WOMEN, THE AGE THING AND GETTING COMPLIMENTS

Hello again my avid followers, welcome, Auntie’s back. So what’s on the menu today? Hmmm. Let me see. Ok, what about this- Women and the Age Thing.

As women we like to compliment and be complimented. Well some of us do - there are some girlfriends who are as vindictive as they come and rather than pay another gal a compliment would rather eat brick. (Enjoy I say. I hear arsenic goes down well on brick for women like that!!) But what’s that all about? Low self-esteem I say. But hear this, try upsetting my girl and she’d soon have a lot to say verbally and with a lot of abuse. Don’t you ever wonder, ladies, therefore, why some men just don’t go there with us? They’d rather mount of bull and head off into the wild wild west to find love with a rattle snake than to tackle one of us, mean, resentful, bitter and twisted sisters. Oh dear, is there something in this that is reflective of little old me? Maybe I need another session with the Counselor do you think?

Anyway, back to the tale at hand. We all love to get compliments and it doesn’t matter how untruthful they are, it’s all part of stroking our ego. Come on now ladies, some of us haven’t been complimented since we were teenagers and now hitting forty, we’ve gotten to the stage where we’d love to pay someone just to say – ‘nice eyeballs babe’. Not very sexy I know, but it’s a compliment all the same. So hear this. I just love when us women do the age thing. Let me break it down to you.

Every woman likes to think she looks great for her age. Every woman likes to feel she is still attractive and can still attract. Yes, for many women, attracting anything other than dust, is a chore, kind of like hard work and I don’t mean hard housework, I mean like being in shackles and breaking rock in the outback for 18 hours a day in the hot sun, that sort of hard work. But ladies come on now – God gave you family and friends and a mirror so once in a while I’d like to suggest you use them and maybe they may tell you the truth. Then maybe attracting a man into your life might be a little easier when you realize that that size 8 dress can only fit on your middle finger or that the weave or hairpiece that is now sitting on your head like a beehive needs to be lawn mowed down a few feet, clipped around the edges and given a new lease of life on a hedge.

Also ladies, doing sexy is one thing if you ‘git it right’ and it should be easy and quite effortless. It’s not what you wear but how you wear it. Sexiness is something you wear from the inside out, your DNA has to be speaking the language, girlfriends, it doesn’t happen in an outfit that you are abusing. So there is no point putting on a dress that makes gravity look like a liar. Dress according to your body shape and you can look sexy in a tracksuit and tee-shirt. Believe me, I know. Otherwise you’re committing a heinous crime against the human body and gravity don’t like that because when gravity gets vex it does weird things like make your breasts end up by your knees or when you walk, your bottom follows you five minutes later. Seriously, gravity does some crazy stuff, so you got to learn to be kind to that body of yours and take good care of it, cause, man, gravity can be one mean, mother.

But back to the age thing. Like I was saying, every woman likes to think she looks great regardless what age she manages to reach. Every woman likes to feel that she has had children and still can manage to look ‘childless’. It’s like ‘yes, I did the children thing and it doesn’t show – well babes check your blood pressure, cause the evidence is there somewhere. Every woman would like to feel that children haven’t ravaged her body and that there are no tell tale signs that she gave birth, even if it is 40 years ago – it doesn’t matter because women like to feel they are ageless.

And don’t you find that women could be having a conversation about anything at all and someone has to throw the age thing into the mix of things. So for instance a conversation about something as random as a turtle, there is bound to be someone, and there is always one, who would have to chip in by saying something ridiculous like ‘yes well a turtle has an incredibly long life span and age very well don’t you think, a bit like me. I’ve have four children you know and I exercise and eat well for my age.’ You can imagine the silence as everyone tries to suss out what the blazing horses hoofs this has to do with turtles. You can also imagine that my girl here is waiting for everyone to either say ‘WOW don’t you look great’ OR ‘WOW four children?” I just love when women do this, always seeking and searching for approval.

Another ploy often used is the one where no-one wants to say how old they are or act as if they are holding back top secret information that ‘a woman never gives her age.’ Why not? Who cares? Who gives a flying baboons butt? You either look your age or you don’t. And even so, how the blazes is this going to change the reality of how old you really are anyway? Do you notice how women love to pause, when making statements like that? As if people are going to do a DNA test on them or something?

When all is said and done though a woman can look good and feel good at any age. We’ve just got to learn to embrace who we are as individuals and embrace our individual shapes and size. And ladies, the thinking that black and short and tight is sexy…..throw that away with the ripped tights….It doesn’t matter what size you are from a 6 through to 26, we all come in various shapes and sizes and even a size 6 o r 8 wearing a fitted outfit can make you look like an elongated turnip. You can wear your age and wear your body with grace and panache and still be the sexiest, sassiest thing on earth – AND still look great for your age, whatever that is.
Until next time, Auntie E

(AKA Esther Austin)

Men and the Picking and Digging the Nose thing in Public

Hey guys and gals

I don’t know about you, but this is something that has me turning up my face often in disgust, wrinkling my nose and wanting to wretch whilst quietly screaming ‘WHY?” ‘WHY? OH WHY? OH WHY?'

You know men, I love you guys, really I do. For how God created you – you’ve done pretty well to hold that space. Most of my friends are male, not being boastful or anything. Do you think this may have something to do with my mis-guided sense of status?

Anyway, do you know how many times I am out in public, minding my own business and then a member of the male species does it again? Whether he is in his car, waiting at a bus stop, train station, engrossed in his paper, he just seems to do it anywhere and anyplace. So there I’d be standing minding my own business, watching the world go by, thinking about everything and nothing at all then he goes and spoils the whole shabang. The I’m digging for silver up my dirty little or big nose. Finger up the nose, static there for a while then he has a good dig, a shuffle, a little to the left then a little to the right, finger still up the nose, static (like he’s waiting for Santa to come and give him a pressy) then the offending finger is pulled out into the public arena, looked at, admired, tasted, chewed on then hey presto…finger goes right back up the snout again.

Now don’t’ get me wrong. Whatever a person does to his or her body is his or her own personal choice and life is about choice - Is it not? But when my sense of being is thrown out of keel, when I feel as if I want to throw up last nights dinner, the night before dinner and dinner from last Christmas, that is when I feel the vexation starting to take over. I am usually a calm, mild mannered person. Can be outspoken when I feel people are being taken for granted or when people are not honest, can’t stand dishonesty, but the only other time is when my hormones speak for me is when dirtyness like this occurs in my peripheral vision.

Ok, some of you may not class it as dirtyness, after all the nose is part of the body and snot, yes my leetle peoples, snot is a product of our internal make-up. You know what I say to that? ‘Whateva!!’ Do you know how many times, I’ve wished I had a frizbee to fling at the offending hand as it was digging away? Do you know how many times, I’ve wanted to curse loud enough for My Man to look up, thinking he’d be embarrassed because he had been caught unawares!! Only to find he’d go back to the digging and licking and tasting again?

I’ve now decided to do some research about this as I feel it is not just a male thing , but there must be something psychological about this type of behavior. Maybe it goes back to childhood, maybe something to do with being breast fed or not being breast fed or whatever the case, but I would hope to share my findings with you all at some stage. In the meantime, please bear with me whilst I wretch a little more……

And ladies, get your man to wash his hands before he even turns the handle to your front door - seriously......It's bad enough them going to the gents and waltzing out without washing their hands..... as if 'air' is an antiseptic......CHA

Shaving, Getting Back to My Roots and The Mistake

Well hello once again everyone and how have you all been, I hope fine and dandy.
As always this is a wonderful space and I hope, a secure space ,for me to share all the crazy things that I experience and that I think about life. This is a space I can utter my nonsense to you, from my own personal reality, and still put a smile on your faces.

So cut the clutter and the chatter, I hear some of you say and get on with the tale at hand, and so I shall, just in case you decide to do a rant like old grandmother Gertrude, who could rant and rave for days on end without tiring and I believe, as the story goes, she finally got shot by grandpa Jo who just about had enough of the old girl after 80 longs year! And so , grandpa Jo lived happily ever after with Bob the one legged tortoise and Petula their greyhound who had long turned blind, deaf and dumb – but they were company non-the-less.

Ok, for a very busy working mother of two boys, who is building a business, whilst also doing some temporary work in between times to keep the bailiffs from the door - the only two things I really have time and finances to treat myself to are a complimentary eyebrow shaping-up once every two weeks, by a very cute Barber who fancies the pants off me but who is about 15 years my junior. Now this is not to say that I cannot get the hots for a ‘junior’ once in a while, if you catch my drift - look but don’t touch ( and for those of you whose fingers are hovering over 999 (the police) or the NSPCC, Reeee.lax., I ain’t that kinda gal). But if I thought it worth my while, and wanted to risk my reputation and my life, believe me, I am sure I could find a nice little restaurant someplace to the far north of town and no-one but his mother would be able to find me, because you know it’s only a woman and her acute sense of intuition that could sniff out a liar and cheat without using her nose. But back to the tale.

The other thing that I do treat myself to is a trip to the gym at least three times a week where I can pamper myself to a wonderful snooze and relaxation time in the sauna afterwards. The snooze and relaxation part is always dependent upon who frequents the sauna with my goodself, as often times, I end up counseling or listening to the tales about the world and her mother in there. Sometimes, I wonder if I resemble ‘Ghandi’ or ‘Mother Teresa’. Other than these two treats, I very rarely notice or have time to think about such pleasantries as getting my finger nails done or a pedicure, which by now would entail the beautician using a hacksaw to rid my heels of the granite that has accumulated on it.

Anyways, the other day, I was sporting a sleeveless top and had just taken off my coat. At that moment in time, I had raised my arm as I was gesticulating to my two teenage boys, who are more like my father than anything else. I call them the inspection mafia, always watching what I wear, who looks at me, who smiles at me, making sure I am ‘appropriately’ dressed – nothing too tight, too short, because men would look at me and L.U.S.T. I had to shriek at them not long ago, like a deranged banshee after a couple of shorts of vodka on the rocks, a bottle of rum and a ‘herbal smoke’ - de ganja man, that men find me attractive even in a tracksuit and that I was old enough to be able to handle my goodself, thank you very much.

Anyways, there I was gesticulating to them both, when the younger and more loud mouthed and scary of the two said in guttural, base of a voice ‘mum, what’s wrong with you, can’t you look after yourself, why are your armpits so hairy. Nasteeeeee’ At that point in time, I could’ve chosen to bend down, take off my boots and dash them right in his head. But believe me, he was a huge child, tall, muscular for a 15 year old, and his bulk was no deterrent because he was also mighty fast, and in that instant had I been insane enough to have reacted the way I wanted to, I would have to pray to God to empower me with wings to fly. So I merely stood there, looking under my armpits, which I had not seen for quite a while actually with the realization that mummy yeti here needed to address a rather hairy matter, toute suite.

So one week later and before I tripped up on the hair that was now meandering its way down the sides of my waist, and when the boys had gone to visit their father, I thought I’d make this particular Thursday evening ‘Hair Cleansing Evening.’ So I lit some candles, burned some incense, ran me a bath with all manner of oils in it and set to task to de-hair my armpits and all the other places hair had hoarded its hairy self.

I used a cream, which I smothered on my body parts, in and with love. I would be a new woman by the end of the night. The cream was to be left on the body for 5-6 minutes it said on the tube no more than 10 minutes max. No problem, I mused as I was quite excited at the prospect of seeing my feet again and seeing my shin bone. Yes I had to get rid of the leg hair, the under-arm hair and hair on all my other nether bits (hush now, remember this is just between you and me). 11 minutes later….oops had I daydreamed somewhat? 10 minutes was supposed to be the max, using a cloth, I wiped off the cream. Hmmm nice arm pits, could now see my pores. Next my legs, nice, smooth and silky. Then my nether bits. Not quite sure what occurred here but by now a lot of the cream had shifted somewhat and spread a little more than I had anticipated and the designated area where I had originally spread the cream, had indeed spread.

By the time I finished wiping my bits and pieces with a nice damp cloth, what was left of any hair now resembled that of a Mohican. I contained my scream, believe me, and it was at that moment in time, when time indeed stood still for me, that I was glad, I was not ‘with partner or husband’ for had he seen the state of my bits and pieces, he would surely donate my good self to the museum of freaks. So for now – smooth as a baby’s bottom, I meander through life, wishing and hoping that my secret remains just that and hoping that for the next two weeks until things grow back nice, tidy and normal, that I would not need to be admitted into hospital for any reason whatsoever or have the misfortune to be caught up in an accident, where my clothes have to be cut free from my body, exposing my Mohican bits and pieces.

And on that note therefore, I have decided I must save up enough money to frequent a beauty salon next time to get it all waxed and professionally done. Yes, this will certainly prove to be much more painful but a more tidy process don’t you think me darlinks?

Moody Premenstual Teenager - He's Just a big Bully

Dear All

It’s been quite a while has it not? Since I have visited this page? I have tried to sneak into this space to pen you something without being noticed, for so long has been my absence that I should feel quite ashamed. Especially for those of you who have been suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms and who would not know how to embrace me again, without feeling I would leave you stranded again.

Apologise must I? – hmmm maybe I will or maybe I wont . Yes I sound as if I am throwing some sort of verbal strop. Maybe this is because it is that time of month, when in a woman’s world, tolerance is a bit like a swear word and the fighter in her comes out. Or maybe it is because I have been having a lot of practice with my youngest son who is 14 years old, who seems to be on a permanent pre-menstrual trip.

The past two weeks have been the battle of the wills in here. All of a sudden my son’s elder brother has become his target. Its bullseye if he can be as derogative and demeaning as he can be within the span of a full day – without surrender nor defeat – until his last barbed word and retort drift off into bed with him at night.
This unhealthy sibling rivalry thing has been pushing my very last nerve, but I have remained very calm, if I might proudly proclaim. If this child had been born back in the day – so the speak – he would be Hitler’s right hand man. Or as my eldest son has often said, he is sure his younger brother in his previous life was a slave master. “Yes, Suh”

My youngest son has been pumping weights on a regular basis. Yes I know it is a time of rampaging hormones, the sway between boy and teenager and trying to understand where they fit in that place, the flexing of the muscles in every sense, trying to assert himself. So dedicated is he to this working out lark, that I am worried he may just spout a muscle or two from his forehead. This dedication is commendable and as a mother, my pride swells when I walk past his room and he with furrowed brow, can be heard hissing and puffing and grunting as he diligently pushes his body beyond boundaries. Yes commendable but then there is a downside to all this humping and pumping. The male ego certainly knows when he should surface and therefore, with muscles that look at if they have an appetite of their own (I almost feel to shout at him over his music as it blares out to ‘do mind your eyes darling – your muscles are taking over’.)

My 14 year old now thinks he is the Don of the house, acting as if he belongs to the Mafia. The clicking of fingers at my eldest son, the constant persecution of his own disillusionary status, the constant competing with his brother over the most irrational and trivial of things has become very painful and boring. He is such a talented young man and is good at literally everything, and when I say everything I mean everything, the little swine, and yet he is bent on belittling his eldest brother at the drop of a hat. Now I am usually a woman of a calm and peaceful nature, one not often easily riled, especially with the amount of meditation and inhaling and exhaling that I do. And I must admit I have managed to remain very ‘together’ and ‘with it’ most times. I have only tripped on two occasions and I am sure I must have downed some sort of alcoholic beverage in my sleep or dreams and became ‘immaculately intoxicated’ along the way for on these two occasions, I was almost forced to ‘fight’ my son. Yet that would’ve been a very silly thing for ‘mummy dearest’ to do for two reasons. I am the mother and therefore in charge and should know how to conduct myself better. Secondly, my son is a very large boy – 6ft with size 11 feet and a handshake that would make Mike Tyson cry. And if I were so brave as to confront him aggressively, I would have to make sure I could ‘leg it’ to the airport, toute suite and leave the country.

So how am I dealing with this constant pushing of boundaries – I pray and meditate so that when I have to speak to him, I remain in my zone, somewhere between reality and NOT because energy travels and if I start to rant and rave and rage then he will too. So, as my father used to say – there is more than one way to skin a cat. I have tried several forms of attack and am thinking over several other strategies to help me deal with this boy trying to act like a man, but failing miserably and exhibiting signs of being a nasteeeeee huge bully – who really should have his bits ripped out and sold on the black market for a bill or two.

I have called in the troops though – my sister, his father and anyone else who I know can put pressure on him in terms of keeping him in line and in check, because I will not tolerate this sort of behavior from anyone.
In the meantime, I light my lavender so it travels around the house, I smile sweetly at him when he enters the room as if he is not pushing the reserves on my ‘I so want to beat the crap out of you’ button whilst still being firm so he knows I will not back down.

All in the life of a mother and her teenager. I feel if his pre-menstrual sulking and mood swings and behavior do not settle, I shall just have to resort to Plan Z and with that firmly in place – the police would never find his body and I do know that the Petunias would look so lovely over ‘he mound’ in the back of my garden.