Going for it is a term I’ve come to appreciate of late. Of course going for it doesn’t always mean you’re going to get it, or be  good at it. But it’s an opportunity to for something.. something that might be achievable. It’s better to have tried and failed that not got off your bloody arse and tired at all. Somebody old and wise said that in the ‘olde days’

But as I have matured I find going for it a lot more appealing. Let’s face it when we were all younger embarrassment was a key factor in us, well at least me trying new things.

A few months back I did something I never in my life thought I’d do, wait for it, I went to a burlesque class. Oh yes indeed I did. Well the simple truth is that I’d always thought it was very glamorous, I loved all the clothes and the dancing, the innuendo. It was  a mystery to me.

A friend of mine, who shall at this time remain nameless, informed me that her niece was a dance instructor and was in the process of putting together a burlesque class together.

 

burleseque 1

‘Sign us up’ sez I all enthusiastic like.

The truth is I’d no idea what it all entailed, having been all enthusiastic with my friend, fear gripped me, what would I have to wear. I scanned the internet looking for images of burlesque dancers.

Oh God Oh God there they all scantily dressed , with suspenders and tassels. I’d have to get suspenders and stockings, not a chance in hell I was doing the tassels, I needed a corset too. Where could I buy a corset, would it be comfy. Oh this wasn’t a good idea at all at all.

I watched Lady Marmalade on YouTube and was relieved that most of them were wearing big drawers, with frills naturally, but no feckin tassels.

‘Now we can wear comfy clothes’ my nameless friend declared much to my relief.

‘For now anyway, when we get tot the end we can dress up’ she concluded.

Which was good news for me as I still had time to look for a corset and frilly drawers. I quite fancied a bowler hat, like the dancer in Cabaret. I was definitely excited about learning to dance.

We arrived for our very first dance lesson and I must admit with some trepidation, but I’d decided I was just going to go for it. I didn’t care if I could dance or not , I didn’t care if I was rhythmless I was going to give this my best shot.

We assembled with the masses, well about ten other women of a similar age, who like us were just there for an introduction to burlesque. While and it’s always the same there’s a couple of people who are ‘armature professionals’ you know the sort they are members of an ‘amature dramatic society’. So they know more than the rest of us about dance and are capable of taking instruction without giggling. They had proper dance shoes and tights with off the shoulder tops. I had yoga pants and converse.

Now, if you’ve never been to a dance studio, I never had, let me tell you, the walls are mirrored, all of the bloody walls are mirrored. So you can see yourself from various angles and at various times and occasionally scare the bejesus out of yourself.

We listened to our dance instructor as she explained burlesque and some dance moves. She was excellent, she didn’t rush us she took her time and showed us each move slowly, while, ‘amateur dramatic professionals’ were quite impatient with our lack of knowledge and our inane giggling.

We were far from deterred, we burlesqued on, actually we looked like a pair of ejits trying to avoid a swarm of bees while ‘amateur dramatic professionals’ shimmed and shook their boobs and booties, that’s tits and arse to you and me. But they did it well.

 

gif burlesque 3

We practiced and we too shook our boobs and booties, at this point I should point out that my boobs operate independently of my body and one another  and danced whichever way they wanted, which for some reason was the opposite way that I was dancing. Yes I was dancing and I loved it.

burlesque

‘Welcome to burlesque’ belted out over the speakers in the dance studio. Cher was in the room and so were we. Burlesqueing.

Our moment of glory had arrived, Cher was there, we were there, it was our turn to burlesque across the floor in front of the mirrored walls and the other burleseque queens. Then I saw myself in all my burlesque glory like an extra in a comedy show counting my steps as I went.

I didn’t look sexy or alluring. I looked confused and hot, with wandering boobs. This was going to take a lot more practice and possible some tassels.

But I went for it , we did, we laughed, we shimmed and we sang along to Cher.

The Joy of Going for It

 

 

 

The truth is I’m not sure I was ever any good at ‘Adulting’ or just being a responsible adult. I seem to have gone straight from puberty, stumbled  through adulthood and arrived at menopause with no sense of being responsible at all in the intervening years.

Here I am mid fifties and it has to be said ‘mid fifties’ sounds very bloody old. I’m comfortable enough getting old, really I am, possible because I never felt I was getting older. I feel like I’m 35 or so. I obviously have an acute case of age dysmorphia, I’m sure that’s an ailment, one of many I’ve developed.

When I arrived at fifty, people told me it was ‘just a number’ but it’s a bloody big number, but I was in good physical shape. I had little idea what age and menopause were about to unleash on me.

It would appear that I develop an ailment every month or so. This months aliment is arthritis. Well between you and me I thought I’d developed some sort of ‘sports injury’ I’ve no clue why I thought that as I don’t partake in any sports activities at all. After a couple of visits to my doctor and an x-ray later my doctor declared ..

‘You need to go to a rheumatologist’

‘Why?’ sez I ‘Do they look after sports injuries’

‘No’

meno blog gif

 

And so it’d been confirmed, my poor right foot, the one I’ve been dragging around behind me for a number of weeks, is in fact, infected with arthritis. I’m not sure arthritis is an infection but it sure as hell is an ailment. This will mean of course that my stilettos will have to remain on the shelf. I’ll have to invest in comfy shoes and support tights.

meno blog tights

Last months ailment was insomnia. Not the sort that keeps you awake at night, oh no, I can fall asleep, my recent insomnia wakes me up half way through the night. I swear I don’t now how, but at 4am I’m wide awake. I lie and listen to the silence, wanting to but not daring to get out of bed. I’m terrified, absolutely and irrationally terrified of what I might meet if I stray out of my bed and into the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I’m convinced (irrationally) of course that every spider, big and small have union meetings in my bathroom after dark and plan how to scare the absolute bejesus out of me. Every spider, and there are many, run at what can only be described as an olympic pace in this house. I’m just thankful that they don’t travel in packs or make noise.

 

meno blog spider

Recent ailments have also included ‘growing sidewards arse syndrome’ Again,  i’ts something to do with menopause, my arse and boobs are growing at a frantic rate. Such a frantic that yesterday I bought ‘extra large’ extra comfy drawers. I’ll probable have to get some more next week.

Included in recent (and not so recent)  ailments is failing eyesight. I don’t know how it happened but it just did. Recently himself and meself ended up in a coffee shop. I love a good coffee shop, with its selection of  coffees and exotic pastries, preferably a French coffee shop.  For some reason, we both turned into sorta elderly people, fortunately this was just a temporary situation. We were fussing around one and other. We were close to calling one another ‘Dear’. Fortunately it didn’t happen. But something much worse did, oh yes much worserrr.. We didnt have a pair of glasses between us.

We were like two blind gobshites, fannying about unable to read a menu. The pair of us squinting. So what do you do when you can’t read the menu. I’ll tell you what you do, you ask for coffee and a tart. Then hopefully they’ll bring you coffee and a pastries and not some provocatively  dressed awl wan. Mind you himself might have been happy enough with that.

Then there’s forgetfulness ..

The Joy of an ailment

 

 

 

 

 

For those of you who read this blog regularly, you’ll be aware that I started out complaining about the menopause. As you may recall I was looking for something that might shed some light on my situation, having scoured Amazon I could only find books with ‘uplifting titles’ ‘The wisdom of aging’ or my favourite ‘The Joy of Menopause’ what I needed was something  a tad more truthful than ‘The Joy of Menopause’ which as we like to say in Dublin is ‘Me Arse’ Because it’s not a pleasant time and for me, it was challenging as I started to notice everything in a negative light, yes I know I’m blaming the menopause. I do that.

The truth is this blog has given way for me have a vent about everything, not just the menopause. It’s given me the opportunity to share some aspects of my life with strangers, who, for some reason, mostly seem to be American. Or as we like to call you ‘Mericans’ several Scandinavians and some in the Uk and four in Ireland.

So it finally happened, my over sharing got me into trouble. I kid you not. Well last weeks blog got me into trouble. I got banned from Reddit because I offended (not a nudist) but some young wan in ‘Merica.

I’ve never been banned from anything or any where in my life. This was so cool, I felt like a rebel, I felt tough, I felt defiant. But the truth was I was not obstreperous or tough, I was a 50 something woman living in Dublin, getting banned from an over 50 subreddit.

‘You’ve have been banned from this subreddit for one month’ that’s what I got in my mail box, it was signed ‘moderator’

ME banned .. WTF.. why..

meno blog

‘I’d rather like an explanation for my ban, if I’ve offended anyone in any way I’d like to apologise’ between you and me I was shocked so I was. Shocked.

‘One of our subscribers was offended by an article you linked on this page and has made a formal complaint.

A formal complaint, made against me and a ban, well I never, my sons were going to bloody love this.

I must confess I was feeling rather pleased with myself, I wasn’t sure many people read my blog, never mind having it offend them so much that they’d complain.

‘I’d like to ‘formally’ apologise for any offense I’ve caused’   now before you say anything  I realise this not fitting with my new status as a rebellious 50 something menopausal woman. But I thought I should at least offer an apology.

Well I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened next. The moderator  sent me what I can only assume was a copy of a review of the  ‘offending blog’

In my opinion the lady who wrote this blog is an asshole. (‘Merican obviously) she thinks she’s hilariously funny (I don’t) she’s not (I know) Actually this blog along with her other blogs are in my opinion vapid. Have no substance and only show her to be ugly inside and out. She offers opinions on a fetish (is nudism a fetish ?) she does not understand. She thinks she’s being funny ridiculing people’s bodies. (I ridicule myself all the time)  I find her and her blogs offensive.

meno gif 2

Well this was a great shock to me. Vapid.. really. Two geriatrics up a Welsh mountain in the nip in October was no laughing matter. It was ridiculous. However that’s only my opinion.

As for ugly inside and out. I’m working on the outside. The inside I’m afraid you’ll all have to decide for yourselves. However I have been known to scare the bejasus out of myself when I catch sight of myself in my undies. One of theses days the shock might kill me.

I thanked the modorator  and asked if I could respond to this ‘merican lady.

The result. You’ve been banned from communicating with any  modorators for 72 hours.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not so much the joy, it’s more the ridiciliousness of it.  I just don’t get it. I really don’t.

blog nude

I live in Ireland, a western European Island, a damp almost always chilly little island, where one, in my humble opinion, needs to wear clothes.  However it seems that some in these here parts are not of the same opinion. Actually in these here parts I’m including Wales, it’s just across the water and has the same climate as we have here.

A recent documentary on ‘Naturalists’ yes that’s what nudists call themselves now, aired on CH4 and guess who watched it. Indeed there’s no fooling you lot. I did, I watched and decided to report back, I wasn’t the better of it let me tell you, but I struggled on.

Firstly why are nudist always older people, why are they never in their twenties or even forties. No, they’re all in their seventies and then a bit. So as I took to my sofa on your behalf I braced myself to see some old dears in a sunny resort somewhere, Oh how wrong could I be.

It started in Wales, a Welsh mountain actually. There they were hand in hand frolicking up a Welsh mountain in the drizzle, buck bloody naked. They were, as I predicted an older couple, he was easily in his seventies and she maybe seventy.

The cold was obviously effecting him as his willie had refused to make an appearance, on the other hand his partner a slightly rounded lady whose breasts fell like curtains either side of her rather large belly and her nipples tried to find some cover in some of the rolls of fat around her waist came to rest on her hip bones.

This was not something I particularly wanted to see, but I was gripped, I couldn’t look away.

 

The interviewer, who I can only assume was wearing North Face winter gear, asked them inane questions.

‘Do you feel less inhibited by being naked’

‘God created us naked, I’m not sure he intended us to wear clothes’ shrunken willie naked man responded.

WHAT.. What.. I wasn’t hearing this correctly, God didn’t intend for us to wear clothes, I’m convinced the sheep not a metre away from them had a shocked expression on their faces, well they did have at least 20cms of wool to protect them from the cold Welsh drizzle.

 

blog nude 5

‘I see’ reporter

‘You see we’re at one with nature here’ shrunken willie naked man

He was using one of those condescending tones that implies everyone else is a moron and he’s obviously of a superior intellect.

Which of course is a load of codswallop, otherwise he’d be dressed while up a Welsh mountain in the middle October.

blog nude 3

Now please understand I have nothing against nudists or naturalists, I simply don’t understand it. It’s something that I’m uncomfortable with myself. Also as a mature lady I find myself asking questions of nudists, for example, I now wear glasses, if I were a nudist how would I clean my glasses. You may laugh, but seriously I clean my glasses all day in my scarf of tee shirt. I’d have to spend the day with grubby or smeared glasses if I were a nudist.  I’d be a blind nudist.

If nudists came to visit my home,  I’d have to invest in Leather furniture, something I could clean, wipe down easily, I’d have to invest in leather wipes. The whole nudist thing is a social nightmare for me.

The truth is I’m having this dilemma because of Ch4’s bloody documentary, it wasn’t something I’d thought about at all. But having watched it, for reasearch purposes of course. My conclusion is if you’re a nudist, you should not be up a Welsh mountain in October, you should be on a beach in southern California, or just somewhere warm.

The Jop of being a Nudist or maybe not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m still on my Parisian high, even though I’m here in Dublin I’m still intoxicated with Paris, it’s like a drug, every time you go you plan your next trip.

However this is my first trip the French capital where I didn’t get inside a museum, or have any cultural experience at all, all thanks to a French Strike.

Over the years my sisters have endured trips to museums with me, I sometimes have to cajole them, but they come with me. So this visit to Paris was no different, except I wanted to see Les Catacombes, the dark underworld of Paris. Six million people are buried in the catacombs.

So last Tuesday we decided we’d book ourselves a little trip to the darker side of Paris.

‘Ah Jaysus we have to walk about 4km’ my sister declared as she scoured the Parisian Tourist website.

‘Underground too’ she was far from impressed.

‘Ahh No it’s closed and there’s tickets available until Thursday’ I swear I could hear the relief in her voice.

‘We’ll be in Dublin Thursday’ I mused so I did.. ‘right let’s get on the train and head into Paris’ I wanted to be in the hustle and bustle of the city.

At this stage in our trip my sister was unwell and had been prescribed some industrial pain medication and I’d developed an arthritic limp and was dragging my right leg around behind me,  not unlike Quasimodo.

Not a jot did I care, we could do this, for we too could be tourists in this beautiful city.

We ambled along the river stopping off at a café to get some coffee and of course cake. We chatted with nodded at other tourists, we had our photos take on the bridges over the seine.

We checked out the initialed locks on the bridges and tried to remember which films had been filmed there.

‘Now you see me now you don’t that was filmed right here’ I announced

‘yeah ok’ nobody seems impressed with my movie knowledge, which to be fair was a little disappointing.

We headed along the river to the Musee d’Orsay where I have to say a large crowd had gathered. The idea of having to stand in a queue with my limp and a sister who had taken more pain medication, which resulted in a glazed expression was not appealing at all.

‘They’re on strike’ sez she

‘Huh, strike, who’s on strike’

‘Ahh the French’ she may have been unwell but she read the sign in French.

‘Ah Feck the feckni  French’ sez I

We mingled with some American and a thousand Chinese tourists outside the doors of this magnificent building.  We tried to gather ourselves and decide what we should do next, so we sat on the steps and were entertained by this group of wonderful Parisians.

We waited for the older lady to break into song, Edith Piaf style, my sister insisted that she was the eye candy for the group.  She didn’t sing, she went from the French shuffle into the robot effortlessly and we enjoyed every moment of it.

I can’t imagine this group of people in any other city other than Paris.

If the museums had been open we’d have missed these wonderful people and their music, we’d have rushed from Musee d’Orsay to the Louvre but instead an afternoon in Paris was spent listening to music, drinking coffee in the Tuileries Gardens and watching the locals playing Boule.

Paris is a magnificent chic multicultural vibrant city and despite what I’ve read I’ve yet to encounter a rude or unpleasant Parisian.

Thanks to a strike I got to experience more of this city than I ever thought I would.

The Joy of a French strike.

 

Oh and yes that is me ‘Seriously’ on the video.

 

This week I’m blogging from Paris, my favourite city in Europe. Now for all you Americans who think I’m very far from home Paris is only just over an hour from Dublin.
And I must confess that do avail of cheap flights to get here ..
When my sons were younger we’d spend most summers here in France, they disliked the heat of southern Spain and North Africa so we holidayed in rural France for years.
In the last decade or so we’ve all been coming to Paris, every year sometimes twice a year. My sons have introduced me to Parisian football and rugby teams. I’ve ended up in stadiums watching the French national rugby team. Yes indeed my boys love sport.
In recent years I’ve spent time with my sisters in Paris. I thought I’d introduce them to the absolute joy that is Paris. The food. The fashion. The simplicity and sophistication that is the French .
I arrived here on Thursday with my sister and we sat in a coffee shop in Marne la Vallee watching the French work at being French.
‘How come’ sez my sister pointing at me with a chocolate eclair.

‘That French women don’t get fat eating like this and we do’
‘Cause they’re French’ I offered as way of an explanation.
‘Is that a fact’ sez she as the eclair disappeared.
‘Ah they walk everywhere’

‘Ahh that must be it’ she mused ..not sure she believed me mind you.
‘How come’ sez she again ‘ that they’re all so feckin glamorous’
‘Ah shur we could be fabliss too’ I reassured her..
So our mission this week was to live like a Parisian, after all only a Parisian could make a plain shift dress look glamorous. Only a Parisian could make a simple bob hair style look sophisticated.
Only the French could make a rubber hand bag look bloody gorgeous. Yes it’s a rubber handbag with some faux fur.


Who knew rubber could look so amazing and yes I did buy.


‘They have a different way of looking at life’ I told her
‘Yeah, such as’
‘They consider the who beauty routine a proper routine, they pamper themselves all the time .. ,that’s why they’re fabliss and well we’re not’
‘Speak for yourself’ sez she
‘It’s true, they don’t eat half fat foods, they drink wine and don’t have wine bellies’
The awful truth was when I sit crossed legged on my bed I too have a belly like Buddha, it’s not a pretty sight. But they may have something to do with the kilo of blue cheese I consumed in a day.
We decided on a plan to embark on a French beauty routine. We made our way to Sophera and see what ‘French beauty tips’ we could pick up. We examined every face mask, eye mask, lip mask and neck mask. We watched what other women were buying and followed suit. But we decided to go one better than face, eye, lip and neck masks we decided on the full works, we bought feet and hand masks.
The women of Paris have no need to worry about the invasion on Irish beauty for I feel we may have failed to obtain the flawless finish of ‘The Parisian Woman’


We’re here for another few days, we’ll shop, we’ll eat cake and drink coffee and report back next week on our achievements. 


Yes it’s me.. We may have failed as Parisian women. 

Not so much the ‘Joy of Oprah’ more the I want to be Oprah bloody Winfrey seriously I do. The world listens to this woman, including myself.

I on the other hand am a woman in my 50’s who still has trouble getting my two sons to listen to me at all. Never mind anyone else.

They’ve grown up with me watching Oprah, shur they thought it was great that I had a friend on the telly. But she wasn’t my friend, she was some rich awl wan on another continent who was filthy rich. Who didn’t have to clean house or cook several meals a day, because of fussy boys.  She had people, people to tend to her every need. I too had people they were male and short and I tended to their every need. Bit of a difference.

She may have been very different to me every conceivable way but I paid attention to her musings and uttering. It didn’t matter to me who she interviewed or what she said I was enthralled.

I was gripped I watched her every day,  shur lookit I was at home with two young boys the only sensible person to make an appearance in my home every afternoon was Oprah.

I wanted to be on the Oprah Winfrey Show, but there was nothing wrong with me. Nothing terrible had befallen me. I was sure she’d draw the line at a mother from Dublin wittering on about her boys on the telly or how difficult it was to get puke stains out of linen.

A makeover I thought to myself, I could apply to the show and they’d fly me out to Chicago, first class of course, put me up in the Marriott and give makeover.  New hair, new clothes new attitude.

Nope, the application form said U.S. Citizens only need apply. Well obviously Americans needed make overs too, while I stayed at home and watched from a distance.

A book I could write  book, shur lookit I can talk for Ireland why not write a book. So like a good troll I checked out the books she promoted in her Book Club thingee.

Shur what class of a book could I send into Oprah,  stories I’d jotted down for my boys over the years, ‘The ‘Cow that Couldn’t Count’ that took me a whole five minutes. Or there was always the stories I wrote about our springer Spaniel ‘Ben’ and how he chased all the fairies out of our back garden because they were deafened by his farts and almost drowned in his saliva. Theyre boys, they loved all that sort of thing, but somehow it wasn’t going to make the Oprah book club. I needed something profound that would reach into your heart. A numeral challenged cow or a farting dog wouldn’t cut it in  the Book Club.

So I abandoned the idea of ever getting to Chicago to meet Oprah or chat about my life experiences. So every afternoon we watched.  We were allowed into the world of ‘perri menopause’ which youngest son thought was some sort of dessert. He’s nineteen and I still don’t think he knows what it means.

Oprah introduced us to ‘The Secret’ and we would play the ‘The secret’ game. We’d arrive in carparks and try to find the best parking space by thinking positively. If we got a space close to a door they would cheer and declare that ‘The secret’ worked.

‘Ring Oprah and tell her it worked’ youngest son instructed.

‘I’m on it sweetheart, I’ll call her when we get home’

So Oprah prepared me for menopause and some of it’s secrets. She showed me how to walk in stilettos and she introduced me Martha Stewart .. so as well as an Oprah phase I also had an Martha Stewart thing going on.

Over the years Oprah guided me through various phases of my life. But Oprah will be remembered in our house not only for the introduction of the secret to my sons but simply because any time the ‘Says Who’ question was shot at me my response was for years ‘Sez bleedin Oprah that’s who’

Eldest son could never understand why I watched her daily because she was a black woman from Chicago what did she know about life in Dublin.
But sometimes a rich awl wan a continent away can brighten up a day and leave a little inspiration in your life.
Fortunately for Oprah she’ll never know the joy of a farting springer or the story of a cow in a field in county Meath that couldn’t count.
But that’s ok too..


She taught me how to work on myself how to react to others she taught me to think like an American, which is not a bad thing.
The truth is I want to be Oprah.

I want people to bring me food.

I too want people to bring me shoes.

I too want to chat with the common folk, oh dear nearly forgot myself there, I am very definitely ‘the common folk’

The Joy of Oprah

Bet that got your attention. Least there be any confusion I shall not be doing any reviews of Vibrators or Adult shops in the greater Dublin area. Nor will I be reviewing online AdultToyorUs.com or HankyPanky.com I don’t even know if  they’re real online stores but feel free to check them out.  I think they’d be good names for Adult  online stores.

blog headboards 6

Regularly I get articles in my feed that wordpress think might be of interest to me, they’re not always but sometimes a headline will catch my attention. This happened quite recently, last Saturday to be exact, in bed with an iPad the headline shouted ‘EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE A GOOD VIBRATOR ON HER BEDSIDE TABLE’ really every woman. So being the curious sort I read on.  I felt I need to research this for us ladies.

It turned out to be rather a serious article with lots of fact and figures from various institutions from across the world, but mostly the States. Now I’ve decided to summarise it for you, because you may find the facts just got a tad boring, I know I did.

It was one of those Prof Harry Higginbottom of God knows what or who cares university claims that 89% of women in Florida and 78% of women Iowa are in the procession of a vibrator. There were no statistics for the greater Dublin area or Ireland for that matter.

Women of all ages should be in procession of a good vibrator, it seems we don’t need men to satisfy us sexually. Well let’s be honest sometimes they make it interesting. But if what she says is true then surly it means men don’t need women either, as it turns out nature has provided them with their very own vibrators, left hand, right hand they start at an early age, I understand that teenage boys have mastered the art of self-satisfaction.

So Saturday night 10pm iPad on lap in bed, reading glasses perched on my nose I glanced over to my bedside table. There was no vibrator. There was an assortment of medications, menopausal stuff, asthma pumps all piled up neatly. Then of course was the photos of children at various times in their lives. But no vibrator, not a rubber Willie or phallic shaped ornament.

Was my life truly boring, did 78% of women in Iowa prefer vibrators. Were their lives more fulfilled because they had vibrators on their bedside tables.  I don’t know any women in Iowa to ask.

So I thought I’d ask some of my ‘Mono Crew’ yeah you read that right I’ve got a Mono Crew, ladies of a similar age enduring the menopause together. It would appear that not one of us has a vibrator on our bedside tables. In fact the mention of vibrator to the ‘mono crew’ coffee morning resulted in eye rolling and some awkward giggling, yes, we too giggle at awkwardness.

Instead we talked of our symptoms and solutions our almost weekly visits to our doctors asking them to ease our symptoms without the use of HRT or Vibrators for that matter.

‘My doctor says I’m to stop blaming everything on the menopause’ I offered, cause I was getting nowhere with the discussion on Iowa women or Vibrators.

‘What ya mean everything’ mono crew member asked

‘Lookit’ sez I was all ready with me long explanation like..

‘I thought menopause was a few night sweats and some hot flushes, nobody and I mean NOBODY told me about the hair  growth migration, the aches and pains all over my poor waistless body, yeah my waist is still missing, the shock of sudden flatulence or the exhaustion.

They all nodded politely and agreed.

‘Twas a bit of a shock alright’ one crew member offered

‘The pain in my right foot has me limping’ sez I .. Nods of sympathy from the crew.

‘I called the surgery so I did’ I was on another rant.

‘For what’ concerned crew member enquired

‘I called up that young wan on the reception desk and told her I needed a prescription for Industrial strength HRT’

‘industrial strength’  responded young receptionist and I swear to god she was laughing at me!!

‘Ah Yeah .. Industrial Strength’

‘I’m not sure we’re licensed for industrial Strength’ that’s what she sez to me, all cocky like.

‘I’ll come in and see the doctor myself’

‘AND’ crew member

‘Oh she sent me for an x-ray seems I’ve got a bit of arthritis in my right foot’

‘So it was nothing at all to do with menopause’ crew member

‘Naw seems not, told me to stop blaming everything on menopause’ I was deflated

Pushed our cups into the middle of the table indicating we were finished and waited for the waitress to come and collect them before we headed back to offices, or in my case dragging my right leg around a building site where half of the young blokes were not at all sure if I was female or male. I like to keep an air of mystery about myself.

‘I’ve got one in the draw’ crew member

‘One what’ another crew member

‘Vibrator’ grinning crew member

‘And it’s fucking AMAZING’ still grinning crew member

The Joy of a good Vibrator.

..details will follow of vibrator and crew member ..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, we’re all mature ladies here, I’m sure over the decades we’ve all at one time or another popped into an adult shop. When I was in my twenties, and immature, I would go with girlfriends to such shops in London, they didn’t have such shops in Dublin in the 80’s. Maybe they did but I never came across any.

As young women we’d pop into the odd  Adult shop and be amazed at the clientele such shops had, also the stock to be fair was very limited by todays standard. Video tapes with photocopied covers high on shelves. Plastic bags with blow up dolls who had raunchy names like ‘licky Lilly’ ‘Sexy Lexi’ and so and so forth, you know where I’m going with this. There was the odd pink plastic willy and some magazines. The absolute innocence of it all. Actually at the time I thought it was scandalous and my friends would giggle with embarrassment. We never bought anything, ever, what would our parents think if we’d arrived home with a plastic pink willy.

I would have been marched to confession and my grandmother would have stood outside just to make sure I’d told the priest everything and then she’d sit while I did my penance,  reminding me all the while that ‘good catholic girls’ don’t  go to places like that.

I hadn’t been into an adult shop in decades and the truth of the matter was I hadn’t intended going into one. But it was work, and truly, popped the address into google maps and I was inside the shop before I realised where I was. Well before I realised it was an adult shop.

‘Have a look around I’ll be a few minutes’ the very attractive slightly older man behind the counter told me.

Wandering away from the cash desk I thought I’d have a look a the clothes racks, it all looked very colourful. Must be some sort of costume shop I’m thought to myself in my nativity.

There were shelves of black shiny platform boots, plastic masks, whips and gloves. There were display units with all sorts of plastic toys, toys I’d never seen before.  Packets of ball bearings, I couldn’t take it all in.

Oh dear god it was an ‘Adult shop’ Oh no.. was this a hot flush or pure embarrassment.

‘Do you enjoy erotica’

Feck he was behind me and I was glowing like a Christmas tree.

‘Emm…’ nothing I could say nothing

‘We’ve got an extensive collection of books’ he boasted, seriously he was boasting

Books, Books what class of eejit was coming in here to buy feckin books.

‘It’s been a long time since I was in a shop like this, actually I’ve never been in a shop quite like this’

‘How long’

‘Emm the 80’s in London long time ago, they’ve changed’

Then an awkward silence followed, so I though I’d break the ice, God I wished Id had some ice I was about to pass out with the heat.

‘See at least you sell something useful. Ball bearings’

The fecker laughed at me, laughed out loud.

‘They’re not ball bearings’ he took a pack of three off the shelf and handed me them to me. The looked like ball bearings to me. I fumbled for my glasses and before I could retrieve them from my bag he started to explain.

‘Ladies place them inside of themselves and when they walk. well, it’s sensual’ he explained.

What woman in their right mind would do such a thing, it was tosh. Firstly if it was and I can assure you it wont be me, but if it was I’d end up trying to walk with my legs together as tightly as possible, what’s sensual about that, surly they’d make a clanking noise. Or even worse, what if  I sneezed, they’d shoot out of me like missiles injuring innocent passerby’s.

‘Not really my thing’ I was now sweating and needed to get out of here, because between you and me it was like a David Lynch film and I was in the middle of it.

‘We have something for women of all ages even mature women’

Well the cheek ‘mature women’

‘Do you enjoy S&M ?’

I wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed.

He pulled a plastic or should I say PVC suit off a hanger, he hung it over his arm like he was showing me a pair of jeans.

It looked like some sort of weight loss device. I just wanted him to stop talking and exit this David Lynch film as quickly as possible.

‘No’

This wasn’t like the 80’s when  these type of shops were funny this wasn’t funny and I wasn’t amused. The sexy nurse and naughty police woman outfits were replaced by pvc gimp suits.

Oh God I was menopausal and grumpy that’s what I was.

Now I was in full panic mode and scrambling for excuses not tot take him on as a client.

‘We have an assortment of toys and furniture to give women of any age pleasure’ he winked .. he bloody winked at me.. he could feel  my discomfort and I was still glowing with such force I could have powered my Ipad from myself.

His phone buzzed and I was relieved. I could make my escape while he was occupied on his phone.

As he was chatting I made my way to the door and out onto the street where the cool air comforted me. I didn’t return and I won’t be returning unless it’s with a gaggle of ladies my own age when I can put on my glasses and read the instructions on Adult Toys and laugh about ball bearings and pink plastic willies.

The Joy of an adult shop.

 

 

 

 

It’s happened, my baby is all grown up and about to head to college. It’s an odd feeling when your youngest child is all grown up and enthusiastic about embarking on his new life without you.

As mother as I am anxious about him, how will he cope. Will he grow his hair long, maybe a beard wear jumpers with holes in or  have issues possibly even worse, develop ‘political views’

Right now the world is his and his possibilities are endless, unfortunately young people don’t realise or understand what they’re capable of acheiving.

I was under the illusion that I had prepared my sons to look after themselves to go out into the world to take care of themselves and be responsible people.

I say illusion as I thought they were prepared, I though they could fend for themselves, thought they had the basics, like cooking, cleaning, shopping for themselves. This was, as it turns out an illusion.

A recent stay in hospital proved this to be true, just an illusion. It was an unexpected stay so I didn’t have time ‘sort everything out’ before I’d left for the hospital.

Lying in my hospital bed I answered text messages about lunches, assuring them that beans on toast was a good lunch, but they were unsure of how many cans of beans or how many slices of toast.

‘We could have two cans each and four lots of toast’ eldest texted

‘Might be a bit fibrous sweetheart’

‘What ya mean’

‘Yeah two cans will be fine’

I wouldn’t have to deal with the emissions so not a jot did I care.

They would arrive for visits and complain about their father’s cooking ability and his lack of sympathy when they had destroyed their own dinners .

I was sure I’d prepared them for life. They were capable young men I was sure of it, that was until I got the text message about the washing machine.

‘Where’s the play button on the washing machine’ eldest texted

‘Play button ?’

‘Yeah .. Play button to get it on’

‘Oh that would be the on button, on the right hand side’

‘Oh which right hand side, my right hand side or the machines right side’

‘Yours’ I was exasperated really I was

‘Did you saperate  the washing’

‘Duh.. of course, I left the clean washing in the airing cupboard and put the ‘dirty’ washing in the machine’ he was using one of those ‘are you seriously asking me this’ voices.

‘That’s good’ I really didn’t care what colour his white tee shirts would turn, grey, green or pink I didn’t care

Looking for reassurance from my sister that I had in fact prepared my sons well,  I called assuming she’d say ‘you did a great job’ or ‘theyre great young me’

It’s not always safe to assume, oh no.

‘Look, they can cook for themselves, they won’t starve, they’ll be just fine, despite the lies you told them over the years’  yeah that’s how reassuring she was

‘Lies’ sez I a bit puzzled

‘When they were kids you never told them the truth’ she scolded

‘I didnt ?’

‘Oh lets see’ she was on a roll I could tell

‘When you were asked what a Lesbian was, what did you tell him’ yeah she was getting a bit cocky now

‘Well he was only four’

‘Remind me what you told him’

‘Lesbians were people with the same surname’

‘What happened to the child’

‘He called the Beaky twins lesbians and that was his first visit to the principles office’

‘What did you tell the child about the ‘mating dogs’ well’

‘I couldn’t explain mating dogs to a toddler’

‘What did you tell him’ she demanded

‘The dog on the bottom was blind and the other one was pushing him to the shops’

‘What about the horse’ she had a memory like an elephant i swear to god

‘To be fair it looked like he had five legs’

‘What did you tell the child’

‘That he lost the foot off the middle leg when he tried to jump a fence that’s why it just hanging there’

‘Look college won’t be a problem to him at all, being socially inept after all the misinformation you fed them over the years may be an entirely other thing’

Oh dear God I really was a terrible mother. If I wasn’t menopausal I could possible have had another child and do it all properly. But alas I am menopausal and that boat has sailed.

I have just sent my children out in to the world hoping they figured out what lesbians are and that horses don’t actually have five legs.

The Joy of a College Teen..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: