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A guide to married sex in your 40s

Twenty somethings- listen up. Twenty years from now, sex is going to be really different. Especially if you get married and have kids. I don’t know what single person forty something sex is like. You’ll have to ask someone else.

But almost middle aged sex (forties count as middle aged right?), is really different. Some might say lazy and infrequent. I say, simplified and comfortable.

First there’s foreplay. There are two kinds of foreplay. The Race Track and the Camp Fire Starter.

The Race Track is when you’re laying on your side away from your husband. You ask for a back rub. He reaches out one arm and traces what feels like a figure eight. He continues with this pattern for about 10 times and then says, “there, how’s that?”

Wow. That’s, uhm, excellent. I feel SO relaxed. It was just like the spa.

The Camp Fire Starter is when you’ve both gotten in bed on each prospective side. I call this, the safe zone. I lie on my side, he lies on his. He decides to explore the slight possibility, we’re talking slim here, that I might be ‘interested’. He ventures out of the safe zone and daringly puts his hand on my pajama covered knee and rubs back and forth. It’s a random kind of thoughtless motion. Nervous back and forth, back and forth. The friction starts to cause heat and sometimes sparks fly. Not those romantic sparks. But actual static electricity emitted from the flannel.

I then joke, “are you trying to start a S’mores cookout here, or would you like to get busy?”

Next. Lube.

I don’t know what else to say but you will need it. Peri menopause makes your lady box like a beach. A sandy and dry beach. Even when you think you might be raring and ready to go. It’s a dehydrated box of fruit leather.

Now let’s move on to position.

Not positionS plural, no. Position. There’s really only one. I like to call it the side by side. It’s a way I figured out how for both of us to be on the bottom.

Sad, huh?

He’ll say, “Dontcha want to get on top?”

I’ll say, “Uhm not really. How about you?”

Him, “I’m kind of tired. It’s good, you go.”

Me, “I think it feels better with you on top. You get up.”

Him, “I’ll lay here and you turn to the side.”

Me, “Oh, this is genius. We can BOTH lay down and do it!”

There’s an actual part of me, the part that is from the neck down, that wants to just have sleep sex. I think it would be awesome if we could just have intercourse with our minds. I’m sure some evolved person like Sting, or Gwyneth Paltrow has come up with a way to do this.

It would be the perfect lazy person sex. Mind sex. Didn’t the movie Judge Dredd with Sandra Bullock have them do that? Or am I getting my 80′s pre-Speed era movies confused?

So let’s review-

Race track and Camp Fire are the two kinds of foreplay.

Lube is necessary because your lady business is like a food dehydrator.

One position is all you need. The side by side.

And there is your Guide to Married Sex in your 40s. Don’t get too excited now.

Oh, and after you’ve copulated and are enjoying a cigarette, be sure to read your copy of I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE.

What? You didn’t expect me not to plug the book did you?



Frugie matches Ashley Wagner’s amazing faces

Well, at least I try to.

My fabulous friend Jen at People I Want To Punch In the Throat  pointed out to me that the US Olympic women’s figure skater, Ashley Wagner has been highlighted for her lively expressions in candid photos. Someone else Jen knows is also very expressive in photos. Hint- that person is me.

The original article can be seen here- 38 Amazing Faces of Ashley Wagner- presented by Puffs

I felt I could really relate to this girl. She doesn’t hide behind any fake smile or glassy expression masking her true feelings. She puts it out there. I love a girl who can do that. So regardless if she wins gold or not, I have decided that she’s my favorite. And to honor the Olympics in my own way- I have come up with a montage of how similar I am to Ashley Wagner. Not as an Olympian. No. Of course not. But as a regular person, doing regular things with a little flair. A little oomph. Maybe with a little leotard and lycra too.

Also, being side by side in photos of a world class athlete 20 years younger and 20 points less on the BMI charts is a little daunting. Go easy on me please.

So here you go:


Ashley giving a heart felt performance at the US Nationals last month. Here, I’m just being overly dramatic vacuuming.


Ashley not happy with her 4th place finish at Nationals. Myself, just crying at Downton Abbey again.


Ashley just being cute after her scores in the World Championships. Me, oh that’s when I said, ‘oops, I guess you’ve got carpool tonight’, to my husband.



Here, Ashley is cheering on teammates at Sochi. I’m just dreaming of a self-folding dryer of the future.


Probably the most popular of all the Ashley faces. She wasn’t so happy with her scores for her short program in Sochi. I on the other hand have been told that the cat threw up on the dining room table. Again.


Ashley emotional from her heartfelt performance. That’s me, just crying into the laundry basket.

Obviously Ashley is very pleased with a performance. I’m just pleased that I got the Nespresso going.

What’s on that mannequin? Yes, you did just see that.

Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was a very precocious, inquisitive little girl. Okay- this girl is Emma. Let me just put it out there now. She is/was and will always be wicked smart, clever and with a wit that smacks you up side the head.

For example- Many years ago, she and I were shopping at the mall. I stopped in to Victoria Secret to purchase some of their bras on sale. We were standing in line. She was 5 years old. There was a mannequin placed near us where we were standing dressed in the usual VS lingerie. She takes the waistband of the underwear on the mannequin pulls it out and peeks down inside the panties. Snapping them back, she looks at me and says, “Why don’t mannequins have hair down there like you mommy?”

***pause for comedic effect***


Are you still laughing? I’ll give you a minute…..

Fast forward to today. American Apparel has placed in their New York store window display, get this- mannequins with pubic hair!

The 5 year old Emma would be so thrilled!

American Apparel is a very uhm, shall we say, fashion forward, clothing company. First there was their period tee. I’ll let you just click on that and it can sink in.

Then there is the window display like this:

American Apparel pubic hair mannequins

photo credit

To be honest with you, I don’t have a problem with this.

Here’s why.

I’m used to seeing a garden area on a lady. My own! Never waxed, never will.

What’s the big deal about a toupee shoved inside lady’s underwear? Come on, this is what it looks like, admit it!

Hey, Donald Trump called, he’s looking for his comb-over.

It’s liberating to know that between these mannequins and Cameron Diaz’s declaration for not removing pubic hair, we can know that the movement of ‘au natural’ is approaching.

Somewhere there’s a mannequin wherehouse in India figuring out how to add extensions to the crotchal region of their mannequins.

Small forest creatures can stay warm inside display windows in Manhattan.

We can now have more awkward conversations with our kids waiting in line at department stores if this catches on.

How has this not already happened in Europe?

Who is in charge of keeping those bushes tidy and tangle free on those mannequins?

I’m guessing that in 20 years those mannequins are going to resemble the Midge Barbie that still sits in my doll case from childhood with what looks like a lump of fuzzy plastic pubic hair on her head.

Well sorry. Not sorry.

We can’t be ashamed of some pubic hair. Come on people. This is how nature intended it. Embrace your hairiness. Or schedule an appointment for a Brazilian. You decide.

My question- what is next then with male mannequins? Oh Lord…. I see a blog post in the future…..

Mannequins with pubic hair- it's true

A new year, a new you! More like, a same, slightly older and fatter you

Ugh. Stop it. It’s only January 7th and I’m already tired of all the frikkin’ diet articles and headlines on magazines.

Sure it’s US Weekly and In Touch or whatever, not Popular Mechanics or Golf Digest, but still, ENOUGH!

I admit, I like a juicy rag mag like the rest of us. What else would I read while sitting in the orthodontist’s office waiting for Emma to get her headgear adjusted?

It’s all WEIGHT WEIGHT WEIGHT.  And we’re buying this shit folks!

Or at least my orthodontist is.

We are so weight and image obsessed in this country that it’s forced me to write this post.

I could just go on my merry way eating donuts and making makeup tutorials, but NOOO, they have forced my hand. It must stop.

We need to just embrace who we are. We don’t need to be size 0 and having paparazzi snap our pics while vacationing in Cabo. That’s fantasy land.

So yeah, back to the New Year. Everyone wants to lose weight for the New Year. Me? Not so much. Nah. I’m good. I’ll lose some weight for St. Patrick’s day. Yeah. That sounds about right. This way, I’m almost on my way for getting ‘bikini ready’ for summer. Excuse me while I roll my eyes at the phrase ‘bikini ready’.

Basically people, this is the truth we are facing. The New Year hasn’t brought us a new you/ us. It’s just still – us. Totally the same. In fact, a few days older.  Nothing magic happened when the ball dropped from New Years Eve 2013 to New Years Day 2014.

Sorry. Hate to break it to you.

And sure, we’re feeling a little guilty about all that fruit cake and crockenbush we ate. No, that’s not a euphemism for something on HBO, that’s a Martha Stewart delicacy. What? You didn’t make a giant crockenbush for your family holiday gathering? What’s wrong with you?

So maybe I partook in too many donuts and rounds of cookie butter toast and coconut milk lattes with my new Nespresso machine I bought myself as a Black Friday gift to, well, myself. No one else is out there getting me Black Friday gifts! Somebody had to!

But right now, most of the country is deep in witch’s tit freezing cold temps. I mean, we’ve got #Chiberia going on people. When it’s 10 below zero and they are cancelling school because it’s that cold, you are going to be glad you had that extra spritz cookie. Maybe the fudge your best friend brings you every year seemed lonely in that cookie tin all by itself. Think of it as insulation now. You’re welcome.

You don’t need to drop those few extra pounds just yet. Give it awhile. How do we know if Snowmageddon ’14 isn’t finished yet? What if #Chiberia spreads into Chantarctica 2014? Be prepared.

So with that I leave you with my good wishes for 2014. Be healthy? Of course. Exercise? Definitely! Worry about bikinis? NO!

And gosh darn it, have another cookie. You’re looking cold.

 Frugie New Year slightly older you

The pinky pin comes out- video!

Remember when I broke my pinky? You can read about it here. The skinny was; I broke my pinky, had surgery, and they put a pin in it.

Yesterday was the day when they took out the pin. They just yanked it out basically.

I knew this would be entertaining, so I had Emma join me and video tape the whole thing.

The video is full of all kinds of colorful moments. They even let me take home the pin.


Click on the picture to take you to the video.

Frugie gets her pinky pin out

Preparing your home for holiday house guests- Frugie style


Use closets, the garage, the office and the master bedroom to hide all the shit that’s been piling up all year. I’m talking about the kids’ Easter baskets and trick or treat bags; you know what I’m talking about.

Practice the phrase, “And I just cleaned it this morning, and look at it already!”

Fill your house with wafting, tempting scents that will distract guests. Like bacon.

Put out plenty of alcohol, spirits and alcohol. This is also a good distraction.

Wear clothing that isn’t covered in pet hair.

Remove the bra from behind the couch cushions your teenager shoved there one night while she was watching YouTube. (What? 13 year olds get tired of those things too you know!)

Try to remove cat or dog hair from the butter dish. This is hard, I know.

Do a quick once-over to check for any ‘surprises’- used band-aids, underwear and popsicle sticks shoved under the coffee table or on chairs. Trust me on this. The day you don’t check for that stuff is the day it will be your son’s band aid face up on the chair Aunt Susan sits on and she’ll have it stuck to her skirt unknowingly.


Stupid Christmas commercials like cars with bows and jewelry on the tree.

This post originally was published 2 years ago. But I figure it deserves an encore. My feelings haven’t changed.

You know those commercials where the wife goes outside on Christmas morning. It’s snowing, she’s dressed perfectly with makeup on like a Kardashian, and everything, probably wearing a pretty mohair sweater, that’s white, yeah, cuz moms always wear fuzzy, WHITE sweaters, and there sits a new SUV with a big red bow on it. Or the jewelry commercial where the guy is hanging the ring box on the tree and says so smoothly, ‘ OH, what could THIS ornament be?? Why, maybe YOU should open it’.  Gag.

If you find those commercials nauseating too, raise your hand. Thank you.

I’m not sure why those jewelry and car commercials at Christmas time drive me batnuts. Is it because that will never happen to me? Am I jealous? I shouldn’t say never. Maybe one day, James and I will hit pay dirt and he’ll buy me a Mercedes for Christmas and put it in the driveway with a big red bow. And Hugh Jackman will step out of it with a cup of espresso and whisk me away to Australia to be on his Oprah reunion special. I’ll be so happy and grateful, Oprah will ask to be my friend and then Gayle will get jealous and run off with Steadman. Then Oprah will just have to adopt me (and my family) because she’ll be alone and need a friend. We’ll move in to her Chicago mansion with all her dogs and read books and have Dr. Oz over to talk about our bowel movements. It will be so. much. fun.

Instead of ridiculous commercials that only cater to a small, and I mean, small demographic, let’s have a commercial where the husband gives his wife a carpet steam cleaner and an Ov Glove, or a Ped Egg. Her eyes will well up with tears and she’ll offer to do all kinds of ‘favors’ for him. Or maybe he gets her a Victoria’s Secret nightgown that’s see-thru, she can only wear when the kids are in bed and she feels like lounging in underwires and shiny, cold satin. That would be a very realistic commercial. Really.

To James’ credit, one Christmas he did give me diamond earrings. It was the Christmas Owen was a baby. Sort of a delayed Push Present maybe? If I remember correctly, I had a sinus infection and bronchitis that Christmas, which I did pretty much every Christmas the children were little. I didn’t have make up on, I was in some kind of fuzzy jammies with teapots on them, and had one of those heated rice pack thingys on my head to relieve the sinus pressure. I think I asked him to turn OFF the video camera as to NOT document this moment in history since we didn’t want to traumatize our children in the future should they happen to find the tape and see mommy with suitcases under her eyes, no voice, and heat pads on her head. No makeup, no white mohair sweater. nada. zip.

It’s okay. I’m not bitter or anything. Really.

There’s more to Christmas presents than jewelry and luxury automobiles. There’s gifts that can’t be bought in stores. They’re made with love and glue. Lots of glue.

When I unwrap one of those gifts that the kids make in class with their school picture hanging in a foamy wreath, or a  pipe cleaner tree, THOSE are the ones that make my eyes well up with tears.

I’ll take those over diamonds and German engineering any year.

It just wouldn’t be Christmas without swearing under the tree

We have a fake Christmas tree. Maybe Martha wouldn’t approve.  I’m okay with that. Some families go to tree farms and cut down the tree themselves. Some go to a tree lot and pick out the best looking, least Charlie Browniest they can find.

We used to do that. And then there was the year James brought the chainsaw into the living room, and something had to change.

We never did the tree farm thing with the kids. Just the tree lot. We’d drive down the two miles to the fruit stand that sells the Christmas Trees in December. It’s right across from the Starbucks, that we would visit afterwards, or before, or both. The guy at the lot straps the tree on top of the minivan and off we go to decorate it. It’s like Norman Rockwell. Or the Griswolds. I don’t know if the Griswolds paid $95 dollars for their Fraiser Noble, but we did.

Emma and Owen were smaller. Probably 7 and 4.  They knew what bad words were. Like ‘shit’ and ‘damn’. We tried to keep it innocent. Mostly. That would all change at the holidays.

Now, the tree strapped to the minivan was at least 8 or 9 feet tall. We wanted it grand in front of the living room window. It was also about 7 feet in diameter. And so pokey with all those pine needles. They don’t call them needles for nothing.  We, James and I,  mostly just James would lug the tree through the front door and shove it into the tree holder. This would take a lot of screaming on my part, because of the pokey needles, and that  it weighed 400 pounds at least. Getting it just so, in the hole with the screw thingys all tight meeting in the middle. This would work very easily with a 5 foot tree, about 4 feet in diameter and with a trunk only about 6 inches. This tree we got, had a trunk about a foot wide. Clearly our tree isn’t going to fit. But what’s hard about realizing this, is you are still holding this 800 pound tree (it gets heavier with each minute that passes) with all the pokey needles in your hands and up your nose and stuff. You can’t just lay down a 9 foot tree in your living room. Well, you can, but then your couch will probably have sap all over it and pine needles all over the carpet. Which are anyway after it didn’t fit through the front door and it needed to be shoved over the threshold. So I stood there holding it up and James says he’ll be right back. Meanwhile the children are anxiously putting ornaments on it while you are holding it, and you’re telling them now is not the time to hang Rudolph on the branches and that Daddy is going to fix it so we can get the tree to stay up without mommy holding it up. So BACK OFF. I mean, ‘Go watch Dora for a minute sweeties’.

So the part I haven’t told you yet, is the colorful words that come forth from daddy when the tree doesn’t fit. I don’t know why he’s the one swearing. I’m the one holding the 1200 pound tree. But I’m not swearing in front of the children, because that would be wrong. When he returns to the living room, he is holding a chainsaw. Or was it a circular saw? It was a power tool with ‘saw’ in the end of it’s name. I think it plugged in instead of using a pull string to start it. So maybe it wasn’t a chainsaw. Either way, it looked dangerous. And dirty. And not something that belongs in my living room.

Laying down the tree-very carefully-(because I am NOT holding it anymore since power tools are involved).  James starts cutting the crap out of the bottom of the stump to fit it into the tree stand. There’s wood chips flying everywhere. It was working. Sort of. What was this tree made out of, metal?  It was very loud and I worried that he wasn’t wearing protective eye wear. I think there was a knot in the branch that was at the bottom of the tree. It would be nice if the tree guys could whittle it down like a pencil to fit perfectly in the tree stand. But that’s hindsight I guess. So James fought that knot in the stump with valor. It had no chance. Eventually.

Once we heaved ho-ed it into the stand, screwed in the screws at the bottom, took turns standing across the room squinting to see if it was straight or not, James got the pleasure of getting the massive spider’s web nest of tree lights out of the bin to find that probably 3 out of 5 strands had dud bulbs in them and he needed to go to the hardware store anyway. More swear words. At this point the children have learned the finer language of truck drivers or sailors, or long shore men- just pick a profession that swears a lot and that is what the children learned.

So, to make a long story, kind of longer. We decided that even though it might not be eco friendly- totally sentimental, or even have that piney smell, it was time to get a fake tree. We didn’t care that they were made in China, that you paid about $400 for a decent one. We just wanted to save Christmas from the litany of profanity that came with the tree. It was our duty as parents.

So the next year, we packed up the kids and drove to Ace (it’s about a half mile from our house) and picked the display model that was discounted for only $150 (a steal!) and, you guessed it, went to Starbucks after to celebrate. The cool thing about most artificial trees is they come pre-strung. The lights are all good to go. You pop it together, plug it in and voila, O Tannenbaum.

Now Emma says when we put the tree up, “It’s just not the same without daddy swearing.” Cheeky.

My first impression of the Kanye West music video

Emma had seen this video and insisted I do a first impression. She knew it would be a jaw-dropper. If you haven’t seen it, just google it. I won’t link it here, because it doesn’t need my help passed it’s 10 million hits.

I will say, I was not impressed. Is that the best Kanye can do with all his millions and self-proclaimed Jesus status?

Oh well, I hope you find my commentary entertaining. There’s nipples and Coyote and Roadrunner.

And now I’m off to watch the spoof with Seth Rogan and James Franco. But watch my video first!


Guest Post- Mom’s New Stage

Keesha is my sister from another black mister. She and I go together like ebony and ivory. Okay, enough with the jokes. You get it. As different as we are on the outside, we have so much in common on the inside!

I got to see her for the first time in person at BlogHer and then I liked her even more.

When I read this post of hers back in January I knew I felt a connection. She had just posted on Scary Mommy’s website. Oh boy. I know just what she went through. People had a field day on her for her frank discussion about her husband. I’ve been there. I know.

So with that, I give you, her follow-up post to the Scary Mommy post that caused such a kerfluffle. Here’s where it begins:


I had a big thing happen this weekend — a guest post on Scary Mommy, one of the biggest mommy blogs on the Internet!  

Huge right?

Ka-bam!  I tried to be deferential, saying that I wasn’t talking about all men, and that many husbands, even fab dads, fell into some of the described categories.

Many, I’ll say most, moms saw both the humor and truth in the post.  A few dads were offended, but one softened after I replied to his comment explaining my position — that while some dads might be a bit inept, many moms were professional worriers. 

Still, a few folks, people standing on soapboxes with the Washington Monument up their you-know-whats — got really offended.  Great, now I’ve got two posts that have made people want to gather up a mob and chase me off the Interwebs!  One chick even said she would stop reading and following Scary Mommy because of little ol’ me! Thankfully Lady Scary Mommy comes to her guest bloggers’ defense and bade this gal good riddance, followed by, “don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”  

Can I get an Amen!

Now some readers, when they see a post criticizing dads, sneer, “Oh that mom thinks her s–t don’t stank.”  

As if.  

Most women blog because they know they are far from perfect.  And anyone who knows me, knows that I could teach a graduate level course in self-deprecation.  

So that’s why I’m responding to one commenter’s suggestion/dare, to do a post called: 

10 Things About Me that Suck for My Partner.  Here goes:

1.  Hello, Mrs. Double Standards!
I’ll give him the eye for eating that ice cream with chocolate sauce.  Hello, Cholesterol issue? Do you want to be here for us in twenty years? Then I, the Root Canal Queen will go polish off a bag of a sleeping -bag’s worth of gummi bears.

2.  I change my mind more than a toddler.

Me: What movie should we see? The historical one.  We should see it because it will be up for an award. 

Him: Okay sounds good to me. 

Me: No, lets see the funny one.  I need a good laugh.

Him: I do too.  Okay, let’s see the funny one.

Me:  But, we’ll be bummed when we’ve seen nothing at award season.

Him: Okay, I’ll get tickets for the historical one.

Me (running in while he’s ordering tickets):  No, no, I’m feeling depressed – let’s just see the funny one. 

Him:  (#@$%!)  Grrrrrrrr

3.  The incredible blame-shifting woman.  

In the above scenario, if the funny movie sucks out loud, Hubs’s should have foreseen its suckiness and prevented me from changing my mind. Now we’ve thrown $20 bucks and 800 calories in popcorn into the crapper and it’s all his fault.  And, if he is anywhere nearby and I can’t find something — surely he put it somewhere!!  And when we are late, guess who was dilly-dallying?

4.  The Rollercoaster of Love (Ooo-ooo-ooh!).  
For two weeks a month I am on top of the world. Then for two weeks I careen between angsty teenage girl and Cruella deVil. It’s a wild ride.

5.  It’s my way or the highway.

There is one way to do things.  Just one. No room for interpretation when you fold shirts or load the dishwasher.  

6.  I fight dirty.

I curse a lot (I’m from NYC, what do you want from me?) and than includes little tiffs.  I can take a talk-it-out and turn it into something that would make Ol’ Dirty Bastard and three street hookers want to find a priest and go bathe themselves in religion.  

7.  The Human Cyclone. 

When I enter a room, I throw off shoes and sweaters, spraying them around the room like hot soup in a blender.  I open magazines I have no interest in.  Including financial ones that might as well be written in Sanskrit. 

8.  You work for me now buster…

With two little kids, the house might be a mess most of the time, but when company comes over, I go berserk.  I go buy a bunch of new decorating items, and order Hubbles around demanding that he convert trailer park squalor into an upscale sale-ready townhome on HGTV.

9.  So You Think You Can Dance, Mutha—-a?  

         Awkward dancing earns you anything from no reaction at all to a bemused smile to an outright grimace.  But… when I bust out all kinds of ridiculous moves — the running man, the cabbage patch, bad jazz dance party– I require enthusiastic belly laughs and fan worship.  I mean, I get paid to move, right?  Be grateful, whydontcha?!!

10.  The most impatient woman in the world.

When I ask for help with something, I mean now!  In a couple of minutes I could have done it myself.  And he will find that I have done just that, if he has waited too long.  

So there you have it Sr. M.  I met your little challenge. I aired my dirty laundry.  I may sound like I need meds, and maybe I do, but I’m also a person who’d do anything for her friends and family.  I’m smart and funny and when I decide to change out of my momiform I clean up real good. 

And, sir, you couldn’t handle me for five minutes.  
Thank you Keesha for helping me during this ding dang time of my one-handedness after finger surgery.
You can find more on Keesha here-
Before her two children re-choreographed her life, Keesha was a professional dancer who performed in the U.S. and in Europe. Today she is a modern and jazz dance teacher in the Chicago area. She is also the human cyclone behind the blog Mom’s New Stage. A multitasker at heart, she shows fierce skills at simultaneously writing, choreographing, checking Facebook and Pinterest updates, playing the role of a mother named Joan “Kumbaya” Crawford, and overcooking food. Her writing has been featured on the Huffington Post, BonbonBreak,, and recently in the bestselling anthologies I Just Want to Pee Alone and You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.