muffy bolding

(Gorgeous photo by Brassai. Of course.)

DEAD. ON.

Oh, and a little hint for all you marvelous broads out there who write me asking where you might find your own elusive set of OVARIES:

A large part of that happiness and contentment is that I really and truly — and with ALL of my heart — no longer require ANYBODY’S approval. Nor do I require them to like me, love me, validate me, acknowledge me, or in any way anoint me with their authority. I strive, every minute of every day, to be the absolute best, kindest, most genuine person I can be. But, beyond that? I HONESTLY DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT ANYONE ELSE THINKS OF ME…except ME.

Do you have ANY IDEA, as a woman, how absolutely liberating that is? As a writer and as a human being, that freedom leaves me WIDE OPEN — and I am not talking about being weak, vulnerable, and without self-protection. I AM TALKING ABOUT BEING A WIDE OPEN, FULL-THROTTLE CONDUIT FOR ALL THE BEAUTY AND PASSION AND GRIEF AND JOY AND ART AND SADNESS AND ENLIGHTENMENT AND LESSONS AND LOVE AND COMMUNION THAT THE UNIVERSE CAN MOVE THROUGH ONE PERSON IN ONE LIFETIME. I am talking about being FEARLESS, motherfucker.

You see that chubby little trollop up there? Yeah, the one with the wry smile and about a million character flaws. Well, she’s the best that I’ve got to offer today, Saturday, May 7th, 2016. Deficiencies, damages, faults, and folly. Chin whiskers, glorious gunt, Florida Evans Neck, and all. That’s what I got today, people. That’s what I’m sellin’.

Don’t like her? Don’t approve of her? Don’t find her your particular cup of tea? No problem.

FUCK OFF, LADY.
xoxo

C’mon, now. Look at these photos.

Countless BEWITCHED men have EAGERLY UNFURLED THEMSELVES AT HER TINY, SQUARE, FILIPINA FREDDIE FLINTSTONE FEET…like DOTING, DEVOTED, ROLLING OCEAN FOAM hurls itself endlessly at the shore.

Yeah. Miss Sandy is a SERIOUS PIECE OF ASS.

And, yeah…I CLEARLY take after MY FATHER’S PEOPLE. Thank you for noticing.

At any rate…in The Most Pulchritudinous Mother In The Whole Wide World Contest…sorry, but MY FATASS WINS.

Happy Mother’s Day to the FIERCE, FABULOUS, TALENTED, MAGICAL, AWESOME broad who taught me to knit when I was three, as well as mop a kitchen floor THE CORRECT WAY (on your ruddy hands and knees, Bitches), cast an astrological chart, sing like Eydie Gorme, comfort a fussy baby, organize a linen closet at 3 am under EXTREME duress, wear fine perfume, and prepare Hamburger Helper for 17. That stunning, glamorous dame pushed me (and EIGHT other humans) into this world through her MAGNIFICENT FILIPINA BAGINE when she was still just a kid herself…a bagine she still douches with Scope Mouthwash. THINK SHE DOESN’T?

I love you, Mother! Thank you for bringing me to this place! Whatever magic that exists within me…MOST ASSUREDLY CAME FROM YOU, Pussy.

This morning, I was casually going through the pantry, getting rid of stale boxes of Cream of Wheat and expired cans of jellied cranberry sauce from 2005. I grabbed a big box of Cheerios and opened the top to see how much was left (not much)…and then I saw it. I slowly sat down on the linoleum floor and wept big, sad, silent tears…all by myself.

Nestled alongside the cereal bag at the bottom of the box, in a sealed plastic wrapper, was a little black and yellow toy race car. Untouched. Unfought over. Unstashed. Untreasured. No sticky little raccoon fingers had eagerly dug it out, with absolutely no intention of eating the accompanying grain hoops. No bickering had ensued over this small, 10 cent piece of plastic. No one had fought to the death to possess it, like the legendary Plastic Battles of days gone by.

It is mine now, this little toy race car. It will sit in a place of great honor on my desk…to remind me just how fast it all goes by.