262 Days - I’m a Middle-Aged Voter (And You Can Too!)

As some of you may already know, the idea for that line was stolen from whom I consider to be the greatest satirist of this generation, Stephen Colbert. His book, I Am America (And So Can You!) delves into the views of his “well-intentioned, poorly- informed high-status idiot” character and it is a modern-day comedic masterpiece in my humble but oh-so-important opinion.

What does this have to do with the final year in my thirties and the struggle with hitting middle-age? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. And neither does politics at all, which is why I haven’t written any political posts up to this point and rarely reference politics in general at EveofForty.com (other than the obvious Palin slam from time to time, but I mean, come on… it’s Palin… it’s obvious). This blog isn’t about politics, although now that I think about it, getting older and experiencing life more does have an effect on how our beliefs can change/may change/will change, which in turn potentially sways our way of thinking when election time rolls around, so I guess maybe this blog can have a political post from time to time and it be considered “fitting” of the topic. I literally talked myself into that decision right then and there – right in front of your very eyes. You’re welcome. Oh, and God Bless America.

Two things happened today that were politically related and that gave me the idea for this particular post. Firstly, I voted. Yay me! Jury duty, here I come! And not only did I vote, but for the first time ever my eyes weren’t the only eyes on my ballot or the decisions I made as an American citizen. My votes were cast in the company of my six-year-old son as I decided it was time for him to see how our election system worked, and how our government was made. You know, the whole “We the People” thingy (Thomas Jefferson was a redhead, bitches!).  It was a proud moment for me as a mother. My parents had never taken me along and I thought it was important that Roman get a feel for what I hope he will take pride in twelve short years from now.

The second thing that happened today was that I got an email from my older brother, Steven. He is not the eldest of my siblings, but rather right smack in the middle. He texted me and said “I want you to read something” and the little envelope icon appeared on my phone not two minutes later showing that his message had arrived. “Circling the Drain” was the subject line, and by the sixth word I knew I was about to read one of his political rants. I was as wrong as I was right.

To give you a background on Steven, or rather, a background of our differences, let me start by saying that we do not share the same views when it comes to politics. He, a registered Independent and I, a registered MILF, usually go toe-to-toe when it comes to debating the decisions of our government, but what I always found intriguing about him was that he had what can only be defined as the skill to come off genuinely passionate about his beliefs without ever losing his head or his cool. No, Steve. I didn’t say YOU were cool (don’t let that get to your head!) but now that I’m speaking directly to you, I have always appreciated the way we’ve debated, and I think that the feeling is mutual, which is likely why you sent me the email today in the first place.  

The text continued with “I wrote this and sent it into the Inquirer, but they wouldn’t print it” which made me cringe at the idea of what on earth he could have written that the godforsaken Philadelphia Inquirer wouldn’t print it, but what I found after getting through his email was a well thought out, eloquently translated series of emotions, thoughts, and feelings about our government; present, past and future. I got to the end and felt something I’ve felt a handful of times before when it came to my brother: I felt it on the day he left for Air Force basic training, and on the day he graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy, and to be honest, on the day he admitted to himself that the woman he had married was not the right woman for him. I felt proud. Proud, not necessarily that his views were my views, but proud that he had expressed them in the way that he did. He texted me after I told him I read it and said, “Agree or disagree?” to which I responded, “Doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. It was really well written, and I’m going to post it to my blog under your name.” “Hey, thanks sis. Really? Wow. Thanks.”

So, you’re welcome, big brother… and, thank you. It won’t have the viewership of the Inquirer, but it will be read by the right people, trust me.

Circling the Drain, by Steven M. Riccio

In light of the upcoming Presidential election things will never get better in America, so don't look for it to happen and be happy with what you have.  Because the owners of this country don't want that. I'm talking about the real owners. The big wealthy business interests that control things and make all the important decisions.  Forget the politicians.  They're only there to give you the illusion that you have freedom of choice.  You don't.  You have no choice.  You have owners.  They own you.  They own everything.  They own all the important land.  They own and control the corporations.  They've long since bought and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the Statehouses, City Hall and they've got the judges in their back pockets.

They own all the big media companies so they can control just about all the news and information you see and hear.  They spend billions every year lobbying to get what they want.  Well, we know what they want.  They want more for themselves and less for everyone else.  But, I'll tell you what they don't want.  They don't want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking.  They don't want well informed, well educated people capable of critical thinking.  They're not interested in that because that doesn't help them.  That's against their interest.

They don't want people smart enough to sit around the table and figure out how badly you are being fleeced by a system that threw you overboard 30 years ago.  They don't want that.  What they want is- obedient workers.  People who're just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork, and just incompetent enough to passably accept all the increasingly terrible jobs with the lower pay, the longer hours, the reduced benefits, the end of overtime and the vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it.  And now they're coming for your Social Security.  They want your retirement money.  They want it back so they can give it to their friends on Wall Street.  And they'll get it.  They'll get it all back from you sooner or later because they own this place.  It's a big club... and you're not in it!

The table is tilted folks. The game is rigged.  We are circling the drain and nobody seems to notice and nobody seems to care that good, honest, hard working people, who're white collar, blue collar and it doesn't matter what color shirt you have on, of modest means continue to elect these rich elitists who don't give a damn about you.  They don't care about you at all.  That's what the owners count on.  The fact that Americans will probably remain willfully ignorant of the big, red, white and blue fleecing.  Freedom of choice?  Here are the choices you have: Paper or plastic.  Aisle or window seat.  Smoking or non-smoking.  Pepperoni or plain.  The owners of this country know the truth.  It's called the "American Dream" because you have to be asleep to believe it.

264 Days - As if Wrinkles, Grays, and Saggy Boobs Weren't Enough

Raise your hand if you’re nearsighted. Cool. I am, too, which means I came to grips with wearing glasses back in about 1985, when it was not cool, not hip, not trendy, and not awesome to do so. Age twelve is tough enough standing all by itself without throwing Olympic gold medal-sized glass discs in front of your face. And while my mother insisted they made me look beee-yu-tee-ful, the phrase “boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses” became a living, breathing way of life for my already awkwardly-tall framed and gruesomely short-haired pre-teen self. I was a looker, all right, and man, glasses were definitely the cherry on top.

Fast forward about 23 years…

Was it the 2008 election? Was it Tina Fey’s character on 30 Rock? Was it Tina Fey playing a contender in the 2008 election? Jeebus only knows, but by 2008, glasses had become hip again, or actually a better way of putting it would be to say that they became sexy. And while I was no longer twelve years old with A-minus-sized boobs (I like to call them “concave”), bad hair, and acne covering more of my body than the once German Empire, I felt as if I was finally able to feel comfortable, and even kind of hot in my specs. That is, until this month, when the ultimate sign of aging came crashing down upon me like an Eagles fan who had been granted a face-to-face meeting with Andy Reid after the 2011 season.

Not grays. I’ve got those. Those I can handle and quite frankly, I work ‘em.

Not wrinkles, either. They don’t bother me. In fact, I’m rather proud of showing those off.

Not achy joints.

Not a weak bladder.

Not a lower tolerance for alcohol.

Not even saggy boobs.

This week, I walked into my local pharmacy to have a quick conversation with the lovely gal behind the counter who made a few recommendations and pointed me to a rack that contained everything I would need for this step in my aging life. So I stood there, wiping away the tear that fell from my left eye, and picked out what would be for me the hardest purchase I would make (hopefully) for years and years to come. I walked over to the register, paid, walked out into the Georgia summer sunlight, and opened up the bag to try on my brand new, black-framed, lowest prescription available, chain-store purchased…

Reading glasses.

Why is it that something so small and so realistically unimportant in the grandeur of life can become so heartbreaking to a woman who is not even forty? Why would glasses bother me when they hadn’t bothered me in years? I’m not twelve any more. I’m not unpopular. I’m not fighting to stay alive because I’ve been bullied every goddamn day at school. I made it; I’m here. I did what I set out to do and continue to face the challenges before me with strength, positivity, and determination, so why would a $15.99 pair of plastic Foster Grants break me in such a way that I’ve succumbed to tears? I’ll tell you why… because I can no longer see the people and things I like to see when they are purposely close to my face. I can’t look at the freckles that are multiplying daily on the nose of my beautiful 6-year-old boy. I can no longer count the reddish eyelashes that trace the blue eyes of my two-year-old daughter. And I now have to back up after my husband has kissed me so that I can see the sincerity and truth in his face. The examples above are the heartbreaking signs of aging. I’m not afraid I won’t be sexy or I won’t be wanted or I won’t look good, because getting older isn’t always hard because you think that you’re losing your looks or your appeal.

I’m not afraid of wearing reading glasses, but I am scared to death of getting old, and it’s not about being vain; it’s about missing out.

275 Days - 39 Tidbits and Realizations by this Thirty-Nine-Year-Old Woman

1.       Sitting “Criss-Cross Applesauce” isn’t as comfortable as it used to be, even if you take yoga twice a week.

2.       Sex on top will result in screams due to Charlie Horse-style cramps as opposed to multiple orgasms.

3.       You spend more money on anti-wrinkle/anti-aging/anti-drooping/anti-crease creams than you do on shoes, which is the first time since you got your first job at 15 that you spent more money on anything other than shoes.

4.       You’ll never be 30, or 25, or 20, again. Or 15, thank God.

5.       Midriff shirts make you look like you’re trying too hard to look young, even if you take yoga twice a week.

6.       Taking yoga twice a week doesn’t feel nearly as good as you think, but walking out of the house wearing a sweatband and carrying a water bottle, with the mat under your arm while your young, hot neighbor is mowing his lawn shirtless keeps you doing it. OH, and your husband likes it, too. (Love you, honey!)

7.       Your ass looks thirty-nine. Actually, your ass looks forty-nine but you kid yourself into thinking it looks thirty-nine so that you can still shower naked instead of in that wetsuit you thought about buying.

8.       You’re not forty-nine. Yet. Whew.

9.       You can’t believe you actually debated on whether or not you would let that pesky cavity go without being filled so that you could pay for lip injections that you didn’t need.

10.   You have gray hair, and you’re getting over it.  

11.   You are running out of time to spend with the people who mean most to you.

12.   “Granny Panties” aren’t nearly as repulsive looking as you once thought they were.

13.   Wearing three padded bras to bed every night for a year will not keep your boobs sticking out straight no matter what that sixty-year-old, big breasted lady you met at TJ Maxx told you. 

14.   It’s okay that your husband has a lot of lady friends as much as it is okay that you have a lot of guy ones. It’s just who the two of you are.

15.   You can’t eat pasta four nights a week and keep a flat stomach.

16.   Three drinks means you’re drunk. Period.

17.   You have to wear your reading glasses when plucking your eyebrows if you don’t want to end up looking like the picture your six-year-old drew of you with a crayon… when he was three.

18.   Big hoop earrings do not take away from your laugh lines.

19.   You are thrilled that you are not old enough to be a grandmother because your kids won’t reach puberty for another 8 years.

20.   You don’t have control over everything that happens in your life, and you finally, FINALLY get that.

21.   You stop referring to people who are fifty as “old.”

22.   You have refrained from slapping the young girl in your office who complains about turning thirty in two years at least six times by now and you still don’t feel good about it. Refraining, that is.

23.   Spanx are fucking expensive.

24.   You saw the original Clash of the Titans when it came out and like it way better than the crappy remake.

25.   A breeze that sneaks up your skirt still makes you horny but not as horny as it made you a year ago.

26.   You finally think Sean Connery looks old and you want to cry when you think about that.

27.   You realize your hands are starting to look old and you want to cry when you think about that, too.

28.   Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, and Christy Turlington are 46, 42 and 43 and that makes you feel AWESOME since no matter how hot they still are, you are still younger than they.

29.   Hashtags confuse you but you use them to act like you know what you’re doing. Seriously. WTF are they for?

30.   You find yourself dreamily thinking about what the kids in the clubs are dancing to these days before you head to the bathroom to scream and to vomit.

31.   Living vicariously through your best friend’s gorgeous younger sister on Facebook has replaced watching The Daily Show as your favorite thing to do after the kids go to bed.

32.   You admitted to yourself finally that thong panties are just outright fucking uncomfortable.

33.   You stopped putting on your high school prom dress once a year just because you could, but because you still could, you did it one last time.

34.   You’re still the youngest of your siblings and you’re still getting away with murder because of it.

35.   You’re feeling pretty confident in the appearance of your second chin because it’s not the appearance of your fourth.

36.   You now want to have sex more because you’re afraid that one day you’re going to wake up and not want to have sex any more.

37.   You want to shake twenty-something-year-old girls who are clearly being played by twenty-something-year-old boys a la Cher in Moonstruck… “SNAP OUT OF IT!”

38.   You will never—ever—have a 24-inch waist, again.

39.   You’re…. not…….forty.

278 Days - A Nude Attitude

It’s Sunday afternoon, and Sean is probably rolling back into the Gulf Coast Florida town where he and his family are visiting his momma right about now. They drove from L.A. to the East Coast last week, as they do every year, to hang out with friends and family, and to fish, and hunt, and laugh, and frankly, to live. Sean knows what it is to really, truly live. Shit doesn’t bother him, at least, not when he’s around us. Nothing fazes him. Arm lost in a threshing accident? No biggie; he’s got this one he can use. Black bear knocking on his door? Rad, man! Look how fuzzy that thing is! So when Todd asked Sean if he would make a special trip up to Atlanta while he was on the East Coast to take tasteful pictures of his naked wife (moi) Sean didn’t bat an eye, and not because Sean wanted to see me naked because honestly, he’s seen naked a shitload more women a lot more smokin’ hot than little ol’ me. Sean said yeah because it was the Sean thing to say. He’s in it for his friends. He’s in it for the adventure. He’s in it for what will inevitably be a great story in the end which will add yet another layer to his already badass, passion-filled existence. And he’ll walk away not even knowing that the people whose lives he just affected will be changed forever. Sean Murphy may have done what most of my life’s advisors were unable to; he showed me by way of example how important it is to take a step back from what you’re doing, think before you act and take in what exactly is going on while being in it while it is. Moments. I’ve typed that word and spoken that word and shared that word so many times in recent months, but yesterday I applied it to my life along with a whole new attitude about what the future holds. So today, in the form of photos from yesterday’s shoot by the wonderful, talented, and non-religiously spiritual Sean Murphy, I share with you… The Moments of Eve.

No nude photo shoot prep should be complete without plenty of wardrobe changes (steamed and hung), accessories, heels, makeup, and of course, Jose Cuervo:

Sean took some ridiculous shots in the process of prepping, but since 90% of the photos aren’t for public consumption, I’ll share with you the few that can be shared here, and as you may have already guessed, that will be pretty much the way it goes for the rest of the post. 

Presenting, hair and makeup: 

Now, this first set up was genius. I swear I have no idea how photographers see ahead of time what idiots like I couldn’t in a million years. Todd played the role of key grip and did a great job of also snapping some of his own behind-the-scenes shots with a second camera. Here’s what Todd and the rest of the world would have seen if they walked in on the first series of photos being taken:

And here, prepare ye those with a weak heart, is what Sean saw in his mind:

I hardly believe that’s me. Seriously. Who IS that??? Holy SHIT – that’s ME!!!!!!!! This is about as risqué as you’re going to get today though kids, so gawk it up while you can, ‘cause Todd was being drunkenly kind in letting me even use this as fodder. But how could I not? Come on - that might be the hottest picture I have ever taken/will ever take in my existence. Screw "might." Replace immediately with "is." I seriously still can't believe that's me.

Okay, so, the idea of this next series of pictures came to Sean on the spot, yet they’re my favorite images from the day. In his mind, they were to look sort of retro/70's. Todd said something about it looking like it could have been Natalie Wood, only not drunk or dead from drowning. I kind of agree… it totally has that throwback feel, doesn’t it? Oh, and by the way, this is the part where Sean sees my boobs. The Cuervo helped, I think. Honestly once the bra was off and I saw that Todd wasn’t uncomfortable it kind of just became clinical. Like I said, the man didn’t blink. Fucking bastard.

I’ve got to admit I thought I was going to get cold nipp... uh, feet! But once it was all out in the open, which happened rather quickly, it really was second nature. Nude is cool, man. I think every one of my gal pals out there needs to do this before you get really old and really wrinkly. This is it now… I’ve been memorialized and hey, you can get memorialized too!

Here are a couple of fun shots taken with Todd’s dress shirt and tie and not a whole lot else. Wish I could show you more, but, you and I might both pass out if I did:

Kind of has a whole Aaron Sorkin/Newsroom feel to it, doesn’t it? Except people are naked and have wedgies from thongs. Yeah. It’s like that. Anyway, the next two shots are by far the most gorgeous of the day. The two people in these photos are strong. They are filled with a desire to keep real love going, and they want, more than anything, to be better people and better to people, every day. For those yet to experience the madness, the wonder, the greatness and the pain, this is what love looks like:

Sean also did a bang-up job of grabbing some close-up images throughout the day. A shoe here. A thigh there. The occasional ass crack. It was awesome. He took a fair amount of headshots too, Here are a few of Todd's favorites:

Nice, huh? Now do you see why I was so excited about doing this thing? When we sat in our living room last night in front of Sean’s Mac going through every image (thousands) from the day, it was as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I was looking at myself like I hadn’t ever. I mean, yes, I modeled and I’ve had some really beautiful pictures taken in the past, but I have never been on the eve of forty before, so this – this thing with the lingerie and the nakedness and the boobs and the sexy poses – this was all new to me at THIRTY-NINE years old because it's all new at thirty-nine years old. These moments were being created and we were living in them simultaneously – Todd and Sean and I – we were all in it and living. It was beautiful in more ways than I can define and it really happened; I was there.

To close out the day we stood in the middle of a field with the sun in just the right position, the wind at just the right angle, and the mood with just the right amount of perfection. Sean had yet another vision that he was going to turn into a work of art, just as he had done with every vision before. This time, however, it would be about water and wind and feeling a little like a hippy. And just as we had expected, Sean had created a masterpiece once again.

Thanks to the one and only Sean Murphy, and thanks to the man who loves me most – my gorgeous, unbelievable husband, and thanks to you guys for showing interest in my blog and my story and this journey and the whole concept. Doing this thing was so much fun with all of you coming along with me.

Here’s one final look and the last leg of Eve’s shoot…

281 Days - Defining, Refining, and Redefining “Family” – A Dedication

I have never seen a single episode of Modern Family, which is probably odd to all of you because of my expressed adoration of the gorgeous Sofia Vergara (who is no longer on the Eve of Forty but rather celebrated her 40^th this week! Happy birthday, Sofia! Feliz Cumpleaños!) and because it probably seems like it would be my kind of show – filled to the brim with sarcasm, gays, and sexual innuendos (cue Julie Andrews singing “These are a few of my favorite things…”) but, I have often found myself going against what the flock does because I have always felt the need to do things differently.  I’ve pretty much convinced myself over the years that if everyone likes it, I’m not going to, even at times to the point of neglecting myself of a great album or a well-written book. I haven’t read 50 Shades of Gray. I don’t watch Jersey Shore. I didn’t eat acai berries. I couldn’t tell you a single Katy Perry song title. It’s just not who I am, which is why when everyone and their mother told me that I absolutely HAD to watch Modern Family, I did what came naturally to me… I didn’t. But I’m wondering, today, right now, if I should lighten up and bite the bullet, because today, the interpretation of what makes a family was different than it was a week ago.  

How many of us are closer in heart, spirit, and commonality to non-blood-related individuals than we are to our own children, parents, or siblings? I dare say many, since this post from a few weeks back tallied some of the most views on this blog since I started writing it. I cringe when I think about the words “next-of-kin” because I’m hyper-aware of the fact that some blood relatives are, more often than we’d like to believe, not the people who we would want beside us on our death bed. I mean, what if you don’t like the way a sibling raises their children? They are, after all, next-of-kin – blood relative – so if you and your spouse were to suddenly pass in a horrible accident with no last will and testament drawn up prior, know that your child will be raised exactly how you would have never wanted them to be, simply because you shared some DNA. It’s not fair, is it? What if you believed your cousin to be a better parent, or rather, had a parenting style that reflected your own, or your best friend did, or even a good friend who had children your child’s age? It would only seem right that they be the people who raised your child, but without that piece of paper stating your wishes, prepare for little Bobby to go bear hunting with your younger brother Ted… you know, the guy who smokes close to three packs of Camels a day and stopped visiting his dentist because he thought that the man was working with the Obama administration to implant recording devices into his cavity fillings. The same brother who wears his “Barack is Hitler” t-shirt and camo shorts to church and gets applauded. That’s him, yeah. Tell little Bobby to say hello to his new daddy.

Next-of-kin, smext-of-kin. Fuck it, I say! As Forrest Gump might utter, “family is as family does,” and it’s time we purified our families and our lives so that we can be healthier in mind and soul and live out our days as a member of a happy unit worthy of our presence, our dedication, and our love.

First - define your family: Ask yourself what family means to you. Who is family? Who is worthy of your family? Is it only your parents? Only your siblings? Or does your immediate family include cousins, friends, and in-laws? Are you related by blood, are you related by love, or are you related by both? And are you – and this is a tough one – worthy of them and worthy of being included in their family?

Next - refine your family: To refine means to purify – to remove the bad parts and impurities so that all you have left is a substance not unlike gold. Get rid of the poisons. Cleanse your life of the sickness. Remove those who are unworthy. Forget that they exist. And by all means – and I’m mostly talking to you, Catholics – DO NOT LET GUILT STOP YOU.

Last - redefine your family:  Now that you have figured out both what you want and don’t want in a true family unit, go ahead and make yourself a new type of family tree. Seriously, get some paper and draw it out. Make each branch the same length. Make each root just as strong. And on every leaf, add the individual name of those you want to include. Sisters. Cousins. Step cousins. Brothers-in-law. Neighbors. Friends. Colleagues. Mentors. Aunts. Godparents. Children. Spouses. Parents. Step-parents. Grandparents. Pets. And when you are done, step back and take a look at what you’ve created. It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it? A tree rooted by love, watered with the tears that were shed by those who loved you most when they felt you were in pain, or laughed with you most when you were at your happiest. A tree that stands alone, free of vines that might hold it back, but that isn’t really alone at all because each individual leaf is as much a part of it as its limbs or its trunk. A tree that grows in sunlight filled with all that is beautiful, and all that is true. A tree that never finds itself in the dark, or even in the shade, and that will lose a leaf from time to time. But don’t worry about those losses; new ones will always grow back.

This is your tree. This is your family. You threw out the old cliché of “you can’t pick your family” and went ahead and picked your family. And you did well… you did really, really well. And your family loves you, and cries with you, and feels with you, and laughs with you, and no matter what, your real family will be there.

285 Days - Being Comfortable Naked: The Road to Your First Boudoir Photo Shoot

As I mentioned in an earlier post, turning forty has awakened my senses and dared me to try things I might never have otherwise dabbled in. I’ve pole-danced and will again, three more times (at least). I’ve rock climbed, though, I had rock climbed in my thirties so I’m not sure if that actually counts. I’m running my first 5K (up to 3.4 miles now) and hope to run many more after that. I’m writing this blog with the intention of turning it into a book for those who, like me, will struggle with turning the “F” word. And this week, I will bare all in what I know will be a fantastically staged photo shoot showing off several of my most prized possessions… my boobies, to name a few.  

So how does a person prep for having their naked body photographed? Well, they must start with the right photographer… in this case, one of my husband’s best friends.

Enter, one Sean Murphy.

If you don’t know who Sean Murphy is then you betta ask somebody. This man, in my humble opinion and without being hyperbolic, is one of the greatest and most talented photographers alive right now, as well as being an awesome father and fantastic friend. His work, without exaggeration, is mother-fucking-shit-kicking-stupefyingly-bad-ass. He has taken photos over the years of some of the biggest and most well-known music artists in existence: Green Day, Tool, and Tenacious D, to name a few. And check out this picture of my all-time favorite fuck-worthy redheaded front man, Josh Homme. Tell me this doesn’t scream talent. And sex. And more really good sex. It does, trust me. I had three orgasms just writing about it. Needless to say, THIS is the guy I want taking pictures of me in flagrante delicto, because if anyone can make this thirty-nine year old ass look good, it’s this guy.

So now that you’ve got the man behind the camera, what’s next, you say? Well, to put it bluntly, you. You’re next. Your ass, particularly, is next. So get off it, and get to the gym, because the camera doesn’t lie, baby. And if you Google image “boudoir photography” right now, you will see several pictures of several women in several poses who SHOULD. NOT. BE. And you should spare yourself and your photographer the embarrassment if you think you’re just going to roll out of bed, completely unprepared to do this. Don’t waste your money, his time, or my eyesight. Ya dig? Cool. So let me tell you how you do this thing…

First, eat right. Even if you are not Ms. Universe, and believe me, you don’t have to be, you should be taking care of your body and your booty anyway. Fruits and vegetables will go a long way, as will cutting out the pasta, breads and unnecessary carbs. And by all means, just put the doughnut down, will you? You don’t need it. Life is goddamned too short to waste on processed or fried foods, unless of course its fried chicken and waffles, but you are only forgiven for that if it’s a once in a while thing and if you are visiting the South.

Next, try your best to do some sort of cardio. Walking is great for you, and if you can grab a friend, do it together. Even if you lose five pounds before you do this thing, YOU will feel better and YOU will have more confidence. No photographer wants to take pictures of someone who is embarrassed of their body, and weight loss makes everyone feel good, no matter how many or how few pounds you drop.

Get a haircut. Nothing says cheap and easy like split ends, so unless you’re going for the “cheap and easy” photo package, call Du-Wayne at The Cutting Edge, or Hair and Now or whatever cheesily named salon he works at these days and get your shit snipped. You’ll thank me when it’s over. And tell his boyfriend Steve I said hello.

Get a pubic haircut. I know, I know… I wrote those two blogs about my horrifying experience with a bikini wax, but the reality is, if your coochie is going to be on film, you may as well go through the agony of defeat. It is, after all, probably the only time you’re going to do this. Unless you’re me, of course. I’ve got another coming up in the fall.

Photo Courtesy: St. Louis Boudoir Photography

Invest is some penis-hardening lingerie. You read that correctly. I didn’t try to hide behind any metaphors with that sentence, as you can plainly see. What I said was what I meant. Lingerie is great for photos but sucks for sex, right girls? Right. So if you know that, then do what is necessary and mosey on down to your local boutique/boudoir shop and pay some of those dollars that you earned for something beautiful; something downright fucking hot. No skimping, you hear me? Save the great buy at Dots or the Dollar Store panties for your one-night stands and break out the good stuff for Sean Murphy. He’ll appreciate it. And so will your man, or your woman.

And finally, have a drink, for fuck’s sake. Take the edge off. Pop half a valium if you must, but for deity’s sake, REFUCKINGLAX. This isn’t your first time having sex, and it’s not your first day on your job… it’s you, and your body, and you are in control of all that goes on during this thing. You call the shots, which is probably something you’re not used to, but today, right now, you do, so revel in it.

Now go, you sexy bitch… go show the world what a hot, 40-year old mother of (insert number here) looks like when she’s in the mood to rock your world and blow your mind (I said MIND), and wish me luck, as I’m about to do the same in seven short days.

287 Days - The 40th Post! An Interview with the Four Decades of Eve

To celebrate the fortieth post on this blog I thought it might be fun to do an interview with, well, me, but not just me… me at ten, twenty, thirty and (eve of) forty. Here’s how it all went down…

Q: Hey there, Barbara. How are you today?

10yom: It’s Barbara Ann. Fine.

20yom: I’d be better if I could afford that dress I saw in the window of Guacamole on South Street. They are SO overpriced. Maybe I’ll skip paying my rent this month and get it anyway.

30yom: I’m AWESOME! My boyfriend is the greatest, I’m going to the gym twice a day, and I’m as horny as ever!! LIFE IS AWESOME!

40yom: Meh. 

Q: Okay, great. So, let’s start with setting the scene, shall we? Describe to your (our) readers what exactly you look like. 

10yom: What’s horny mean?

20yom: I’ve got grey eyes, I’m wearing a dark purple French Connection floor length frock, fake Doc Martens, a black German cross choker on my neck, and I’m bald. Happy?

30yom: I’m tan – very tan – and very fit. I weigh 120 lbs, have long dyed-auburn/brown hair, and wear heels and designer jeans everywhere I’m able. 

40yom: Well, I’m not tan, and I’m not bald, and I’m not ten, so there’s that, but I am fit after two kids, and have long hair that I stopped dying shortly after 30yom answered that question, so needless to say, it’s graying, but not quite gray. I’m starting to get laugh lines and the skin above my eyelids is starting to fall, but overall when I look in the mirror, I’m pretty happy with what I see. 

Q: Perfect answers, thanks. So, your (our) readers want to know, did you ever think a day would come when you would be writing this blog, or, any blog whatsoever?

10yom: What’s a blog?

20yom: What the fuck is a blog?

30yom: I don’t have time to write a blurg with yoga, the gym, my two jobs and flying to Atlanta to visit my boyfriend once a month. What’s a blong, anyway? OH WAIT! Blog! BLOG… that’s like a web diary or something, right? Yeah, okay… I’ve read some of those. That’s the hot thing now. Maybe one day when I’m old and boring I will.

40yom: Yeah, I did. Well, maybe. I mean, I wanted to, and I had tried to in the past, but I guess I never thought I’d be writing this particular blog, though. Don’t get me wrong… I’m glad I am, as it’s been a fun, fun ride so far.

Q: It sure has. Before we really get into it, can I offer you a beverage? A beer, perhaps? 

10yom: Ewwww, no. Smells like Daddy.

20yom: A beer? I’m under age, you idiot. Got any wine coolers?

30yom: Um, no. Don’t ever offer me a beer. Ever. I wouldn’t be caught dead with one of those, especially in public.

40yom: While I’m enjoying getting in touch with my inner-hipster these days, I’m going to have to agree with 30yom and say, um, no. A Malbec, a Rioja, a Napa Cab or an old vine Zin will do nicely, thank you. Yes, I’ve become just that pretentious in my old age. And yes, the look you see on my face means “bite me” in several languages, none of which I speak. 

Q: This question is for the adults in the room, so 10yom, you’re going to have to cover your ears. Where is the craziest place you ever had sex (cue famous dating game scene here)?

10yom: LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA (breath) LALALALLALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA

20yom: On the bathroom sink at the Hard Rock Café in New York City last year.

30yom: The Michael’s Arts and Crafts parking lot in Buckhead. Hey, I’m 30.

40yom: What’s ‘sex’?  I kid. A lady doesn’t kiss and tell. So, I’ll tell you: The Vatican Museums. OH I KID AGAIN, I KID AGAIN!!!! I just wanted to hear the Catholics in the room all gasp at once. It was awesome. 

Q: That was Evil, but good to know. So, last question… where do you see yourself in ten years? 

10yom: I’m going to be a marine. That’s what I want to do. Or a hairdresser.

20yom: OH. MY. GOD. WHY would you make me have to think about being thirty? It’s SOOOOO OLD.

30yom: Hey! Fuck you!

20yom: Oh, sorry. Forgot you were there. Where do I see myself at thirty? Well, I want to own a clothing store in Old City called Blue Window, and every day at 1:00 pm, on the catwalk that runs down the middle of the store separating the menswear from the ladies wear, there will be a fashion show. The lights in the store will dim, and house music will start playing. It will be like a club, but it isn’t. The windows of the shop will be tinted blue and the clothing will all be either denim or fabrics that are blue in hue.

10yom: I know I’m only ten, but that’s dumb.

30yom: Well, I’m 30-year old you, and I agree with 10-year old me. Dumb.

40yom: MY TURN NOW, GIRLS. Continue this conversation in my brain sometime after the interview, okay?

30yom: Uh, HELLO? Damn, I know you’re old, but apparently you’re senile, too. It’s my turn to say where I will see myself when I’m you, remember?

40yom: Sorry. You’re right. This better be good.

30yom: (ahem) When I’m forty I expect to be living somewhere other than Philly. I will have travelled more and will be working somewhere and raising my child. Or maybe, kids. And I will have gotten my law degree.

40yom: Three out of four ain’t bad, kid. Not bad at all. OKAY… NOW it’s my turn. Where do I expect fifty-year-old me to be? Well, I expect her to be a MILF, still, of course. I expect her to have paid off her house and her credit card debt; however, I trust she will still spend money on the finer things like shoes, wine and lingerie. I think she will be a better mother, a better wife, and a better person. And I believe she will be very grateful to the old, but very good friend who helped her publish her first book.

20yom: (weeping) That was so beautiful. I’m going to start writing so that we can make that happen.

10yom: I am too.

30yom: Me too. We deserve it. 

40yom: Yes… we do.