Category Archives: Humor

Brushing My Mustache

I knew that this day was coming. I knew that, one fine day I would casually glance in the mirror and see it. There. Above my lip, a misplaced eyebrow. A sign of “the change”.  Well, today is that day, my friends.

Maybe it was the sunlight streaming in through the small bathroom window that glinted, just-so, off of the nicely rowed, baby-black-hairs creating their conversation across my lip. Maybe it was a shadow there that caught my eye. Whatever it was, I now have a mustache. I have now crossed that invisible line from fertile nymph into wrinkled crone in an instant.

And, I’m cracking up about it. Why? Because my ego cannot stand the thought of sporting this soup strainer out in the real world; my ego cannot stand the thought that other people will see it while simultaneously knowing that I’m going to do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about it (except to accept it).

Lizzy_&_Her_FurdinandSo, this is my plan: I’ll brush my mustache and cackle like a hag in my house. I will wear this mom-stache with pride, even bravado. I will stroke my stache thoughtfully while I think at my desk. I will name it (I name everything). I’m thinking “Furdinand” (get it? FURdinand?) Hahahahaha! I will wear this stache because my body made it and she must know that I need it.

So, for all of my sister-crones out there who think that a chickstache is not useful and to be controlled or removed, let me assure you, there are some real positives:

It’s natural. These things happen. As we age, our hormones lessen and change. Men lose hair and women gain it. But, this is perfect and right. We crones get to take out our revenge on the male of the species for their endless objectification, the near-constant and often unwelcome attention, the male bravado, the ego. We get to sport better hair than them and prove that we are still very much capable of doing what they can no longer do. (You all know that this is tongue-in-cheek, yes?)

It gives you a cloak of invisibility. As I have gone completely grey now and become much more hairy, fewer people look at me. And men? Almost never. What a relief! I no longer have to impress the people with whom I interact. I no longer have to seduce them with my wit, my humor, my sexiness. I get to rest now. The woman-stache is a huge signpost that indicates the beginning of the crone’s journey. We women can now stop looking outward and go inward, travel through the layers of the self on a much deeper level instead of concentrating on others and giving away much (or all) of our energy. The mustache frees us from the attention of others and affords us the time and space to go inside our souls.

It’s liberating. I no longer have total control over my appearance and no amount of essential oils or other healthy skin care products can hide the fact that I am middle-aged, liver-spotted, and hormone imbalanced; there is nothing that I can do about this but walk through the self, accepting all the way. I am liberated by this mustache because I can be even more authentic now. I can be more real. I can show the world what inner beauty looks like. I can let my soul do the talking. What sweet relief.

So, my new motto is: If it’s there, it’s there for a reason! And, if we women can’t grow it on our heads, let’s grow it on our faces! Let’s wear our crone signposts with pride. Let’s leave all of our hair out there and see how it triggers us, but more importantly, let’s celebrate every little hair for helping us do the work that we invited in this lifetime. I, for one, am going to celebrate this hair-lip of mine and laugh all the way to the grave. Now…where did I leave my comb?

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A$$ Fat and Other Splendors

Ahhhh…the joys of ass-fat. In this post, I take a tongue-in-cheek (yeah, I said it) look at a recent craze sweeping our modern culture and offer an antidote to it. Disclaimer: In case you missed it. This is not a serious post. This is a silly, ranting, and slightly crazed post. I am NOT advocating plastic surgery. Please do not sue me for expressing my opinions. Please do not think, for a living second, that I am in any way saying that I agree with anyone at any time. Ever. There, that should cover me.

butt

In days of yore, women did everything they could to avoid having fat a$$es. I mean, they did, like, seriously damaging (and not-so-damaging) stuff to control the size of their trunks: for example, lipo, taking the stairs two-at-a-time, calf-raises, running–{{{shudder!}}} (I very much dislike running)–seated butt crunches, regular crunches, and so on. Remember those days? Gawd, I do. And, am I ever glad those days are over!

Because now, my friends! NOW we apparently want our butts to look like J-Lo‘s or Nicki Minaj‘s, Coco‘s or some Kardashian or other. Yes, we want big butts and we cannot lie. We now strive for round, full, fleshy, and abundant tushies that hang out there like a landing strip and proclaim to the world that we (A.) Actually eat (B.) Our men like it. And, (C.) We are genetically, “buttocks-ically gifted”, every single one of us.

If you’re not buttocks-ically gifted, not to worry! You can buy a butt and have it plopped in there in no time. You’ll emerge with a round keister of such voluminousness that others will stop, stare, and point. They will secretly covet your butt. They will wonder why they never noticed it before. They will ask you if you’ve been working out or dieting or taking the stairs. Ha!

Yes, you can buy an a$$ and look like you spend hours in the gym without actually doing so. Butt augmentation is one of the latest plastic surgery crazes currently sweeping the world. Apparently, from a quick bit of Internet research, the Brazilians are best at it (big surprise there) with something called the Brazilian Butt Lift. Google. I don’t have the stomach (ha!) for providing links here. Tons of people are going under the knife to look like, well, plastic. Hurrah!!

Hmmm…well, I, for one, have been waiting for this day to arrive for a very long time. Not just because I have a big bedonk and I know how to use it. Hahah! No, I’m happy that this day has come because I now possess what women all over the world are paying to get.

In fact, my arse is so perfect that I wrote a verse about it. Sing it with me:

I have a shelf. It sits up high. It has its own zip code. It does not lie. My butt is round, it’s full, and happy. My butt is so PERFECT for slapping.

Buwhahahahaa! Yes, I have a$$-fat for days. And, it’s now being celebrated. Thank you, Jesus. It’s about damn time. Whoop!

Lady_by_Lizzy

The following passages will show you, my friends, that I can be and often am judgmental. Ready?

<Now, imagine Liz pulling out her soapbox and standing upon it.>

As long as I shall live, I’ll never understand why people go under the knife. I just do not understand the psychology of how it comes to that or why it does.

I get that people are unhappy and often blame their bodies for making them unhappy. They spend countless hours suffering over some perceived flaw. They obsess and quantify and lament all the ways that they are wrong or ugly or less-than. They relentlessly exercise. They hurl a wide variety of soul-sucking expletives at their hard-working, under-appreciated physiques. I get it. Hell, I used to do it; but, eventually, doesn’t that get exhausting? Don’t you just get tired of carrying all that stuff? I mean, aren’t you sick-to-death of your own opinions and needless suffering and bitching, like, LONG before you go under the knife? Sigh.

I ask you this: isn’t it far easier to find a way to just accept what you’ve got, be as healthy as you can, and sit on the couch with your rosy cheeks (ha, ha!) and cellulite? We all have it! All of our asses sag. All of us have wrinkles and moles and dry skin, and “waist-boobs”. Not one of us is immune. We age, people. We get fat. We sag and crease and droop and poop. Everybody poops!

The kicker? We are in our 20s for exactly 10 years and then guess what? It all starts going to hell. But, it’s normal. It’s healthy. It’s RIGHT! (And, most 20-year-olds have their heads up they tiny a$$es anyway. Look to Miley Cyrus for a perfect example of said ass-hattery. Oh, okay she just turned 21, but yeah, she has her head way up “you know where”.)

Sagging skin is beautiful because you took the time, the years, and the life lessons to get it that way. Hello!

GD-it! it’s time for us to put plastic surgeons out of business, don’t you think? It’s time for us to love our lot in life, accept ourselves and move into higher consciousness. It’s time for us to feel, really feel all of our emotions and sit with them. It’s time for us to question our egos and ideas about the body. It’s time for us to demand self-acceptance from ourselves. It’s time to ignore what other people are doing or saying about us and do what we feel is right. Let’s do what our bodies want for a change.

Does this mean that we should sit like greasy lumps and shovel food into our head-holes all the live-long day? No. But, for poop’s sake, cutting into the body is the easy way out.  Yes, it’s easier and faster to simply get some surgery done rather than address your own psyche and emotional issues. But, addressing what is, at bottom (ha ha!), an emotional issue by cutting into and altering the body is so, if you’ll excuse the pun, a$$-backwards!

Please, please please stop hating your body and adding stuff that wasn’t there to begin with or taking away stuff that was there and you’ve decided has got to go because some airbrushed celebrity got ginormous a$$ implants. PLEASE! Run on the beach because you love oxygen not because you want to be a size zero. (Zero plus zero still equals zero.) Play basketball because you enjoy how your body moves. Eat a friggen’ chocolate cake because it’s tremendously mouth-gasmic and so satisfying and so necessary sometimes! Stop trying to look like a Kardashian. The friggen’ Kardashians don’t even look like Kardashians. Trust me.

Keep the butt that’s sitting on you now. Keep the boobs that hang off of you now. Keep yourself emotionally clear now. Work to resolve your inner resistance and tensions. Find out how to relax. Celebrate every single thing that is currently in your experience because you put it there. You asked for these bodies and you asked for these life lessons. Now, learn them, bless them, and move past them.

<Liz stepping off of her soapbox and sliding it into the closet>

I love you all. Gobs and gobs. 🙂 And, to prove it, here’s some “imperfect” boobs that I drew just for you! Note: In the original post, I had just one booby down there, but my adorbs friend and brother writer, Dan Hoger wanted to see both of ’em. And, can you really blame him? Here ya go, Dan:

breasts

Moving House is Sadomasochistic

All I can say is WOW. Hubby and I just moved house over the weekend. My muscles are screaming at me in 17 languages. Still.

Do you remember being young? Do you remember being able to move house on a Friday and Saturday, unpack everything on Sunday, and then still have the energy and fitness to go out dancing on that Sunday evening? I used to be able to do this. I also remember my dad telling me that one day it would all change. I would find myself feeling 25 years old but being, well, far older than that and less capable. I laughed at him. I scoffed. Me? Less capable of lifting 45 boxes of books and four rooms full of furniture? HA! “Okay, dad. Whatever you say,” I used to utter to him with a smile.

Well, my dad is vindicated. The day has come. I can no longer: (A.) Fit almost everything I own into the back of a 1978 Honda Accord. (B.) Move all my crap in two days. (C.) Live to tell about it. I am now dead. Dead, I say! My fingers refuse to type the correct letters. My arms are so sore I can barely lift them, not to mention my once sturdy German thighs that used to love me are now flipping me the bird, figuratively-speaking.

My hubby and I joke about being rich enough to “pay people to move us”, but we know that we are waaaay too control-freaky to ever do this (even if we had the money to do it) and we move way too often. We would go broke. We have moved five times in five years. Seriously! We are not running from the law or our creditors. We’ve had to follow various technical writing contracts to keep the funds coming in during these horrendous economic times. We’ve done what others are often unwilling to do in order to keep working, keep the money coming in, and keep paying “The Man”. And, we have, largely, kept working through it all, but it’s been so, so painful on so many levels.

This time, we moved to a house that we scooped up for a deal and rehabbed over the last two months. We can save some bucks on the ol’ monthly payments by living over here and renting out the house that we were in for the last two years. Moving is sadomasochistic. Plain and simple. It’s akin to cramming seven days of working out into two. I’m so glad it’s over. Now, all we have to do is dig out from the mounds of boxes all over the place, but frankly, if that takes the next year, I’m fine with it. Seriously. Let it sit there. I don’t care if I look like a hoarder. It stays where I dumped it. LOL!