Jun 12, 2017

My Spanish Dildo

Posted by Tonia at Monday, June 12, 2017 2 comments
By Tonia

“It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression, ‘As pretty as an airport.’” - Douglas Adams

I recently went to Spain and Morocco with my Boy Toy  (OK, he’s only 5 months younger than me, but we like to call him that). We had a great time sight-seeing while gluttonizing on tapas, paella, Iberian ham, grilled sardines and gazpacho - and drinking more Sangria than our combined weights. 

There were, of course, a few hick-ups along the way. International travel is never without them. For example, there were unmanned highway toll booths every friggin’ 10 miles with more slits, buttons and levers than an Apollo control panel.  Two advanced-degreed brains working together couldn’t figure them out.  Other drivers had to stop and get out of their cars to assist us. 

And the ferry that I was SURE only took 30 minutes to get to Tangier took 90 minutes – mostly because we were off-course from our intended destination. We ended up at a Moroccan industrial port that looked like a thriller movie scene where creepy things happen. Boy Toy casually remarked we would probably end up kidnapped, stripped naked, chained and beaten (and not in a good way) on a cold cement floor in a Turkish prison. I reminded him we were in MOROCCO – not Turkey. And, fortunately, after one shuttle, one hike to the highway and 2 taxi rides, we made it to our hotel with our clothes on and no bruises or chains (we saved that for later).

But we really did have a wonderful time. One of our favorite destinations was the Love Stop Sex Shop – not really listed in Rick Steve’s travel guide, but definitely worth visiting. Unlike the seedy, dark places I.…ahem….have accidentally fallen upon, this place was well-lit, well-staffed and tastefully decorated. Ya gotta' love an elegant, sophisticated store in debauchery – kinda’ like an Apple Store of sex shops - a Sex Fifth Avenue. Of course, I wanted a souvenir! Tired of using my electric toothbrush as a vibrator, I decided something new and exotic was in order. And I discovered The Delight. Not only did it vibrate, it SUCKED.  I couldn’t pay for my shiny new Spanish dildo fast enough. After all, it certainly doesn’t suck to get sucked.

But all good things must come to an end and the time to fly home arrived. Looking forward to a good groping (pat down) from a handsome Spanish airport security guard, I instead found my carry-on bag getting all of the attention. After its ride through x-ray, the guard angrily pulled me and my bag aside and dug through its contents like a Gestapo on a 1944 train. He threw out some argon oil and kept excavating until he discovered….you guessed it….The Delight. Waving it high in the air like a sword in battle and shrieking Spanish accusations at me, it seemed he thought it was some kind of taser…..or weapon of mass destruction.

To avoid getting arrested and going to that Turkish prison Boy Toy warned me about I needed to explain myself. I didn’t know how to say “dildo” in Spanish and I was pretty sure it wasn’t in mini Spanish-English dictionary. Under other circumstances, I would have used charades and gestures to communicate, but I was afraid this kind of charade/gesture might be interpreted as a feminist-foreign-fuck you. I thought, “I’m fucked. And, worse yet, this thing is never gonna’ fuck me.”

While all this was going on in my head, a female security guard approached Dickomero (I’m pretty sure that’s Spanish for “male security guy”) and muttered something to him out of the side of her mouth and, though I can only imagine what she said, she had a knowing look on her face and a little twinkle in her eye. He slowly lowered The Delight and gently put it back in my bag. I think he may have even zipped it for me. And, like that, we were on our way back home – The Delight, the Boy Toy and me. But, somewhere in Spain that night, I bet there was a wife getting a LOT of questions…..

If you can't get to Spain this year, at least enjoy some Sangria with your girlfriends. It’s a fabulous beverage for your next girlfriends’ get-together. Maybe after a few glasses you'll want to practice flamengo! Here’s the recipe we love. Cheers!!


1 750 ml of red wine
1 lemon, sliced
2 oranges, sliced
1 apple, sliced
1 squirt Stevia
1/4 cup brandy
1/4 cup lemon cello
2 cups ginger ale, club soda or sparkling water


Pour the wine into a pitcher and toss in the fruit wedges (leaving out seeds if possible) along with the Stevia, brandy and lemon cello. Stir and chill overnight; add ginger ale, club soda or sparkling water just before serving. Poor over ice into glasses. Don't worry if some of the fruit drops into the glasses. 

Aug 3, 2016

Plunged into Plucking

Posted by Tonia at Wednesday, August 03, 2016 0 comments
By Tonia
"No, no, not by the hair on my chinny chin chin." – the three little pigs
At 62, my bad hair days no longer have anything to do with my hairdo. That happened in the ‘80s …. every …. single …. day. No, my bad hair days are when the multiple hairs on my chin have grown over night like they were fertilized and I don’t have tweezers. That is my new bad hair day. So while the hair on my head is thinning, my eyebrows are thinning and, hell, even my pubic hairs are thinning, I’m growing chin hairs! Mother Nature and Father Time are fucking with me – and not in a kinky, fun way. I’m starting to remind myself of a 14 year old boy sprouting his first beard. New dating rule: No dating anyone with less chin hair than me.
I mean, just as my eyesight is going, I have single, dark hairs emerging all over my chin that I can’t see. Is this some kind of cruel joke? How am I supposed to fix this??
So I’ve purchased a 1000x magnifying mirror for my Search and Destroy missions. And I carry tweezers with me everywhere. Tweezers are no longer just for the bathroom any more. I have them in my purse, in my desk drawer at work, in the glove compartment of my car and even outside with the gardening tools. The second I feel one of those tiny little stiff hairs trying to poke itself out of my skin, I rip it out. But sometimes the hair isn't long enough to pluck, so I just have to sit and rub it, trying to get it ready to pluck (Hopefully, I just look like I’m rubbing my chin in deep contemplation).

Sometimes I’m driving along in my car and I see one that I’ve missed. Then I start to panic. How many people have seen it? Did they simply think it was a stray hair from my make-up brush? Did my make-up camouflage it enough? WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME???
I’ve thought about shaving them but, if I shave my chin like I shave my legs, I’ll end up bleeding like I’ve amputated something. And those tiny pieces of toilet paper stuck to the bleeding spots don’t always match my eye shadow.
I’ve also considered the over-the-counter creams. They dissolve hair but they don’t always work on coarse hair and, if you leave it on too long, it can dissolve your skin. Great. Melting skin. Just blend it in with the wrinkles.
Then there’s waxing - hot sticky wax that rips hairs out by their roots leaving scarlet, angry skin behind. The trouble here (besides the angry skin) is that you have to let the hair grow out ¼ of an inch before you can remove it. Uh…..no.
I guess I may look into laser or electrolysis……..or just join the circus.

For your next girlfriends’ get together, consider checking out your area’s Groupons for spa deals! Smuggle in some white wine in your water bottles! And to those unruly chin hairs, I say, “Well, pluck it.”

Jun 14, 2016

Jacking with Packing

Posted by Tonia at Tuesday, June 14, 2016 0 comments
by Tonia
"Home may be where the heart is but don’t ask me which box it’s in.” – me
I’m relocating to Santa Fe in a few weeks. Moving was such great idea ….. until I started packing. Holy Hoarder! For every one box I pack, 3 more boxes worth of crap and shit appear. My moving date is approaching faster than a speeding bullet and there’s no Superman here to save me from this whacky packy. I guess I’m going to have to quickly make a LOT of new friends before my moving date (preferably really buff ones from a gym). Then I can have a packing party. I'll serve alcohol but it will have to be BYC (Bring Your Own Cups) because I can’t find mine.
I tried to get rid of some of this crap and shit at a Yard Sale a few weeks ago but every time a friend dropped by to see how I was doing, I had to grab an item she had given me and hide it. I ended up with a huge pile of gifted crap and shit in my shed. People can be so touchy, you know.
A few years ago I had a house fire and lost most of my possessions. Frankly, that sounds pretty damn good about now. Maybe when I get just a little more tired of packing I’ll convince myself that I really don’t like the rest of my things and just leave them.
The other day I was packing up some of the crap and shit and heard my cell phone ring from inside a box. It took me 30 minutes to figure out WHICH box because ….. of course ….. it quit ringing after a few seconds. And god only knows where I’ve packed the dog’s leash. I had to improvise with packing tape wrapped around his collar…..even made myself a cute little handle. 

I think I’m developing symptoms of Relocation Psychosis (RP – not RIP…..yet): auditory hallucinations of popping bubble wrap; nightmares of boxes climbing in the windows to entrap me; complete disorganization; difficulty staying on task. Is there medicine for this?
For your next girlfriends’ get-together……well, crap, I have no ideas. I’m too busy trying to stay away from the creepy boxes trying to get me........

Jun 2, 2016

The Selling of the Yard

Posted by Tonia at Thursday, June 02, 2016 0 comments
by Tonia
I’m getting ready to move out of state so I needed to get rid of some crap and shit. And, since its Yard Sale season (when entire neighborhoods have the opportunity to judge you for your belongings), I decided to join the ranks of the Yard Sale entrepreneurs. Not that I’m any kind of sales person, mind you. Hell, I couldn’t sell a bra to cross dresser. Or sunscreen to a nudist. But I needed the cash…..
STEP 1 was the terrorizing task of actually going through all my crap and shit. Instead of DUCK, DUCK, GOOSE, it was separate piles of CHUCK, CHUCK, SELL – through every drawer and every closet. I even ventured into the attic….which requires a ladder….which got knocked over when I threw down some crap and shit. And, even though I was physically above it all, the expletives coming out of my mouth were definitely beneath even me. Motherf^*ker! So I sat and sat up there until my sister happened by. She laughed hysterically and threatened to leave me up there ….. until she saw the stuck-in-the-attic-crazy-eyed look on my face.
STEP 2 was pricing everything. Ugh. What dilemmas! I couldn’t decide whether to price things according to my emotional attachment to them or to get them the hell out of my sight. I mean, how do I price Japanese toothpicks decorated as Geisha?
STEP 3 (well, not really STEP 3 but it really happened) was my girlfriend coming over the night before the sale with food to cook on the grill. Since we might or might not have had too much to drink, we ended up with some of her singed bangs on the meat. Later, when she went into the bathroom and found a pair of scissors, I heard her yell to me, “I guess it’s not a great idea to cut my bangs when I’ve been drinking!” Step away from the scissors, my friend. Just slowly back away……  And THAT was a Bangs Rescue.
STEP 4 (or 3 or whatever) was getting up at 5:00 a.m. for an 8:00 a.m. Yard Sale - and that awkward first meeting of the neighbors when your best friend shoos them away for being too early. Anna and her boyfriend ducked out of that scene to hang signs, but they either took a Tour of Tulsa or went to breakfast. She’s not telling. We didn’t see them for hours.
As we set stuff out, I considered throwing a sex toy in the mix just to see people’s reactions, but decided that the 2 blow-up men and kinky board games were probably enough.
STEP ?? was the actual sale. Lots of interesting people came by, including my 90 year old neighbor who bought shelves and talked a total stranger (another Yard Sale shopper) into carrying it to her house for her. (I took notes on THAT pick-up!) She also told us that the best thing about being 90 was that no one asked her for a ride or babysitting any more.
As the day worn on, Anna got into the Spirit of Selling (otherwise known Poverty’s Desperation). She started selling homemade cupcakes and a Dollar Store12-pack of water for $1 each. She proposed that I advertise $20 lap dances, but one really can’t do a decent lap dance with a Yard Sale money apron on. 
What I REALLY wanted to sell were the bags under my eyes, the hairs on my chin, and the flaps under my arms, but I may have to PAY to get rid of those!

For your next girlfriends’ get together, try a Lavender & Ginger Vodka Spritzer: 
Put lots of ice in a highball glass. Add:

3 oz. vodka
5 oz. soda water
1 drop of lavender oil or 2 sprigs of fresh lavender
1 slice of fresh ginger

Stir and drink!

Apr 18, 2016

My Mammogram Call Back

Posted by Tonia at Monday, April 18, 2016 0 comments
by Tonia

"Scientists now believe that the primary biological function of breasts is to make males stupid." - Dave Barry

I got a call back after my mammogram this year. That’s like an encore, right? Because the girls did so well? Not exactly. There had been a “change” in my right breast since my last mammogram and an ultrasound was needed in order to rule out…you know….

All kinds of things started to run through my mind. My mammogram tech and I had previously negotiated a safe word: could I use the same one with the ultrasound tech, would I have to create a new one or would I even need one at all? After all, rubbing my tit with some kind of object just seemed like kinky foreplay. Would there be handcuffs or ties on the table, too? Would I have to remove my glitter pasties? I just had so many questions!

I was supposed to make an appointment. But first I had to check my calendar to make sure there weren’t any big events coming up I wanted to be in a good mood for. Geez! I didn’t want bad news about my ta-tas to ruin a good time!  So I checked my calendar and made the GD appointment. 

As I was laying on the table flashing the ceiling, I started making promises to the Universe. “If this ultrasound is OK, I promise I’ll quit fantasizing about the lawn boy. I’ll quit texting and driving. I’ll stop posting inappropriate things on Facebook.” I’m not sure which promise worked but it turned out that the “change” was only a cyst – according to the dictionary, “a membranous sac or cavity of abnormal character containing fluid.”

“Abnormal character,” huh? Bahahahaha!

Extra “fluid”? Woo hoo! Fill me up! I just need a cyst on the other side now so I can save myself some money on implants!

Soooooo for your next girlfriends’ get together (great for breast cancer awareness month or if a girlfriend is going thru breast cancer treatment), play FREEING THE TA-TAS.

Directions: divide your guests into two (2) teams. Have one member from each team put on the exact number of bras as she has teammates – on the OUTSIDE of her clothing (for example, if there are 3 teammates besides her, she will put on 3 bras). Have the Bra Wearers stand about 20 feet away from their lined up teammates. When someone shouts “GO!” one of the teammates from each team runs to her team’s Bra Wearer, unhooks one of the bras with only ONE hand, takes it off and outs it on herself (using 2 hands this time) and runs back to her other teammates. The next woman in line then runs to the Bra Wearer and does the same thing. Continue until the one of the original Bra Wearers no longer has any bras on and the last team member has returned to her teammates. First team to accomplish this wins!

Mar 14, 2016

Colonoscopies: Giving a Shit

Posted by Tonia at Monday, March 14, 2016 1 comments
by Tonia

I finally decided to get a colonoscopy. Eleven years overdue, I’d run out of excuses. I know what you’re thinking – how come she has all the fun? Ugh. I’ve been looking forward to this about as much as a root canal or an IRS audit - even being buried alive in sand with ants crawling all over my head somehow seemed less dreadful.

But I did my research and found the cutest…..I mean, most competent gastroenterologist I could find. He had excellent reviews. Too bad he was just going to see me as an asshole.

I told some of my girlfriends I was going (BIG mistake). They joked that they couldn’t tell the doctor to go boldly where no man had ever gone before because that just wasn’t true. Dammit! I tell them WAY too much……

So the time got close and I started on my day of clear liquids. Chicken broth, tea, apple juice. Vodka. (KIDDING!) I can’t tell you the number of times I went to the pantry and ‘frig to get something to eat and then remembered that I was grounded. Grrrrrr…. Anyone who says fasting draws attention away from physical needs to spiritual concerns didn’t have MY growling stomach!

Then came the time to drink my first prep. Holy Mother of God, that shit was DISGUSTING! It tasted like some kind of salty, fermented cyanide……except that I didn’t die. I only wished I could.

And it was about then that I realized something was wrong with my car and I needed to call a tow truck. It took the guy awhile to arrive and during that “while” my intestines began to explode. Seriously. It made my most urgent urine stream seem like cute little dribbles. I can only describe it as the kind of force that one sees when testing fire hydrants. If I had been outside and bent over, it would have knocked down large pets and small children.

But the tow truck guy was knocking at my door. As soon as I could, I got up from the toilet and explained where I wanted my car to go. I said I would not be accompanying him, however, because I had to stay close to the bathroom. And THAT understatement, my friends, ranks right up there with Astronaut Jim Lovell’s, “Houston, we’ve got a problem” when Apollo 13’s oxygen tank exploded.

I’ll spare you the description of the next 14 hours but, let’s just say that at the end of it, no one could tell me I was full of shit. It just wasn’t true.

Anna drove me to the procedure. I wanted to draw a bull’s-eye around the target so the cute doctor wouldn’t mistake one of my cellulite dimples for my asshole. Or, at the very least, I wanted to write a message on my ass, “This isn’t my best side.” But, alas, it all happened so quickly that I had no time. I woke up and it was over.

So I did it. My results were good. Now everyone can get off my ass about it!

And, in honor of colonoscopies, for your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a Healthy Gut potluck. Ask everyone to bring fiber-rich foods, citrus fruits, and foods that contain probiotics (yogurt, miso, etc). Then honor the wisdom of your “gut” by talking about times when your gut feelings were accurate despite evidence to the contrary!

Mar 7, 2016

Don't Eat Me

Posted by Tonia at Monday, March 07, 2016 0 comments
by Tonia

“I would not drink bottles of water at my mom's house because I never knew how long she'd been refilling them from the sink and putting them back in the refrigerator.” – Dan Fogelman

Instead of a boyfriend I have a refrigerator. I have romantic moonlit walks to meet up with it secretly in the middle of the night. We understand one another.

But sometimes relationships have their ups and downs, ya know? Like boyfriends, the ‘frig looks cute and clean from the outside…….but, after awhile, deep within its compartments, it's just bad.

So the day I was fasting for my colonoscopy I decided to clean the fucker (cleaning out the insides of both of us). I would do a little more than just wipe off the front of the shelves. And, for the record, I do try to clean my ‘frig occasionally…..well, maybe 2-3x a year…..OK, maybe less. I don’t know. Let’s not get hung up on the details.

I actually have a theory about what happens to food in refrigerators - it gets sucked into a parallel refrigerator universe, not to be seen again for months…..or, in my case, years. Then it gets dropped out of that alternate universe and left for dead in the very back corner of the lower shelf.....and the middle shelf.....and sometimes the upper shelf. 

So, as I was cleaning and playing What’s That Vegetable, I wondered: when exactly does the edible become the inedible? When it changes colors or when it grows things or when it starts to smell? And at what point does a single woman’s refrigerator start to look like a frat house’s refrigerator? And why hasn’t someone invented disposable refrigerators? I pondered these things as I pulled my arm off some sticky stuff on the ‘frig walls.

In my cleaning, I discovered things from 2003 (threw those away). There were also Tupperware containers I wisely decided not to open because I had no gas mask readily available. I just pitched them, containers and all. I can buy more Tupperware later.

How does one know when it's time to clean the frig? Here are some clues (you're welcome!):

·       -----No light escapes when you open the door at night
·       -----You’d rather be hit by car than open the refrigerator door
·       -----You think you had an Elvis sighting in there
·       -----The vegetable drawer looks like an undiscovered rain forest
·       -----Something pulls the door shut from the inside

And, now that I'm finished cleaning the 'frig, I like to go into the kitchen just to open the door and see the brilliance! Maybe I’ll tackle the oven next……….uh..........well........nah!!

And, for your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a tacky left-over dinner party. Ask girlfriends to bring their left-overs or any food with the word “product” on the label (i.e. “pasteurized prepared cheese product”). Set out foods in aerosol cans (i.e. whipped cream, Cheez Whiz, etc.) and serve some kind of potted meat. Drink heavily!!

Feb 25, 2016

Angry Birds

Posted by Tonia at Thursday, February 25, 2016 0 comments
by Tonia

For several years sparrows have been nesting under the eaves of my roof. This “home inside my home” may be home-grown but it is NOT homey! It is an intrusive declaration of war - a survival of the fittest.

Those fucking birds are like dive bombers coming through the patio. I’ve had injuries trying to take cover.

And the incessant chirping of hungry baby birds at 4:00 a.m. is enough to make me want to be a gun owner.

And did I mention the bird poop all over my patio furniture? It’s like my patio table is an avian shit magnet!

And, my favorite fowl remnant - the occasional “dumping” (splatting) of a least-favored newly hatched naked baby onto the patio – usually in the early morning hours - so that I can step on it as I start my day. Yes, I’m a bird hater.

I’ve tried to keep those birds from nesting. Really. I’ve tried -

-- I’ve stuffed tubular inserts into the cracks of the eaves. RESULT: tubular inserts removed  and tossed on my doorstep as humiliating evidence of my defeat.
-- I’ve taped reflective psychedelic flapping-in-the breeze ribbons to the eaves to scare them. RESULT: wild dance parties with a disco ball and loud music.
-- I’ve put garlic and other bird-repelling herbs under the eaves. RESULT: garlic-belching birds flying by thanking me for the new bird food recipe.
-- I’ve tacked wire mesh over favorite nesting spots. RESULT: wire mesh reconfigured as a barbed wire fence to keep ME out.
-- I’ve left them notes that they are going to have to start paying rent if they don’t leave. RESULT: shredded notes as part of the nest.

But this year, with unseasonable warm weather for February, I decided I’d better declare war early. With just a few pieces of straw protruding from the eaves, I climbed up on my shaky ladder and caulked every single tiny GD space I could find under those eaves. It now looks like my roof has been glued to the house by a 2 year old.

After my caulking frenzy, I looked up to admire my handiwork and there were two birds sitting on the guttering near their former nesting spots. Glaring. No, SERIOUSLY glaring. I mean, PLOTTING REVENGE glaring. I ran into the house as fast as I could. I’ve created my very own angry birds. God help me.

For your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a slumber party and, in the middle of the night, instead of TPing someone’s house, move those bird nests to your arch-enemy neighbor’s eaves!


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