Ms Lona-Lee has taken a long leave of absence. Too many things to do and too little time and the blog seemed the most expendable.
Honesty forces me to confess that not all the time away from the writing was other work. I’ve hung up my online stilettos because I’ve found a real time friend. God certainly works in mysterious ways considering how I was introduced to him, but let me not look a gift horse in the mouth.
A conversation I had over a glass of red wine with a man who had had quite a bit of Bell’s on his toes outlined the next great debate: what if Freud were wrong? Popular understanding of Freud’s theories suggest that the good therapist thought women had penis envy. BUT, asks Ms Lona, what if Freud got it backward and the envy was that of men for the vajayjay?
What if the preoccupation so many men have with coupling is not about grown-up relations but about recapturing the feeling of being encased in the womb? What if it is less about recreation and more about drawing on the enormous energy that runs from the centre of every woman?
I don’t think I’ve ever seriously wanted to be a man, although in jest I’ve said that in my next life I’ll come back as a man. In the advantage/disadvantage test that a sensible woman puts every decision through, the upside of being a man is so much less than the upside of being a woman.
For example: macho bull crap switched on 24/7, tears switched off permanently, asking for directions when lost switched off, scratching genitals in public switched on, affection for other men only allowed during sporting events switched on, intellect required to change a nappy switched off - permanently – where’s the upside?
The upside of being a woman far exceeds the advantages of being a man. Tears allowed 24/7/365, asking for directions obligatory, touch-touch allowed for everyone all the time, intellect allows nappy changing while ironing a shirt and vacuuming the carpet – where’s the disadvantage in all that capability?
If men want to recapture the womb’s embrace, what is it that women want? Could it be that for women sex is the equivalent of connecting to the primal source of life?
Is that my phone ringing…? YES! Woohoooooooo!
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Outing of Ms Lona-Lee
Monday, 27 July 2009 – a momentous date in history.
Ms Lona-Lee outed herself.
The hefty weight of the guilt I have felt in lying to Little Mister finally crushed me. I couldn’t stand looking into those innocent, limpid brown eyes to nod whenever he asked, as little boys do, “So, mom, since you are 39, you were born in 1970, right?”
Drat having a nine-year-old son who mastered simple addition.
If not for those effing teachers at his primary school, Ms Lona was good for go into a sunny and perennially youthful future. But sadly, several years ago, after I had been 36 for more than a decade, I was forced to move onward (and spiraling in depression downward) to 37 when Little Mister reminded me, in the warm glow and first flush of his learning that having a birthday means adding one more, that Ms Mom was NOT 36 any longer but was compelled, kicking, screaming and weeping to own up to 37.
One bad turn deserved another and, of course, the following year Ms Lona was reminded that now Mommy Dearest was 38 until this year when I was told in no uncertain terms that undoubtedly, no debate permitted on the topic, I was 39.
Alas, the weight of the 10 000 fleas in my nostrils, a curse from my ancestors who saw age as a blessing and a journey to wisdom, was too much. I couldn’t lie to my son, forcing collusion from Little Miss, my siblings, my friends and even Mr Dad and Other Mom, any longer. My conscience forced me to out myself.
“Darling One,” I said to Little Mister, warning Little Miss with a teary wink, a nudge and a trembling lip that a confession was about to erupt. “Mommy has a confession to make. When I said I was 39, I was only jo… lying to you. I’m really sorry. It was a joke with your aunties and Little Miss. Mommy is really…(hand to my brow, prolonged dramatic pause while I worked up the courage)…57!”
A fit of uncontrolled giggles. Uproarious laughter. Of course, he said, I was joking. Mentally, I increased Little Mister’s allowance by another R100 a month, doubling his paltry R100 to R200 in a nanosecond.
“So if you think I’m lying NOW, how old do you think I am?”
Brief pause, wheels turning, rapid calculations and guesstimations made.
“35!”
Mental note, every nine-year-old boy needs at least R300 per month allowance in these inflationary times.
“No, Mommy really is 57, and I am really, truly sorry that I lied. “
“It’s okay, Mommy.”
“But, Sweetest Thing, you know that when a lady gets to a certain age, she is allowed to decide what age she wants to be and Mommy has decided that even though she’s supposed to be 57, she’s going to be 39 from now until forever. Even when you are 85, Mommy is still going to be 39. Can that be our little secret?”
“Sure, Mommy.”
That went rather well, I thought.
And then, today, in the usual round of ‘how was your day’, it was discovered that our little secret has been shared with his entire fourth grade class, including his teacher, and his best friend’s whole family.
So much for secrets, thinks Ms Lona in disgust. Seems all it took was a lolly and he simply cracked!
And yet Little Mister believes that his so-not 35-year-old mom is the prettiest mom in his school and also the one woman in the Universe who knows everything worth knowing. Little Miss lost that concept of Mom around the age of 14, and I know that the days of Little Mister being positive that Mom is fantabuliciously wonderful are numbered, but his absolute belief in my beauty and wisdom now warm me to my very core.
I don’t quite need to iron my face yet before putting on the MAC or pin up metres of loose folds of skin before I climb into something slinky. The teeth and hair are still original equipment with not a grey hair in sight – no thanks to Little Miss and her shenanigans. Any cellulite on my thighs is no more nor worse than that on the limbs of the most lithesome of Little Miss’s nubile friends. It doesn’t take crack to get me up in the morning or keep me going at night.
So I’m finally and for all time out and proud.
At 57, I have gloriously survived years of what I thought would kill me but didn’t and I’m still looking for love in all the wrong places and having a damn fine time doing it. The 30- and 40-somethings are the ones winking and blinking in awe on the dating sites while the 50-somethings seem intimidated by an age-mate who has earned her own status in the workplace, crumbling castle and 1,5 horse-drawn pumpkin – a slightly battered but strong as hell babe who doesn’t need their bank accounts, babies or validation to know that she is some kind of wonderful just as she is. Think Tina Turner, Cher, Susan Sarandon and a host of others as the prototypes.
A historic moment – Ms Lona finally embracing the ‘me’ she discovered on the road less travelled..and that has made all the difference.
Is that my phone ringing…?!
Ms Lona-Lee outed herself.
The hefty weight of the guilt I have felt in lying to Little Mister finally crushed me. I couldn’t stand looking into those innocent, limpid brown eyes to nod whenever he asked, as little boys do, “So, mom, since you are 39, you were born in 1970, right?”
Drat having a nine-year-old son who mastered simple addition.
If not for those effing teachers at his primary school, Ms Lona was good for go into a sunny and perennially youthful future. But sadly, several years ago, after I had been 36 for more than a decade, I was forced to move onward (and spiraling in depression downward) to 37 when Little Mister reminded me, in the warm glow and first flush of his learning that having a birthday means adding one more, that Ms Mom was NOT 36 any longer but was compelled, kicking, screaming and weeping to own up to 37.
One bad turn deserved another and, of course, the following year Ms Lona was reminded that now Mommy Dearest was 38 until this year when I was told in no uncertain terms that undoubtedly, no debate permitted on the topic, I was 39.
Alas, the weight of the 10 000 fleas in my nostrils, a curse from my ancestors who saw age as a blessing and a journey to wisdom, was too much. I couldn’t lie to my son, forcing collusion from Little Miss, my siblings, my friends and even Mr Dad and Other Mom, any longer. My conscience forced me to out myself.
“Darling One,” I said to Little Mister, warning Little Miss with a teary wink, a nudge and a trembling lip that a confession was about to erupt. “Mommy has a confession to make. When I said I was 39, I was only jo… lying to you. I’m really sorry. It was a joke with your aunties and Little Miss. Mommy is really…(hand to my brow, prolonged dramatic pause while I worked up the courage)…57!”
A fit of uncontrolled giggles. Uproarious laughter. Of course, he said, I was joking. Mentally, I increased Little Mister’s allowance by another R100 a month, doubling his paltry R100 to R200 in a nanosecond.
“So if you think I’m lying NOW, how old do you think I am?”
Brief pause, wheels turning, rapid calculations and guesstimations made.
“35!”
Mental note, every nine-year-old boy needs at least R300 per month allowance in these inflationary times.
“No, Mommy really is 57, and I am really, truly sorry that I lied. “
“It’s okay, Mommy.”
“But, Sweetest Thing, you know that when a lady gets to a certain age, she is allowed to decide what age she wants to be and Mommy has decided that even though she’s supposed to be 57, she’s going to be 39 from now until forever. Even when you are 85, Mommy is still going to be 39. Can that be our little secret?”
“Sure, Mommy.”
That went rather well, I thought.
And then, today, in the usual round of ‘how was your day’, it was discovered that our little secret has been shared with his entire fourth grade class, including his teacher, and his best friend’s whole family.
So much for secrets, thinks Ms Lona in disgust. Seems all it took was a lolly and he simply cracked!
And yet Little Mister believes that his so-not 35-year-old mom is the prettiest mom in his school and also the one woman in the Universe who knows everything worth knowing. Little Miss lost that concept of Mom around the age of 14, and I know that the days of Little Mister being positive that Mom is fantabuliciously wonderful are numbered, but his absolute belief in my beauty and wisdom now warm me to my very core.
I don’t quite need to iron my face yet before putting on the MAC or pin up metres of loose folds of skin before I climb into something slinky. The teeth and hair are still original equipment with not a grey hair in sight – no thanks to Little Miss and her shenanigans. Any cellulite on my thighs is no more nor worse than that on the limbs of the most lithesome of Little Miss’s nubile friends. It doesn’t take crack to get me up in the morning or keep me going at night.
So I’m finally and for all time out and proud.
At 57, I have gloriously survived years of what I thought would kill me but didn’t and I’m still looking for love in all the wrong places and having a damn fine time doing it. The 30- and 40-somethings are the ones winking and blinking in awe on the dating sites while the 50-somethings seem intimidated by an age-mate who has earned her own status in the workplace, crumbling castle and 1,5 horse-drawn pumpkin – a slightly battered but strong as hell babe who doesn’t need their bank accounts, babies or validation to know that she is some kind of wonderful just as she is. Think Tina Turner, Cher, Susan Sarandon and a host of others as the prototypes.
A historic moment – Ms Lona finally embracing the ‘me’ she discovered on the road less travelled..and that has made all the difference.
Is that my phone ringing…?!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Arctic Cold and Intimacy
Ms Lona-Lee had a productive if Arctic-cold weekend.
Little Mister was off to Mr Dad and Other Mom with Child of My Heart 3, but Little Miss kept the home fire burning while I shivered and shook in a weekend workshop.
My Saturday night movie was aborted – tickets were sold out for the early show and I wasn’t prepared to risk frostbite to wait for the late show. My fear of amputated digits was a blessing in disguise – chapter 3 of the much vaunted romance novel is now ready for editing.
This morning Ms Anonymous 2 SOS’d that she was stuck on the highway and what was I doing? Actually, preparing for a date! BUT, never blow off a girlfriend for a man - GFs stick around much longer than most men in my experience and anyway, who said it was an either/or situation?
An hour and a half later, after depositing Ms A2 safely at home, I nibbled a light lunch with a lovely man – we’ll see how it goes. Most definitely a keeper, if only as a friend.
And why DO we refer to platonic friends as ONLY friends? The world’s a tough place. Who doesn’t need all the good friends they can muster?
The word ‘intimate’ has come up in my conversation quite a bit lately and I’ve been asking myself what exactly that means. Some people think ‘Let’s be intimate’ means let’s do the mattress fandango. Some people who’ve been betrayed by unfaithful lovers say ‘It wasn’t the sex that hurt so much as the emotional intimacy that was involved.’
Does intimate just mean that we’ve been naked together physically? Or does it go beyond the physical to naked together emotionally and spiritually?
Certainly finding a body to have sex with is easy - drive down Oxford Road in Jozi to see the sex tycoons doing their bit to fuel the economy. Spiritual and emotional intimacy is another matter altogether. Finding a person who resonates with your soul and shares your values and beliefs is the challenge - sex with someone you only connect with physically is just so much sweat and moaning.
If you’re withholding thoughts from your partner but sharing them with a colleague or a cyber pen-pal you’ve never met and are unlikely to meet, have you been intimate? Is it infidelity? And is intimacy with only one person possible, advisable or desirable? If you have a primary partner and a plethora of secondary partners, are you really intimate with all of them or is intimacy by its very nature the reserve of one special person?
I know for sure that it hurts to find that your partner was unfaithful physically or emotionally. After my divorce from Mr Dad, I discovered that he had fathered a child outside the marriage not long after our oldest child had been born. It hurt to think that where I had reserved physical intimacy for him, he had shared it with another. His son, my stepson, is now firmly ensconced in my little family as one of my own children, but reaching the point of acceptance was a painful journey. Today when I look at his sweet face or hear his voice say 'I love you', all I feel for that child is unbounded love.
I’m a one-man woman and once I’ve made the decision to love a man all intimacy is reserved for him, but part of me is wondering: if the notion of Oneness is real and we are all just tiny interconnected pieces of the Universe, does infidelity as a concept hold water and is there any way that we can avoid intimacy with each person we meet? Are we making a mountain out of a molehill in the grand scheme of things?
All this pondering is making my blonde head throb. Nothing a dose of testosterone couldn’t cure, I’m sure.
Is that my phone ringing…?
Little Mister was off to Mr Dad and Other Mom with Child of My Heart 3, but Little Miss kept the home fire burning while I shivered and shook in a weekend workshop.
My Saturday night movie was aborted – tickets were sold out for the early show and I wasn’t prepared to risk frostbite to wait for the late show. My fear of amputated digits was a blessing in disguise – chapter 3 of the much vaunted romance novel is now ready for editing.
This morning Ms Anonymous 2 SOS’d that she was stuck on the highway and what was I doing? Actually, preparing for a date! BUT, never blow off a girlfriend for a man - GFs stick around much longer than most men in my experience and anyway, who said it was an either/or situation?
An hour and a half later, after depositing Ms A2 safely at home, I nibbled a light lunch with a lovely man – we’ll see how it goes. Most definitely a keeper, if only as a friend.
And why DO we refer to platonic friends as ONLY friends? The world’s a tough place. Who doesn’t need all the good friends they can muster?
The word ‘intimate’ has come up in my conversation quite a bit lately and I’ve been asking myself what exactly that means. Some people think ‘Let’s be intimate’ means let’s do the mattress fandango. Some people who’ve been betrayed by unfaithful lovers say ‘It wasn’t the sex that hurt so much as the emotional intimacy that was involved.’
Does intimate just mean that we’ve been naked together physically? Or does it go beyond the physical to naked together emotionally and spiritually?
Certainly finding a body to have sex with is easy - drive down Oxford Road in Jozi to see the sex tycoons doing their bit to fuel the economy. Spiritual and emotional intimacy is another matter altogether. Finding a person who resonates with your soul and shares your values and beliefs is the challenge - sex with someone you only connect with physically is just so much sweat and moaning.
If you’re withholding thoughts from your partner but sharing them with a colleague or a cyber pen-pal you’ve never met and are unlikely to meet, have you been intimate? Is it infidelity? And is intimacy with only one person possible, advisable or desirable? If you have a primary partner and a plethora of secondary partners, are you really intimate with all of them or is intimacy by its very nature the reserve of one special person?
I know for sure that it hurts to find that your partner was unfaithful physically or emotionally. After my divorce from Mr Dad, I discovered that he had fathered a child outside the marriage not long after our oldest child had been born. It hurt to think that where I had reserved physical intimacy for him, he had shared it with another. His son, my stepson, is now firmly ensconced in my little family as one of my own children, but reaching the point of acceptance was a painful journey. Today when I look at his sweet face or hear his voice say 'I love you', all I feel for that child is unbounded love.
I’m a one-man woman and once I’ve made the decision to love a man all intimacy is reserved for him, but part of me is wondering: if the notion of Oneness is real and we are all just tiny interconnected pieces of the Universe, does infidelity as a concept hold water and is there any way that we can avoid intimacy with each person we meet? Are we making a mountain out of a molehill in the grand scheme of things?
All this pondering is making my blonde head throb. Nothing a dose of testosterone couldn’t cure, I’m sure.
Is that my phone ringing…?
Monday, July 20, 2009
iWrite2Know Award
1. Picturing of Life 2. Juliana’s Site 3. Hazel-My Life, My Hope, My Future 4. Jeanne-The Callalily Space5.My Family is my Life 6. The Simple Life of a Baghag 7. On A Wonderful Day Like Today 8. House Everything 9. The Creativity in Me 10. Travel and Photography 11. Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow12. You Are My Sunshine 13. Song to Remember 14. Super Blog 15. Philiippine Tv Marathon 16. Simply Blue 17. Breaking the Boundaries 18. Top Five 19. A Simple Life 20. Simple Happy Life 21. A Great Pleasure 22. Glossa~licious 23. Times Goes By 24. Empty Streets 1027 25. Serradinho 26.CuriousLittlePerson 27. Ocean of Web 28. Priscus 29. ChoosyInfo 30. iWrite2Know 31. mslona-leehartdating-diary.blogspot.com
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Cyber Conversations And Intimacy
Ms Lona-Lee spent a grand weekend with Little Mister and Child Of My Heart 3, who provided enough testosterone for six women.
The boys spent the time channel surfing between soccer, rugby games and cartoons while I helped the helper and generally tried to Zen out despite electronic bill paying and grocery shopping.
I also had a satisfying conversation or three with a few good men, one of them Mr Penpal whose face remains a mystery but whose heart and mind become more familiar with every email. Or do they?
I’ve been pondering this question: do emails and sms conversations create genuine emotional intimacy between two people or are they fooling themselves? A typical Pisces, I’m swimming back and forth between believing that if two people are honest with each other (and themselves) in their ‘conversations’, then emotional intimacy could be created and believing that until two people lay eyes on each other, smell each other, feel the energy flow created between them, no real emotional intimacy can develop.
The online dating sites and social networking pages warn the unwary about protecting themselves from the unscrupulous, the psychopaths who may present themselves as something other than what they are in an effort to worm their way into the lives and hearts of the innocent.
I could be doing a number on my penpal. He could be doing a number on me. The newspapers have featured stories about middle-aged men who posed as teens to entice tweens and teens. But Ms Lona is not talking about psychopathic criminals, she’s talking about ordinary people.
Quite a few years ago a movie featuring Anne Bancroft told the story of a woman who developed a friendship with the people who worked in a British bookshop. The friendship lasted through World War II and had an emotional depth that I’ve not reached in some real time friendships I’ve had. Is Charing Cross Road just a story or could it actually happen?
One of the conversations I engaged in over the weekend was one about the value of ‘storytelling’ as a form of sharing and bonding in a relationship. So many relationships these days are forged in the bedroom in the first 24 hours of meeting. Steve Harvey’s 90-day rule of no sex would make many people laugh out loud in astonishment. The 60s brought with them the birth control pill and an acceptance and freedom about human sexuality that the repressed West hadn’t seen since the bawdy days of Henry VIII. Ever since the Flower Power era, the period of time required to elapse between meeting and mating has grown shorter and shorter, but has that willingness to become ‘intimate’ so quickly led to genuine intimacy?
Despite the inability or unwillingness for many people to take an old-fashioned approach to intimacy through the simple art of conversation, it seems to Ms Lona that talking is just what is needed. Hours of talking about anything and everything BEFORE we jump into bed to do the mattress fandango.
Call me out of touch, out of my time or simply weird and wacky, but conversation is like breathing to me and the way to my heart is through long conversations and real sharing. Online conversing doesn’t have the frisson of holding hands over a candlelit table or sitting thigh to thigh in a movie theatre or on a sofa, but then again online conversation doesn’t have that distraction either. Of wondering if he’s noticed the new hairstyle and likes it or whether she’s noticed the new aftershave and is primed for pillow talk.
In the race to win Ms Lona’s heart, whether he's a willing contender or not, Mr Penpal is leagues ahead of the others who ARE willing and full of desire. His winning strategy? Talking, listening, talking and listening some more. For a woman, there’s no headier aphrodisiac.
Is that my phone ringing…?
The boys spent the time channel surfing between soccer, rugby games and cartoons while I helped the helper and generally tried to Zen out despite electronic bill paying and grocery shopping.
I also had a satisfying conversation or three with a few good men, one of them Mr Penpal whose face remains a mystery but whose heart and mind become more familiar with every email. Or do they?
I’ve been pondering this question: do emails and sms conversations create genuine emotional intimacy between two people or are they fooling themselves? A typical Pisces, I’m swimming back and forth between believing that if two people are honest with each other (and themselves) in their ‘conversations’, then emotional intimacy could be created and believing that until two people lay eyes on each other, smell each other, feel the energy flow created between them, no real emotional intimacy can develop.
The online dating sites and social networking pages warn the unwary about protecting themselves from the unscrupulous, the psychopaths who may present themselves as something other than what they are in an effort to worm their way into the lives and hearts of the innocent.
I could be doing a number on my penpal. He could be doing a number on me. The newspapers have featured stories about middle-aged men who posed as teens to entice tweens and teens. But Ms Lona is not talking about psychopathic criminals, she’s talking about ordinary people.
Quite a few years ago a movie featuring Anne Bancroft told the story of a woman who developed a friendship with the people who worked in a British bookshop. The friendship lasted through World War II and had an emotional depth that I’ve not reached in some real time friendships I’ve had. Is Charing Cross Road just a story or could it actually happen?
One of the conversations I engaged in over the weekend was one about the value of ‘storytelling’ as a form of sharing and bonding in a relationship. So many relationships these days are forged in the bedroom in the first 24 hours of meeting. Steve Harvey’s 90-day rule of no sex would make many people laugh out loud in astonishment. The 60s brought with them the birth control pill and an acceptance and freedom about human sexuality that the repressed West hadn’t seen since the bawdy days of Henry VIII. Ever since the Flower Power era, the period of time required to elapse between meeting and mating has grown shorter and shorter, but has that willingness to become ‘intimate’ so quickly led to genuine intimacy?
Despite the inability or unwillingness for many people to take an old-fashioned approach to intimacy through the simple art of conversation, it seems to Ms Lona that talking is just what is needed. Hours of talking about anything and everything BEFORE we jump into bed to do the mattress fandango.
Call me out of touch, out of my time or simply weird and wacky, but conversation is like breathing to me and the way to my heart is through long conversations and real sharing. Online conversing doesn’t have the frisson of holding hands over a candlelit table or sitting thigh to thigh in a movie theatre or on a sofa, but then again online conversation doesn’t have that distraction either. Of wondering if he’s noticed the new hairstyle and likes it or whether she’s noticed the new aftershave and is primed for pillow talk.
In the race to win Ms Lona’s heart, whether he's a willing contender or not, Mr Penpal is leagues ahead of the others who ARE willing and full of desire. His winning strategy? Talking, listening, talking and listening some more. For a woman, there’s no headier aphrodisiac.
Is that my phone ringing…?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Why Not A Rentboy
Ms Lona-Lee has been asked to expand on why she wouldn’t ring-a-ding-ding a rentboy.
In a name, Mr Used To Be My Husband.
Allow me to explain.
Mr UTBMH allowed, in the first flush of lust/love, that he was nine years younger than moi. A few months later, by accident, Ms Lona discovered that Mr UTBMH was actually twelve years younger.
In the early months, the age difference didn’t seem to matter. I looked much younger than my age then, before the trauma of marriage to Mr UTBMH aged me. He seemed older and more mature than his years and, of course, the sex was HOT HOT HOT!
With the wisdom of hindsight, I’ve made a vow that no way, no how, not ever, in a squillion years, will I EVER do a toyboy again.
Research supposedly shows that females mature socially/emotionally/physically/intellectually sooner than males. Any visit to the school yard will bear this out. The average 3-year-old female is going on 36; the average 36-year-old male has the EQ equivalent of a 3-year-old throwing a tantrum.
Before you take umbrage with Ms Lona, let me say that it is NOT their fault.
Nature has hot-wired males this way. Men were the warriors and who better to rape, murder and pillage their way through the history of the world than people with the EQ of a 3-year-old throwing a tantrum? Without the tantrums, imperialism, colonization, slavery, the Holocaust, apartheid, several World Wars, a plethora of civil wars and myriad “conflicts” that didn’t quite justify being escalated to the status of war would have been impossible. And what would the world be now?!
Conquering nations may require tantrums, but coupling requires far more. Yet, given the high incidence of violence against women and children in South Africa, the average South African male is living proof that men in their prime still generally – barring the rare exception - have the EQ of a 3-year-old, tantrums included magala.
Society accepts a Hugh Hefner who can barely raise it to pee bedding (or pretending to bed) a young woman who wasn’t even an egg in her mama’s ovaries when HH was a young man. It does NOT accept a woman, whose face needs ironing before she trowels on the MAC to go clubbing, bedding a young man who wasn’t even sperm in daddy’s sack when she was young.
Ms Lona doesn’t give two hoots what society accepts but she does hanker after a partner that will challenge her intellectually and who will have shared many of her life experiences. A rentboy might be fun to slip and slide along the sheets with, but he would have more in common with Little Miss and Little Mister than with moi. The evolution of MJ from pop kid to King of Pop would be beyond him. That fabulicious game of nostalgia “remember when…?” would involve a when that was no farther back than the just yesterday of 2004.
Ms Lona has been 39 and holding for so long that I don’t need a ten-minute bump and grind session reminding me of how long ago I lost my youth. But even that isn’t the main reason why I wouldn’t resort to a rentboy.
Ms Lona is a romantic at heart, and if, in the course of the late afternoon of my life, I met and fell in love (mutually) with someone much younger, I might take a chance and give in to my doddering desires. But one thing I know for sure about moi, my delicate romantic heart would not survive reducing any liaison with a male – fountain of youth aside - to a mere financial transaction, one more than likely based on economic power (mine) rather than the power of love.
There is much in the world that is ugly and sordid. What is not is the genuine love between a man and a woman. Souls should sing to one another; hearts should cling to one another. Money shouldn’t enter into the equation.
Equations, by their very definition, imply equal measure. No rentboy is going to match Ms Lona’s long history of tears and trauma, laughter and light, measure for measure. And it wouldn't be fair to him to make him try.
Is that my phone ringing…?
In a name, Mr Used To Be My Husband.
Allow me to explain.
Mr UTBMH allowed, in the first flush of lust/love, that he was nine years younger than moi. A few months later, by accident, Ms Lona discovered that Mr UTBMH was actually twelve years younger.
In the early months, the age difference didn’t seem to matter. I looked much younger than my age then, before the trauma of marriage to Mr UTBMH aged me. He seemed older and more mature than his years and, of course, the sex was HOT HOT HOT!
With the wisdom of hindsight, I’ve made a vow that no way, no how, not ever, in a squillion years, will I EVER do a toyboy again.
Research supposedly shows that females mature socially/emotionally/physically/intellectually sooner than males. Any visit to the school yard will bear this out. The average 3-year-old female is going on 36; the average 36-year-old male has the EQ equivalent of a 3-year-old throwing a tantrum.
Before you take umbrage with Ms Lona, let me say that it is NOT their fault.
Nature has hot-wired males this way. Men were the warriors and who better to rape, murder and pillage their way through the history of the world than people with the EQ of a 3-year-old throwing a tantrum? Without the tantrums, imperialism, colonization, slavery, the Holocaust, apartheid, several World Wars, a plethora of civil wars and myriad “conflicts” that didn’t quite justify being escalated to the status of war would have been impossible. And what would the world be now?!
Conquering nations may require tantrums, but coupling requires far more. Yet, given the high incidence of violence against women and children in South Africa, the average South African male is living proof that men in their prime still generally – barring the rare exception - have the EQ of a 3-year-old, tantrums included magala.
Society accepts a Hugh Hefner who can barely raise it to pee bedding (or pretending to bed) a young woman who wasn’t even an egg in her mama’s ovaries when HH was a young man. It does NOT accept a woman, whose face needs ironing before she trowels on the MAC to go clubbing, bedding a young man who wasn’t even sperm in daddy’s sack when she was young.
Ms Lona doesn’t give two hoots what society accepts but she does hanker after a partner that will challenge her intellectually and who will have shared many of her life experiences. A rentboy might be fun to slip and slide along the sheets with, but he would have more in common with Little Miss and Little Mister than with moi. The evolution of MJ from pop kid to King of Pop would be beyond him. That fabulicious game of nostalgia “remember when…?” would involve a when that was no farther back than the just yesterday of 2004.
Ms Lona has been 39 and holding for so long that I don’t need a ten-minute bump and grind session reminding me of how long ago I lost my youth. But even that isn’t the main reason why I wouldn’t resort to a rentboy.
Ms Lona is a romantic at heart, and if, in the course of the late afternoon of my life, I met and fell in love (mutually) with someone much younger, I might take a chance and give in to my doddering desires. But one thing I know for sure about moi, my delicate romantic heart would not survive reducing any liaison with a male – fountain of youth aside - to a mere financial transaction, one more than likely based on economic power (mine) rather than the power of love.
There is much in the world that is ugly and sordid. What is not is the genuine love between a man and a woman. Souls should sing to one another; hearts should cling to one another. Money shouldn’t enter into the equation.
Equations, by their very definition, imply equal measure. No rentboy is going to match Ms Lona’s long history of tears and trauma, laughter and light, measure for measure. And it wouldn't be fair to him to make him try.
Is that my phone ringing…?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Another Man-less Weekend
Little Mister doesn't count.
In terms of a man that is. Any male under 1.5 metres who thinks that Cartoon Network is the height of entertainment does NOT count as a male presence in a chick's weekend in my blog.
Little Miss is doing her own thing, by force actually. But even SHE has a male presence that is taller than 1.5 who thinks hiphop beats George of the Jungle any day.
Ms Anonymous1, 2,3 and 4 are pretty much all busy, but I did have a chat with Ms A1 on Saturday morning and will probably share a chat over coffee and dessert with Ms A2 a bit later. Meanwhile, Ms Lona watches Chelsea whoop Hull on Sport Channel 3 when Little Mister isn't channel surfing back to Cartoon Network. Yippee...not.
Ms Lona did the mom and homeowner things to while away time and wake up the muse so the writing can begin. Between the day job, momming, blogging, researching for the studies and writing the novel, there isn't much free time. Despite that, a few hours of male attention on any given weekend would not be remiss.
Ms A3 sent through a link to an M&G article about how the economic meltdown has affected dating patterns. Could be that Mr Warm And Fuzzy and Mr CA just can't afford coffee for more than one these days?
Yes, Ms Lona has picked up the bill herself on more than one occasion, but my overachieving admirers cringed a bit even in their appreciation that, for a change, the chick bit the bullet and bought the coffee.
Could it also be that the pseudo-relationship bloodrush that surges through one when a new email or sms comes through from a potential partner is more than enough for a society that wants everything instant? Actually engaging with a flesh and blood partner long enough to get the same adrenalin rush of heat through the veins takes time, one coffee date and one movie at a time.
I'm waxing philosophical because I'm loathe to go through the pain of a bikini wax when Mr Right or even Mr Almost Right is unlikely to come along to see it before the bush needs pruning again. Why endure the pain for something unlikely to happen?
Not that buffing, polishing, blow-drying and perfuming for moi is not important but there is an added frisson when an appreciative audience of one is expected to view and delight in the buffed, polished, blow-dried and perfumed me on a date if not between the sheets.
Ms Lona's life is full to the max BUT - and there is always that but - the long, lonely, cold winter nights trying to pretend that sox and sweat pants are better than or even as good as slow male hands down the length of one's body are soul destroying as well as confidence crushing.
What's a girl to do?
Cruising Oxford Road for a rentboy trying to make ends meet in these tough times makes a financial transaction out of what should be a primal need for a male to connect to a female on physical as well as intellectual and spiritual levels. Aside from giving Ms Lona cold chills and nightmares, it makes me want to batten down the hatches - figuratively speaking mind you - and concentrate on the day job, momming, blogging, researching and writing.
Best to leave manhunting to the young and put my bruised and battered heart under a bell jar.
Is that my phone ringing...?
In terms of a man that is. Any male under 1.5 metres who thinks that Cartoon Network is the height of entertainment does NOT count as a male presence in a chick's weekend in my blog.
Little Miss is doing her own thing, by force actually. But even SHE has a male presence that is taller than 1.5 who thinks hiphop beats George of the Jungle any day.
Ms Anonymous1, 2,3 and 4 are pretty much all busy, but I did have a chat with Ms A1 on Saturday morning and will probably share a chat over coffee and dessert with Ms A2 a bit later. Meanwhile, Ms Lona watches Chelsea whoop Hull on Sport Channel 3 when Little Mister isn't channel surfing back to Cartoon Network. Yippee...not.
Ms Lona did the mom and homeowner things to while away time and wake up the muse so the writing can begin. Between the day job, momming, blogging, researching for the studies and writing the novel, there isn't much free time. Despite that, a few hours of male attention on any given weekend would not be remiss.
Ms A3 sent through a link to an M&G article about how the economic meltdown has affected dating patterns. Could be that Mr Warm And Fuzzy and Mr CA just can't afford coffee for more than one these days?
Yes, Ms Lona has picked up the bill herself on more than one occasion, but my overachieving admirers cringed a bit even in their appreciation that, for a change, the chick bit the bullet and bought the coffee.
Could it also be that the pseudo-relationship bloodrush that surges through one when a new email or sms comes through from a potential partner is more than enough for a society that wants everything instant? Actually engaging with a flesh and blood partner long enough to get the same adrenalin rush of heat through the veins takes time, one coffee date and one movie at a time.
I'm waxing philosophical because I'm loathe to go through the pain of a bikini wax when Mr Right or even Mr Almost Right is unlikely to come along to see it before the bush needs pruning again. Why endure the pain for something unlikely to happen?
Not that buffing, polishing, blow-drying and perfuming for moi is not important but there is an added frisson when an appreciative audience of one is expected to view and delight in the buffed, polished, blow-dried and perfumed me on a date if not between the sheets.
Ms Lona's life is full to the max BUT - and there is always that but - the long, lonely, cold winter nights trying to pretend that sox and sweat pants are better than or even as good as slow male hands down the length of one's body are soul destroying as well as confidence crushing.
What's a girl to do?
Cruising Oxford Road for a rentboy trying to make ends meet in these tough times makes a financial transaction out of what should be a primal need for a male to connect to a female on physical as well as intellectual and spiritual levels. Aside from giving Ms Lona cold chills and nightmares, it makes me want to batten down the hatches - figuratively speaking mind you - and concentrate on the day job, momming, blogging, researching and writing.
Best to leave manhunting to the young and put my bruised and battered heart under a bell jar.
Is that my phone ringing...?
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