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“Cougars” On The Prowl…

17 Oct

The definition of a cougar from dictionary.com reads as follows:
“A large, tawny cat, Felis concolor, of North and South America: now greatly reduced in number and endangered in some areas.”

 The definition of a cougar from therealcougarwoman.com states:
“She is style, she is grace, she is smart, she is a leader. She has worked hard, learned a lot and excelled at whatever she chose to do. She doesn’t ever have to apologize for being successful – she has earned her stripes.”

 Then there is the definition that everything2.com gives us:
“…a woman over the age of 35 who is single or divorced (the more times, the better) who seeks out younger males for sex. Cougars can be tacky women with big hair and loud mouths or they can be graceful and eloquent. Either way, their attraction to younger men is always apparent in their social habits and body language.”

Hmmm. Let’s work with that last one, shall we?

 Last week, my husband and I decided to go out and have a couple of drinks at a local bar/restaurant that we are fond of. We decided to go out early and get home before the weekend Happy Hour craziness began. After a microbrew beer for him and an appletini for me, a shared plate of killer chicken wings, and some humorous conversation, we headed back out for home. On our way to the car, we passed a couple on their way to the entrance. The guy seemed to be in his late 20’s, decent shape, nicely dressed. The woman looked in her mid 40’s, good body with tight clothes outdated hairstyle and a little too much makeup. After we got in our vehicle, my husband turned to me and said, “Check her out, she’s a cougar just like you.” WTF?

 I do not hide the fact that I’m older than my husband. It’s just a little over five years. When we met, I was 30 and he was just about to turn 25. He acted older, I acted my age, so it all balanced out. Of course when we talk about our school days he gets his kicks by joking that when I was picking up my diploma, he was picking up his Scooby Doo lunchbox. Ha ha, real funny. Fast forward to now with me being in my early 40’s and him being in his mid 30’s. That’s like no big whoop at this stage in our life. Now I act younger, he still acts older. I think I’ve even managed to take care of myself so I can pull off looking younger than him too. I’m not sure if that thrills him completely, but hey… it works for me. I often thought that because I was a mom who looked good and younger than she actually was, I would be thought of more as a “MILF” than a cougar. After being skeeved out when my nephew—eight years younger than me—said one of his friends referred to me as a MILF, I processed it a bit and then took it as a compliment. Especially as I made my way through my 30’s. Then somewhere along the way, this cougar thing came to life. 

I’m sure there were many others, but the most famous cougar portrayed on screen was in the infamous movie, The Graduate. “Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?” Oh yes she was, and oh yes she did. The way cougars are portrayed on TV is not flattering, especially when I think the most well-known cougar of my day was Blanche from “The Golden Girls”. When I think of a woman who is a cougar, I get a vision of some lady who looks like my late Aunt Gail, a bleached blonde, 50 year-old alcoholic who, when I was younger, would get frisky on gin and tonics and grab young waiters’ butts when we went out to dinner with her and my parents. Now I know why we didn’t go out with Aunt Gail much. The thought of me reaching the age where I was in the same category as Blanche and Aunt Gail made me a little queasy. Maybe it was the backlash of the wings I had ate, but I doubt it.

 Hollywood’s selection of cougars ranges from tolerable to terrible. Let’s take the well-known gossip source TMZ for example. A few of their featured cougars include: Sophia Loren (age 73); Kim Cattrall (age 52); Demi Moore (age 45); Christy Brinkley (age 54); and Bo Derek (age 51). Most of those names are of stars that I grew up watching—clothed and naked. I remember when Bo Derek came out in the movie “10”. I was young and she was old THEN. Now, according to the cougar fad AND my husband, I’m in the same category as her? Being on the same level as Demi or Teri Hatcher is something I can almost handle. Being on the same level as Sophia Loren or Cher is wrong on so many levels.

 I guess it’s an age thing. Twenty- to thirty-year olds can be MILFS. And a MILF can be married or single. They dress in chic, stylin’ clothes and drive a super-shiny SUV known as “the MILF-mobile”. The cougar is someone older and single, with their ages generally beginning around the mid- to late forties. They drive cars like a Lexus and dress in slinky outfits. From what I’m reading, she also seems to be really horny too. Maybe she is looking for someone with energy and stamina because she’s tired of guys her age acting like lumpy couch potatoes. As long as I can remember, older women would often joke about how they needed a “boy toy” during their mid-life crisis. In case you don’t know, a “boy toy” is a younger guy who would stroke a woman’s ego and was fun the play with when they got bored. The newest star to the cougar club, Hulk Hogan’s ex-wife Linda, is 49 and her boy toy is 19. He’s not even old enough to drink! He is old enough, however, to not be considered a felony.

 This epidemic has created all sorts of cougar-friendly websites. There are those for the self-proclaimed cougar looking a Viagra-free hunk to inject some fun and excitement in her life. Then there are the cougar hunters that either want to experience the older-woman fantasy or flat-out want a sugar mama to finance their cell phone and Xbox habits. There are no lessons involved for the cougars when it comes to finding a younger man. Why? Because they obviously have had A LOT of experience picking up men in general and do not need any “How To” tips. Young studs on the other hand have to do a little research because there is a big difference between how a cougar wants to be stimulated—physically and mentally—and what a girl his age wants. This is a whole new dating arena. Cougar-seekers need to be taught the difference between a “true” cougar and a hot older chick that has a jealous husband waiting to kick his ass. Where to find a cougar doesn’t change though. Bars and on-line dating services are still the most popular. Blind dates, however, happen almost never. Not many twenty-something girls offer to set their mom up with their boyfriend’s younger brother. Eww, that’s just gross. A possible porno scenario, but still gross.

 After I did my research on cougars, I informed my husband unless we became divorced and/or I became desperate, I will not allow myself to be considered as a member of this growing prowler population. I will hold my ground as the neighborhood MILF for as long as possible. I will continue to wear my fun form-fitting jeans, stylish tops, cool boots, and sparkly-yet-tasteful makeup. I will borrow my teenage-daughter’s clothing whenever possible. I will refuse to look my age and lie about it to anyone who might believe me. I will nominate any supermarket cashier for “Employee Of The Month” if they ask for my I.D. when I buy beer. But to be considered a cougar? Nope, not me. The closest thing I’ll get to being a cougar is wearing a light brown, faux-fur jacket with the purse to match.

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It’s Not A Writer’s Block…It’s Just Life.

20 Sep

Every day my husband asks me, “Did you do any new blogging today?” And for the past couple of weeks, I’ve pathetically say no. I think I have a writer’s block. I’ve heard about those. I shouldn’t feel bad. Even the greatest literary geniuses have hit the pen and ink brick wall. In fact, Earnest Hemmingway was once asked what was the most frightening thing he had ever encountered. His reply? “A blank piece of paper.”

It’s not that I don’t experience things I could write about. Hell, I’m a mom of two teenagers—a daughter 13 years old going on 23, and a son 15 years old going on 4. I’m the wife of a guy who will scream to me that we are out of coffee creamer, but is too lazy to move the gallon of milk to see that we actually have two left. I’m the daughter of a narcissistic mother whom I’ve realized, thanks to my therapist, won’t be happy till she’s on every prescription drug they advertise on TV because she thinks she’s entitled to be. I spend more time at doctors’ offices than I do at Sephora, Wal-Mart AND Office Maxx put together. And you don’t think I have anything I could talk about? Ha!

The thing is, I don’t think anyone would believe half the crap I could write about based on what I experience during one day of my life. I, myself, often think that what I see while out and about is nothing but a pilot for a really bad TV series that only shows up on the cable channels your remote can’t even reach. The phrase “Oh that did not just happen!” flashes through my head each day more often than the memories of my 80’s high school years complete with big hair, Jordache jeans and my “Foreigner 4” album.

For example, let’s take a flash view of the breakdown of my day today:

6:00am – Get up to make sure my children get on the school bus without someone losing an eye. The morning routine begins: daughter hogs bathroom, son yells for her to get out, daughter slams door on his knuckles, son threatens to pee on her backpack if she doesn’t hurry up, daughter comes to me whining that she wishes I could have given birth to another girl instead of her brother. I have to remind her that he was born first and it was out of my control. She grabs her still-dry backpack and her I-Pod and storms out of the house. My son pats me on the back, tells me I should have just stopped at one, and leaves as well. I grab a muffin and a Xanax and crawl back into bed.

9:00am – I wake up again from my drug-induced sleep to see husband has left for work. I know this because his spot on the bed has been replaced by a shower-wet bath towel and a pair of dirty boxers. Oh yeay. I pull my aching body out of bed and crawl into a shower myself to loosen up the sore shoulders and knees. On my way to the bathroom, I step on a clothes hanger. Curse words fly.

9:30am – I’m still in the shower. I plan on staying in here all day now. There is no one in the house to bother me except the four cats, one of which must need water because he’s licking the water drops that keep rolling down the shower door from the steam. I’m in my own personal heaven.

9:40am – I now have run out of hot water and must rinse the deep conditioner from my hair by jumping in and out of the ice cold spray. More curse words. My feet begin to turn purple from the cold water pooling around my ankles.

10:15am – I finish getting ready, grab my purse, car keys and sunglasses and head to the car. I start the car. I turn off car. I take the keys and go back in the house when I realize I forgot my cell phone. I grab the cell phone. I go back to the car. I start the car again. I turn off the car again . I take the keys and go back in the house when I realize I forgot my datebook. I grab the datebook. I go back to the car. I start car the car for the third time. I realize I forgot my bottle of water. Screw it. I sigh and drive off.

10:45am – I get to my doctor’s office to have a past ear infection checked. The nurse asks if I’m better. I lie and say yes. The nurse takes my temperature. I am told I have a fever of 101. Oh great. The doctor says my ear still looks bad. In fact, the other one is now infected AND my lungs are congested. I am given a handful of antibiotics, a cough medicine, and some funky looking teapot. I ask the doctor if I am supposed to use the teapot to soothe my aching body with a nice cup of chamomile before bed. He tells me that the “teapot” is actually for my nose, so I can squirt warm water and baking soda from it up one nostril and let it run like a faucet out the other to flush my sinuses of nasty toxins. Are you freaking kidding me? The last time I experienced something remotely close to what he had just described was in high school when my best friend liquefied cherry Jell-O in her mouth and I made her laugh hard causing it to shoot out of her nose and onto the back of the cutest guy in lunch, who just happened to be wearing a  white oxford shirt that day. The poor guy. Even to this day, I feel bad we did that to him. The receptionist schedules an appointment for me to come back in two weeks.and tells me to have a great afternoon. I give her a look that makes her so uncomfortable, she tells me I can keep the Viagra pen I was writing the check for my co-pay with. Nice…sick but still intimidating!

1:00pm – I arrive at my local Wal-Mart Super Center to pick up just the basics so my family can survive through the weekend till I’m feeling better to do “real shopping” on Monday. I begin my trip through the store by having an old woman drive up the back of my heel in the antacids department because she can’t see over the steering bar of the shopping cart. I grab Pepto for the house then back up to get a bottle of Motrin for the pain I now have in my foot. I head to the grocery department and see there is absolutely no line at the deli. I muster up the last bit of energy I have to make a mad dash to get sandwich meat for lunches. I am immediately cut off by a man in a sleeveless shirt that says “I Think Your Mom’s Hot”. He’s about 40. He looks at me, straightens his John Deere hat, sucks in his stomach and smiles. I have an urge to tell him my mom is 82 but I’m scared of the response I’ll get. I get all of my food and household items and make my way to the checkout lines. There are only two lanes open: the “15 items or less” aisle and the tobacco/Red Bull aisle. Even though I don’t smoke, my cart containing over 20 boxes of frozen foods alone exempts me from going to the short lane. I kill time by reading the latest headline about how Tom Cruise was abducted by aliens. I can’t help but overhear the woman in front of me on her cell phone talking to her BFF that she’s in Lane 19 and to meet here there so they can go outside for a smoke as soon as she’s done paying for her 40 packs of Ramen Noodles and a 12 pack of Bud. She begins to fight with her son, who I actually thought was her young boyfriend till he called her mom, never hanging up the phone on her BFF for a second. My head begins to pound, so I grab a Vitamin Water out of the nearby cooler and pop an Excedrin Migraine. The cashier tells me the bill for my “basics” comes to $168. I write her a check and pop a second Excedrin Migraine.

3:00pm – I get home, unpack the groceries and make myself lunch. Finally. While I heat up a hot pack for my now piercingly painful ear, I decide to call my mother. I should have waited for the migraine meds to kick in a bit more before I dialed the phone. This conversation was no different than any other daily check-in-with-mom phone call. “Hi mom…. yeah, I just got home from the doctor… oh, you’re sick too?… what’s wrong today?… you had that last week… oh, it’s different this week?… no, I don’t think my antibiotics will help with your new bout of diarrhea… maybe you should eat some applesauce… oh that gives you gas?…. I didn’t know that… gee, it’s nice that it is finally cooler outside… the cold weather makes your rosacea bad?… mom, I’ve gotta go. My husband is home from work early to help me stick hot pokers in my eyes… ummm, I said my husband is home early to help me fix the exercise ropes for my thighs… I’ll talk to you tomorrow mom.” I check the clock to see if I was able to take another Xanax. Dammit.

5:00pm – I officially declare my day has ended to all who are in the house, including the cats. I inform them that they are on their own for the rest of the night and I am not to be disturbed unless the house is ablaze  or someone is bleeding to death. I remind my daughter of the words “to death” so she won’t bother me for her daily eight Band-Aid hangnail injury. I take my medicine for my ear infection, grab an ice pack for my new Wal-Mart Achilles injury, and go upstairs to lay down in bed. As I begin to drift off to a nap, I hear my husband call out that he can’t find the ketchup in the refrigerator. I smile to myself as I hear my our daughter tell him, “If you aren’t on fire, don’t bother. She won’t answer.”

See? Nothing special to write about here. Just another boring day in the life of Sassy Auburn.

**UPDATE** – After my husband reviewed my latest post, he feared that people reading it would think I’m a chronic pill popper. I jokingly said “What stay-at-home mom isn’t?” He didn’t find that so funny. So, for the sake of my health, his reputation and our sanity, please make the following changes in the posting you just read:  a) replace all references to Xanax with the words “piece of fruit”; b) replace all mentions of the product “Excedrin Migraine” with the words “Tic-Tac”.  Thank you.

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Perfume: The Smell or the “Scent”?

9 Aug

I received a sample of a new perfume while visiting my make-up heaven a while back. I’m very hesitant to try new perfumes because I’m very particular about what I like. I generally have a cologne rule of thumb: if it smells like ass in the bottle to my nose, then it probably is going to smell like ass on my skin. This sample, however, was right up my alley. I tend to lean towards fruity, crisp, light scents and this had a tone of fresh summer berries to me. It wasn’t like wearing a fruit cobbler, but it was sassy and summery. I wore the sample for a week and decided to invest in a small bottle.

Most women will say they have their “signature scent” and wear the same perfume every day. I think women who do this are boring. I’m not like that at all. I tend to match my perfumes to different things: weather, mood, clothes, occasion. I don’t have a ton of fragrances, but enough to change it up when I feel like it. Keep it interesting, I say. I feel the same about men’s scents too. Don’t bore me with the repetitive “in” fragrance of the year. Keep me curious. I once dated a guy who wore Polo Green, every day, by the handful, for our entire relationship. We dated for over 5 years. And yes, it was in the eighties. To this day, I cannot smell that cologne on a man without my stomach turning every time. It may be from the memories of big hair and gummy bracelets. But I’m leaning towards the Polo.

When it comes to perfume advertising, I have noticed that all of the ads in the media portray perfume to be the “missing link” to a connection with the opposite sex. Smell good? Get lucky. Rub this here? Get rubbed there. The industry even “teaches” us to put spritz cologne where our bathing suit covers! Fashionably, perfume is similar to clothing. You wear it as a reflection of your style. It’s no different than wearing your favorite jeans, your sexiest top, your designer shoes, or your Fredericks’ unmentionables. And honestly, who do you want to notice your fashion statement more than anyone? My guess is male prospective possibilities! Think about it. You’ll pour yourself into a pair of pants and know you won’t be able to sit all night just to make your butt look good for the bartender of your favorite club. You’ll jam your blistered toes into a pair of pumps that are as comfortable as wearing tomato soup cans on your feet just so you can strut for the executive who sits by the window of the coffee shop that you pass each day. You’ll do all that for someone else’s attention. But this is where perfume veers off the fashion highway. Ultimately, who is the first person who will think you are sexier because of your new scent? The guy who is numb to anything except the smell of mojitos? The java junkie whose senses are steamed and frothed? Nope.

You.

Go out and get a new perfume that you are just dying to have. Watch and see how you act after you put on your new aroma. Maybe you’ll put your lipstick on a little darker. Or you will make your eyes look a little more smoldering. Maybe you’ll smile a little more flirtatiously. Or you will have a slight swank to your step. Now you take that aura that is newly surrounding you to the streets. You’ll notice people noticing you. They glance longer at you from across a room. They do the infamous “double take” as you walk though the market. They smile at you…just because! What is it? What’s new? Is it because you smell different? Nope. It’s because you are giving off a new “scent”. A scent of self confidence. A scent of assurance. A scent of sexiness.

“Happiness is like perfume. You can’t give it away without getting a little on yourself.” – Anonymous. When it comes to feeling sexy, there is a fine line between the enticing smell your perfume gives off and the seductive “scent” you emit yourself. You owe it to yourself to cross that line. Dare to put yourself out there and own the sexiness that only you can feel with a scent you love!

(By the way? The perfume I recently ordered and almost attacked my UPS man for was Escada’s Moon Sparkle.  He had no clue what was in the box, but I guarantee you he wanted to know!!)

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“Ex”treme Stupidity?

8 Jul

I’ve you ever noticed that after you break up with your mate, they seem to become dumb overnight? Or maybe you find it to be a process… that they have their head on somewhat straight early on, but as time goes by, their intelligence dims to the wattage of a Christmas tree bulb.

I realized this recently with my ex-husband. I have to interact with him on a human level about twice a month when my teenage children go to his house for their “weekend father” visit. If it was possible, I wouldn’t even stop the car and look at him when I go to drop off the kids. And if they were more athletic, I would teach them how to leap from a slow moving vehicle so I wouldn’t even have to down-shift the car from second gear. But somewhere in my custody papers I think it reads I actually have to put the car in park. No where does it say, however, that I have to turn off the ignition. Thank God.

I know I am going to have to converse with my ex as an adult, or as close as he can get, when I get to the drop off location and he gets out of his car and motions for me to roll down my window. When he does this I can feel my stomach roll and I immediately start reaching for the elixir of Pepto and Tylenol. He’s wants to speak. To me. Out loud. Oh lord, give me strength. Ever since my ex and I divorced, he loves to “chat” with me about his latest ideas, inventions, outings, and dreams. The first few years he did this, a good portion of them seemed decent. Buying a house, savings bonds, things like that. They weren’t always pursued in a way that I would I do them, but still it showed he was putting thought into something. Then somewhere along the way, the “EX”treme Stupidity factor set in. Now every couple of months or so he feels the need to share with me the details about his latest undertakings. Stupid stupid stupid undertakings. These could be anything such as a picture-taking endeavor in a woods full of ticks and mosquitoes to click some slides of deer and butterflies (even though he has thousands of these, and takes new ones every weekend), the patent his father and him want to get for a magnet-operated car, the newest get-rich-quick scheme that he’s been “personally selected” to participate in, or his development of medical knowledge when his last date informed him of the clinical definition of a hermaphrodite. I’ll leave that last statement alone for now, as it really deserves a post all by itself.

In my ex-husband’s defense, I will say that he is not very informed. But that’s by choice. He does not have cable TV. Actually he gets no TV whatsoever as he lives in the woods in the middle of nowhere (hence the bug and animal photos). He has a computer with dial-up internet access but never logs on to read the latest headlines because that costs money. FYI, my ex likes to conserve money whenever possible and is always looking for a way to get more of it. He says he’s thrifty. I say he’s flat out cheap. So where does he get the majority of his worldly information? Are you ready for this?… the mail. The junk mail. And that’s enough of a foundation for a disaster in itself.

Because it is delivered by the U.S. Postal Service, my ex feels that everything that enters the black box with a red flag is legit and good. Everything. This included the stuffing envelopes for thousands of dollars invitation, the newest vitamin for weight-loss newsletter, the “How To Rid Yourself Of Cancer-Causing Chemicals” magazine offer, how he’s been chosen to get his latest bird picture published in a feature book for a “small” processing fee, and the selling of legal services to needy individuals (but only if he buys the service for himself first) job offer. The list is long, pathetic, and very detailed. But you get my drift.

You would think that the longer your ex is out on his own, the more street savvy he would become. I mean, why wouldn’t he? You did! Honestly, after the break-up, someone actually handed you a bag of clues, and you reached in an got one! But the longer you two are apart, the more obscure the statements that leave their mouth become. Now for me personally, I can take extreme enjoyment in being able to tell my ex that his latest venture is about as promising as a loaf of bread rising without yeast. Or water. Or in my ex’s case, even flour. But that might be because I can be a sassy sadistic shit at times. Can it be true that the father of my children has an I.Q. that is declining more quickly than the water level in my humidifier? Or is it because I only notice his wrongs instead of his rights now that we are apart? Maybe I just want to believe – and gloat – that our divorce made me a smarter, stronger, more cautious, more alert individual than him. Could that be true? Hmmmmm. I’m not sure. I’ll have to see about that one.

I’ll let you know what I think right after he sends his large Money Gram to a public relations firm in Guam in order to make a few extra hundred dollars after being selected to the prestigious position of “Mystery Shopper of the Month.”

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So, you want to feel a little “sassy” today?

6 Jul

‘Then get spruced up

and laugh and dance

And turn away from worry

with sassy glance.‘

~ Weekend Glory by Maya Angelou

Welcome to my blog! Man, I hate that line. It’s so routine, so overused, so blasé. But honestly, what the heck are you supposed to say at the beginning? “Hi! I have PMS and am craving salt & chocolate at the same time! My nail polish is chipping, I have three loads of laundry to do, and I just got my bank statement in the mail!” Come on. That kind of fun doesn’t start for at least another week or so. At least not till the PMS really gets here

.So I guess the main reason why I’m doing this blog is because 1) I can make people laugh by telling them about my life and 2) I’m a glamour junkie. Now, you are asking yourself, “How do those go together?” They don’t. Not at all. Only when I put on a new sparkle eye shadow wrong and my eyes look like two disco balls, do the two intersect. But that doesn’t happen…well, not that often.

You’re going to find two things on this blog. The first is an occasional story or journal entry about something crazy that has happened recently in my life. What makes that so funny is it probably has happened to you, and you will find comfort and humor in knowing you are not alone. The second thing I’m going to do is discuss glamour-type girlie stuff. This will range in reviewing some of my favorite cosmetic items, tricks of the trade, new goodies and finds, and whatever else girls talk about over coffee at Starbucks.

I don’t have a regular 9 – 5 job. I can thank various health issues for that. Then again, my bickering teenage children, my endless doctor appointments, my cats’ constant hairballs, and my mother’s mission to discuss bowel habits 24/7 makes it almost impossible to have a normal day anyways. No wonder I medicate.

So I hope you enjoy this. Feel free to email me if you want to throw your two cents in about anything regarding cosmetics, fashion, or men. Don’t bother to try and throw your two cents about my mother though. You’ll need those two cents to put towards your therapy. My mother will do that to you.

Like what you see? Have some comments you’d like to share? Want to tell me you think I’m awesome or I’m as whacked as a feline on catnip? Feel free to email me. You can reach me by email at: SassyAuburn@nycap.rr.com

Ready to have some fun? Grab a cocktail and enjoy!

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