation to send out love to all the people she came into contact with that day (a practice I had never thought of, but of which I heartily approve) and we discussed the concept of withholding sex from spouses who voted for Bush for the second time (a practice I didn't know existed, but of which I heartily approve). I talked about my recent acceptance of the fact that I'm a hermit. I find calmness in silence and gain sustenance from being alone.

At one point, during a rare lull in our conversation, I realized that each time the patio emptied, the two waiters would stand at the front and try and lure more customers in. They had also become adept at parsing nationalities, and greeted people in their own language. There was one particular chant I kept hearing from our waiter: Konnichiwa! Spaghetti! I realized that every time Japanese tourists would walk by the restaurant, our waiter would greet them with, "Konnichiwa!" And when he caught the tourist's eye he'd then say, "Spaghetti!" After the 5th or 6th time I started laughing and asked him, "Pourquoi spaghetti?" He told me, "Because all the Japanese people order spaghetti. Spaghetti with this sauce and spaghetti that sauce. Always spaghetti!"

I don't know why, but I think that Konnichiwa! Spaghetti! needs to become the new code phrase for... just about anything. It has a certain ring to it, n'est-ce pas? As if we're bowing with respect to an obscure God of noodles, a cross-cultural comfort food that magically gives Mediterranean sustenance to the weary Asian traveler. Either that, or it's a new Manga Mating Mantra.

(Image courtesy of SetoAngel01 at DeviantArt.com.)

Joy In Antwerp Central Station

This made me cry, it's so lovely. Many thanks to my friend Erik at Truth and Beauty for turning me on to this:



Happy Easter everyone, or Happy Spring, or whatever you may be celebrating.

I am NOT The Antichrist?

I am SO relieved. Ever since my mother told me I was possessed by the devil, I've worried about this. I've wandered the world, sullied by the taint of my potential for evil and destruction. Plus, I remember reading on some fanatical freak's website that the antichrist was born in 1957. Me, and bin Laden, were both born in 1957! OMG! But now, I can finally put my fears to rest. It wasn't me, on September 11th (through some evil telepathic symitry with my devil spawn sibling Mr. ObL) who destroyed the twin towers. (It was Dick Cheney, after all. Phew!)

Mathematical proof that lisa wines is not the Antichrist!

When I looked up antichrist in Wikipedia, I was not surprised to see that so many people have been accused of being the antichrist throughout history, including the entire papacy in Rome, that it just comes down to a bunch of goofy people making shit up.

As is the case with the above mathematical calculations. But I will believe and have faith in them, because they make me feel better. Oh. Never mind.

Uh-oh. I spoke too soon. I went back to the antichrist page and entered my full, secret name. Middle name and all. The middle name my mother gave me after she watched the tragic movie Camille in her hospital room. She named me after a French prostitute. Therefore...

Mathematical proof that lisa camille wines is the Antichrist!

I'm A SuperheroEtte

So, I just had lots of fun...making myself into a SuperHeroEtte. You can too. Just go to The Hero Factory and have a blast (laser, of course). Hat tip to the lovely l'Uragana (hurricane girl) for this lazy-day distraction.

I'm still pondering my new handle: The Meaty Lasered Jones. Hmmm. They don't let you pick your name. It's auto-generated. I think Karl Jung would have something to say about the synchronicity of my name and the fantasy archetype I've created. That is, if he were still alive. I miss him, still. I'm sure he misses me too. (WTF am I bloggerating about?)

OK, so I used to be meaty, but the meat is falling off of me at an interesting rate. I stand back and watch myself diminish and go, "Huh." Good thing I can buy clothes for a dollar here. I'll be needing some new ones right quick.

And if only, if only I could afford to be lasered. Then these damn chin hairs that I can't see well enough to pluck, but the whole world certainly can, would be gone. Notice that Ms. Meaty Jones has no chin hairs. They were offered to her, but she demurred.

At first, I chose a big walking stick as my weapon. But my HeroEtte name had "Walker" in it, and if there is something that I definitely am not, it's a walker. Limo rider, maybe. Dirigible flier, maybe. But, not walker.