Can we talk? It’s that time again for my annual PAP exam (which every woman should have done) and with that comes my usual angst of that dreaded visit. Not to say that my Gynecologist isn’t an absolute doll but the poking and prodding is no picnic. I’m not even getting dinner and a movie beforehand for Heaven’s sake. But here is the truly ridiculous part… I prepare for my Gyno visit as though I were going on a date. I totally glam IT up! (And let’s be clear here, the only dates I go on are with The Husband.) 🙂
Yes, you are reading this correctly. Listen, if I am going to have someone checking out my Hoo Ha, the least I can do is pretty it up, trim it down and make sure it’s fresh. Yes! You may laugh it up now but I know many a woman who feels the way I do. They just don’t say it. Let’s face it, the last thing you want is your Gyno, talking smack about you during a break, saying things like, “You should have seen that thing” and “I don’t want to even speak of the smell”. Oh noooo! I don’t plan to be THAT gal. I know they are required to be professional when they are down under, on a scavenger hunt, but who knows what they are really thinking when it’s literally in their faces every day, all day. Sorry for being so uncouth and graphic but let’s be real here. Legs must be shaved, the toes must be properly manicured and in tip top smelling order and the female bits must be powder fresh. Forget about going natural. I’ll leave that to the birds and the bees, thank you very much.
At the end of the day, I don’t want to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back for my Doctor. I don’t want MY Hoo Ha, in particular, to be the reason that my doctor resigns. Do you? A bit over-the-top and fussy of me, I’m sure, but it doesn’t make it any less true. The female bits must be presentable during these visits. Enough said.
Have you made your annual PAP appointment yet? 😉
Let me go on record by saying that I was and continue to be a HUGE fan of Sex and the City. No other series has managed to uplift and inspire me as much as the four amazing characters in it; Charlotte York, Samantha Jones, Carrie Bradshaw and Miranda Hobbes. Heavens, I have the DVDs of seasons 1 – 6 PLUS the last movie. So, you can imagine how I felt when I heard that there would be a sequel to SATC: The movie. THRILLED!!!
Recently, I went to see what I thought was going to be a F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S movie with a few close friends. The gals and I were planning to make SATC II a total event, with Champagne and all. Needless to say, after watching it, we were a bit disappointed. Honestly, I felt that SATC II fell extremely short. Although it had some really funny segments and it was reminiscent of the original series, the writers should have left well enough alone with the last movie. The original series was tied beautifully with a bow when it ended and I had wonderful closure with SATC I. SATC II was just a poor attempt at giving us additional insight as to what happened to the characters lives after the wedding. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing my gals up on screen but in my opinion the characters didn’t evolve much and they cheapened poor Samantha with gratuitous sex. Trust me, I’m far from being a prude but honestly, Samantha was made to look like a common, middle aged slut instead of the classy, albeit oversexed, renaissance gal I fondly remember from the series. In this movie, she was a hot-flashing, trying too hard, dog in heat. I hate how they portrayed her. Her role in the movie made me want to take a scalding hot shower and take off the grime I felt after watching it. Perhaps a bit strong but its how I felt. And as for the rest of the characters…let’s just say that their story lines were flat. I never thought I’d say this but a special note to the SATC writers…ENOUGH ALREADY!! Don’t ruin it!!
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Tagged Chic, Couture, Friendships, Girlfriends, Luxury, Middle East, Relationships, Sex, Travel, Wealth, Women
Dear Choo: (You know you love it when I call you by your pet name)
The Husband is on to us. I can no longer parade you around town or meet you in clandestine boutiques. I no longer care how many incentives you throw my way. The Husband is no longer buying into my “oh, this old thing?” routine.
You barely ever go on sale and let’s not discuss how you’re cutting into my slush fund. Yes, I know that we looked good together. You, on my feet, were all splendid and fabulous but I can’t afford to take you to all those lavish affairs anymore. You’re high maintenance and require too many accoutrements. It’s almost impossible to dress you down without looking like I tried too hard. Your demands on my time and money are bordering on the absurd and frankly, my interest now lay in another, less costly, pair of designers.
I know. Sigh. My love for you has lasted over a decade but all delicious things must come to an end. I’ve decided to start dating another name brand. I only tell you because I don’t want you to see me around town, pairing up with another sexy set of stilettos without informing you first. So, for now, I’m calling it quits. No, no…I don’t need your new flyer to yet another flagship store. You no longer hold the same allure for me. When the economy improves, perhaps, mon ami, we can date again. But, until then lover, back in the box you go.
Posted in Accessories, Apparel, Chic, Couture, Fashion, Fashionista, Glamour, Image, Lifestyle, Luxury, Wealth, Women
Tagged Apparel, Chic, Couture, Designer, Fashion, Fashionable, Fashionista, Jimmy Choo, Luxury, Name Brand, Sexy, Shoes, Stilleto, Style, Stylista, Wealth, Woman, Women
“It’s not 6 p.m. yet,” I reassuringly say to myself, as I run into the house. Beads of sweat break out on my brow, as I quicken my pace. I walk the dog, put food in his bowl, check his water supply and put the radio on for him. I then make a mad dash out of the house and into my car. I have 30 minutes before my scheduled meeting, with my business partner, at Starbucks. That gives me plenty of time to make a pit stop for a slice of pizza.
As I walk into my favorite pizza place, the owner greets me and immediately knows what I want before I even speak a syllable. While waiting for my slice of heaven, I notice the lovely pregnant woman standing next to me with a young boy, who I assume is her son. I smile at her, as I usually do when I see a pregnant mommy-to-be but she barely smiles back. Undaunted, and totally out of character for me, I ask her how far along she is. Like something out of a bad movie, no sooner had the words sauntered out of my mouth when I quickly realized that I had stepped into the proverbial poo. She, colder than Antarctica, responded, “I’m not pregnant. I’m just fat.” She then stated that the only baby she has ever had was born 9 years ago and is standing right next to her. D’oh! My face froze in complete horror. Why, oh why isn’t the ground opening up to swallow me, I wonder. I scramble to apologize, my face burning with embarrassment. Somehow, in my sprint to get out of the house on time, I must have inadvertently opened up a can of stupid.
Where is that dang pizza? I look at the restaurant owner, silently pleading with him in my head, that he hurry with my order so I could leave. As he slowly approaches with my dinner, I barely give him the opportunity to reach me before I lean over the counter, like a wild woman, and snatch the pizza box right out of his hands. The poor man almost lost an arm in my haste to leave the scene of the crime. Chagrined and mortified, I quickly scooted out of there without a backward glance. I peeled out of that parking lot so fast, I’m pretty sure I left my tires behind. Gah! What had I been thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t. I smugly thought that these moments only happened to idiots. Well, color me dumb because I think I just became the president of the idiot club. Hmm…I may want to look into a sensitivity course. Ugh! What would Emily Post say about this?
There is absolutely nothing that will have me running for the gym faster than an ugly fight to the death with my SPANX. The stupid contraption would not hold me in nicely and the unsightly bulge had me running away from the full length mirror in horror. Mind you, to the average onlooker, I may look like your average size 8 but if there is some wiggle around my middle, that means I have a pooch problem. So, that being said, it’s time to find a gym.
Now, working out is not a pleasurable experience for me, which I’m sure will resonate with many women, but as soon as I felt that dreaded jiggle when I walked….well let’s just say I kissed Ben & Jerry’s good-bye and I now put as much distance between me and the frozen food aisle as possible when at the supermarket.
Sigh. I so will miss the days when I was able to eat whatever my little heart desired and not gain a smidge of weight. Gone are the days that I didn’t have to think about the consequences of eating this or that. Sadly, those lovely days are over. No more Jerry Garcia or Phish food while watching the Lifetime Movie Channel, no more Jelly Belly’s during Dateline, no more late night pepperoni pizza during CSI Miami and definitely no more Ho Hos during The Real Housewives of New York City marathons. It was wonderful while it lasted but then Father Time decided to remind me that I was not going to be a spring chicken forever and to prove his nasty point, I noticed that my skin no longer snaps back as quickly as it used to and the “girls” no longer feel like they need to stand up straight. Yes, the quicker I find an exercise boot camp, the better.
The first gym I visited was for women only. One look around told me everything I wanted to know. As soon as I walked through those doors I noticed that every woman looked as though they had lost the battle against Sara Lee (read: pound cake and yummy goodness) and perhaps their wrinkle cream had been recalled. Seriously, I’m all for aging gracefully but sometimes Mother Nature needs a little assistance. So the Geritol gym was crossed off my list. I had no desire to be constantly reminded of the “senior years” which is looming eerily ahead of me. My grandmother is an elegant and beautiful woman and she would rather fade away than to look like some of these poor, wretched souls. They unfortunately looked as if they had given up the good fight and were only going through the motions. I am so not going down that road.
After a long, exhausting day of searching for a gym, the fourth location I visited was the charm. Great facility and amenities, the staff was eager and ready to push me to my fitness best and Mr. Muscle Guy behind the juice bar looked as though he were ready to whip me up a healthy smoothie quicker than I can say fatty patty.
Now don’t get too excited. I am not saying that I am ready to embrace the health craze movement but perhaps my body will thank me later (and I mean way later) by giving me a backside that I can bounce a quarter off of. Heh!