I have several obsessions.

Evening gowns was one, although I have a friend “Amy” who puts me to shame with her endless evening gown collection.

After that it’s lingerie. I have drawer upon drawer of lingerie, most of which never gets worn because I like comfy cotton boyshorts and bras which are slightly too small for me, making the kittens look outrageously good.

Then there’s the obsession I don’t talk about very often – the black vinyl clothing obsession.

Who knew you could love synthetic fabric so much you would want to wear it close to your skin EVERY DAY?!

And speaking of naughty obsessions, there’s also my strange affection for neoprene.

Gotta love me some wetsuits!

Snort in that neoprene smell.

What I’ve failed to mention so far is that by and far my most ardent obsession is with makeup.

If you want to cheer me up, hand me $100 and take me to the drugstore or the department store and let me loose in Cosmetics.

I go bananas for pots and pans of colors!

My sons have evolved a technique to keep me from looking in the windows of Sephora because I can disappear in that store for HOURS!

My aunt, cousin, and niece all like going through my makeup and taking what I no longer use.

So it’s my niece’s birthday coming up and she, like me, loves makeup.

I bought her some nice, light colored eye shadow palettes and a pack of brushes – because every girl should learn to use brushes.

I am a damn fine auntie!

Thick thighs and bodacious breasts

Pretty much my whole life I have wished I had legs like Heidi Klum.

Slim. Sexy. Statuesque.

What did I get?

Thick legs.

Lately however, I haven’t minded as much.

Perhaps it’s because I no longer read beauty magazines which inundate me with images of women with bodies so very unlike my own.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve set up my Instagram feed to show me images of plus size beauties like @lillias_right

And @theericalauren

There’s just something about seeing women with bodies like my own that make me feel more confident in my own skin.

Nevertheless, I was surprised to find that THIS

was my most popular boudoir photo.

Thick thighs. Hip tattoos showing. Airbrushed skin like plastic.

I suppose that there are men (and women) out there who like thick legs.

I know they are growing on me.

My other most popular picture on this blog is this one:

A hot tub photo with a near nip slip.

Ample breasts, steamy skin, wild hair.

The popularity of this photo surprises me less.

I’ve just got to say how very impressed I am with my blog audience for liking these photos.

Guess what?

Thick thighs and bodacious breasts are IN!




Tahoe Trip: The Black Hole

One thing my sister and I do a lot of when I go to visit her is GET TATTOOS.

Another thing we do is GET PIERCINGS.

I can’t tell you how much fun I have in the dark, cramped rooms of seedy tattoo parlors and piercing studios.

My boys joke that every time I go to Reno, I return with a new piercing or tattoo.

And that’s not far from the truth.

This visit, my sister and I went to Black Hole Body Piercing in Reno.

I needed to get my nose piercing tightened.  Exciting stuff.

My sister, however, got her left daith pierced.

piercingsI held my sister’s hand as the technician got ready to poke another hole in her body.

Lisa flinched when the needle went in. . .  and she didn’t stop flinching.

I didn’t envy her the piercing, though I’ve been thinking about getting another pair of piercings in my lobes.

And the end result?

Nothing short of beautiful:

daith peircing

Stupid things I’ve done

Me in 2007 in Scotland (yes, with a blow up sheep). Natural tan.

God, I could write A BOOK SERIES about all the stupid things I’ve done.

Marrying a man for his looks instead of his brains was not the BRIGHTEST thing I’ve ever done (but I can’t regret the relationship that gave me my boys).

Also, my ENTIRE relationship with The Professor I could SKIP ENTIRELY. What a disaster!

And there was that time I lit the floor on fire in eighth grade. . .

But I digress. . .

One of THE STUPIDEST things I’ve ever done is lay in tanning beds to get tan for my trip to Scotland in 2007.

Oh vey!

I LITERALLY laid in tanning beds EVERY DAY for close to 4 months in order to appear bronzed and tan – just like a California girl.

Why I did this, I will never know.

I was going to Scotland, not the Bahamas, and no part of my body was really going to get exposed for the viewing pleasure of ANYONE under all the long sleeve shirts, jumpers, and jackets I needed to wear to stay warm in the frigid Scottish climate.

But I did it anyway.

And I had a lovely, dewy bronze tan for about 6 months.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely not!

It aged me. Damaged my skin, especially on my face.

And now I have to monitor my moles for potential skin cancer.

Remember, I USED to tan by laying out in the sun slathered in baby oil?


So take it from me and STAY AWAY FROM TANNING BEDS.

Do your skin a favor. . .




In the pale

I am a white girl.

And as far as white girls go, I’m on the lower end of the scale as far as melanin production goes.

I’m fair.

I am 75% Nordic/British Isles and 25% Portuguese.

I joke that this means that I burn easily but I can hold a tan.

It’s true though.

Every summer when I was growing up, I’d slather myself in baby oil and lay out at the pool for 30 minutes.

I’d get a wicked burn which would fade into a beautiful tan.

Those were the days (before skin cancer warnings).

Briefly, I went to the tanning salon and laid in their (cancer inducing) beds and got a lovely tan as well.

But no more.

I have to be good and take care of my skin.

So, I get spray tans.

Recently, I’ve decided I’m going to try to do it myself and I bought Cocoa Brown Tan Mousse and a pink velvet glove to apply it.

[Side note:  I’m sorely tempted to use the pink velvet gloves for bedroom activities and NOT self-tanner application.]

I want to be brown like the models we see in summer ads – all long legs and golden shoulders.

I know I can’t get their bodies, but it seems unfair to deny me their color as well.

I don’t want to be pale anymore.

I want to be TAN!

And with my trip to Hawaii coming up, it’d be nice to be more bronze goddess and less pale ice queen.

[Post script:  I’ll let you know how it goes.  I bought the darkest mousse on the market so I could turn out striped like a zebra!]




I watched a video recently where 5 women took a challenge to stop waxing and plucking their facial hair for a month.

These women bitched and complained about their hairy faces but I couldn’t see anything on the video. They looked just as beautiful as they had in the beginning.

It was then that I realized that many women are COMPULSIVE about facial hair.

For someone who lets her eyebrows go LONG PAST THE PLUCKING POINT, I can say with true abandon that I am not one of these compulsive women.

I also forget to shave my legs but that’s beside the point.

The truth is, I don’t remember being obsessed with facial hair as a teenager.

I don’t even remember HAVING facial hair.

But somewhere between 15 and 43, I managed to grow a beardlette.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a “beard beard.”

My face just gets blond fuzz on it.

It’s genetic, I think.

There’s some Portuguese in me and I attribute all my peach fuzz to my Portuguese heritage.

On account of I’m pretty sure it’s not from the Nordic side of things.

In addition to having a fuzzy face, I also have one long wiry stray hair that grows out of the right corner of my chin.

Definitely NOT SEXY.

I pluck that motherfucker like nobody’s business!

It’s the most satisfying pluck on my whole body.

I play with it for a while after I pluck it – poking it with my finger, feeling how stiff and rigid it feels.

Getting old sucks.

However, it’s better than the alternative, no?

So I’ll just shut up about the whole thing and admit that I have an ace up my sleeve.

I may be hairy but there’s always wax!

Learning to be subtle

I have 5 tattoos.

I got them all within a year of turning 40.

I’d go to Reno to visit my sister and I’d come back with a new tattoo.

The last tattoo I got was a watercolor butterfly on my foot.

It got infected. . .

. . .on account of me going in my sister’s hot tub RIGHT AFTER I got the tattoo.

No worries.

My sister ripped me a new one.

And the process of clearing up the cellulitis was awful.

I thought my foot was going to fall off.

At work, I usually keep my tattoos covered up.

I don’t put them on display like I do at Burning Man or Burning Man events.

Remember that one time I shoved my crotch in a man’s face in order to show him my hip tattoos?

Yeah, I’m more subtle about it now.

Today I accidentally left for work in a sundress and to my surprise I had no sweater in my truck.

So I’m sitting in my cube, minding my own business when a coworker walks by.

“Nice tattoo. What is it? A heart?”

It’s actually a heart with an infinity symbol, meaning eternal love.

And it’s my only tattoo I dislike on account of it reminding me of the man I was with when I got it and was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about being in love.

Ah, eternal love.


As it turns out, eternal love only lasts until another woman comes along.

Needless to say, I won’t be wearing sleeveless tops to work anymore.

See. . . I’m learning to be subtle.


My other tattoos are:


Butt cracks and snot rockets

michelleI went to the Korean Spa with my girlfriend this past weekend.

Once again, I was reminded of how fabulous their body treatments are:

A scrub and a rub (1 hour 15 minutes) for $90.

The technicians are older Korean women who are wearing black bras and underwear. I guess that’s the uniform when you work in a wet spa all day long.

They wear raw silk mitts over their hands and they scrub you down like a rotisserie chicken on a wet vinyl bed.

And I’m not kidding when I tell you that NOODLES OF DEAD SKIN COME OFF YOUR BODY!

This time around there was no belly fat on my forehead.

But I did get taught (firsthand) how to properly wash my butt.

You don’t know sh*t until you’ve been schooled by an old Korean woman wearing nothing but a bra and underwear on how to properly wash your butt crack.

After I was scrubbed raw and pink, my technician massaged me vigorously.

She massaged my face too and it was then that I realized that my forehead was sore.

I didn’t even know a forehead could be sore!

My resting bitch face is exhausting.

So there we were, naked and exposed, laying on a wet vinyl bed, getting scrubbed and rubbed by our technicians – a very basic but essential body treatment – when it happened. . .

My technician put a finger against her nose, and BLEW A SNOT ROCKET TO THE GROUND AT HER FEET.

Yes, this is the woman who clucked at me for not washing my butt thoroughly enough.

Like I’m going to take etiquette lessons from her.


michelle1Today I’m going to talk about something we women don’t often discuss:

Our LOVE-HATE relationship with our beauty salon.

Oh sure, we love the end result – that perfect honey hue, the softness, the body that gives our hair bounce.

But do we love the process?


Going to the salon stresses me out.

To begin with, stepping into the salon feels like I’m stepping into a beauty magazine – only everyone looks stylish EXCEPT me.

Me? I’m in capris and a tank top.

I look like the cat lady from Winnemucca who just got out of the house to take “a little off the top, dearie.”

And how come all the stylists look like Victoria’s Secret models?

Can I just get one who is over 40 and has a mom bod?

I’m surrounded by a sea of young women with glossy hair, and beautifully accessorized black strapless maxi dresses.

Nothing makes me feel uglier.

So I sit in my chair and pretend I’m comfortable while my stylist puts 50 foils in my hair making me look like a deranged steampunk lion.


But in the end, the foils come out and I oooh and aaah over the color.

And then she cuts and styles my hair.

And I look in the mirror that once held the reflection of a worn out, tired, single mom in need of a style overhaul, and things don’t seem quite as bad as they did before.

In fact, I look nice.

So maybe I’m no Victoria’s Secret model.

But what stares back at me from my stylist’s mirror isn’t half bad.

And she’s real (no Photoshop).

And in the moment, I feel pretty again.


Hair pie

About two years ago, I started the process of having all my pubic hair removed via laser light treatment.

There’s a few things they don’t make expressly clear when you sign up for these treatments.

  1. You may have to have upwards of a dozen treatments to remove the hair.
  2. The treatments hurt like hell. Like a rubber band being snapped against your nethers. Ouch!
  3. The laser treatment is good at removing dark hair against light skin. If you are a blond, like me, you may not be able to get rid of all the hair. The hair is too blond.
  4. If you can’t get rid of all the hair, you will still be left shaving or waxing regularly to remove the remainder of your pubic hair. Sux!

Yes folks, that means I spent upwards of $1,000 to get my snatch as smooth as a baby’s bottom and yet I STILL HAVE TO SHAVE.

I find it rather embarrassing to have a smattering of hair where a full pie used to be. It’s like a tease to the men who encounter it – hello, here’s a smooth pussy… just kidding!

And let’s face it, that’s the WHOLE REASON WHY WE REMOVE OUR HAIR IN THE FIRST PLACE – to make it soft and smooth and totally pleasure-based. There’s no functionality or purpose to having no hair. Actually, hair serves a function and purpose down there – dispersing moisture and pheromones, signaling sexual maturity, and protecting from friction and bacteria.

My only option at this point, is to keep going for laser treatments, and HOPE that they eventually get all those baby blond hairs you can’t see but you can feel.

It figures this would happen to me. The only comparison I can give you is that it’s like committing yourself to a tattoo and then discovering that you can’t finish the tattoo halfway through.

There’s no doubt about it… you’re screwed.