Last night I heard the story of how my aunt Lina cut her hair.

It was 1981.  She had had two children.  She had lost all the weight and was as fit as could be.  Had the look of shining health I imagine Рeven today she is the picture of a healthy life albeit with a cigarette.  She walked into the salon one day and said cut it off!  It was GORGEOUS she says.  I was HOT!

She was telling me how she wore a pair of those sexy jeans that had a zipper at the bottom and a lacy top the day she met Mick Jagger.¬† Her hair freshly cut.¬† That was the first tour she went on.¬† They became fast friends for life. She tells me that rock’n’roll keeps her young.¬† But if you sleep with anyone they never invite you back.¬† She’s glad she never crossed that line.¬† Sometimes frigid is a good thing.

It’s a beautiful thing, a haircut.¬† The best thing in the world to transition from one stage of life to the other.

Another thing she told me is that as a Scorpio I am a woman of power.¬† The seat of our¬†power is in the genitals… therefore scorpios make great prostitutes (and here I choked because I thought she was gonna say lovers!) but she discourages that direction.¬† I am told that¬†I will re-invent myself every few years (as I have been known to do to date).¬† I have the nature of the phoenix – rising out of ashes as good as new with the power to do great things and soar above it all.¬† She switched from astrology to numerology and made my head spin but there it was, the number 8.¬† Near the number of God (didn’t know before that God had a number).¬† But my allergy to numbers prevailed and¬†the details¬†left my brain as soon as it touched down.

At the end of it all I looked at her hair and I looked at mine and decided, there are worse things than being a woman alone.  We could do worse!


The Man Whore

Hollywood screwed up.  I came out of the movie theater startled by the new fresh look on love and possibilities but as the lights faded in my memory and my brain reengaged all cylinders I began to realize how crazy and stupid Crazy Stupid Love is.

If you haven’t seen it and don’t want me to spoil it please stop reading here.¬† Because I will spoil it.¬† It needs to be spoiled.

It is a story of a middle-aged¬†couple bored with their marriage – something¬†I wouldn’t begin to understand – and a Man Whore¬†that frequents¬†a city lounge (meat market) picking up girls.¬† Wife has an affair (I’m sure Ashley Maddison¬†made a killing off this movie) and the Husband leaves, heartbroken that his wife would find him so boring and drinks for days at¬†the meat market.¬† He is badly dressed and embarrassing himself.¬† When he drinks he rages on and on about the guy who seduced her away.¬† Man Whore meanwhile is busy practicing his art.¬† Early in the movie a pretty girl rejects him rudely and walks out annoyed at his advances but at this¬†stage¬†when Husband is drinking his sorrows away Man Whore is on his A game.¬† Every night a new girl, some nights more than one.¬† Annoyed at hearing the sob story across the bar, Man Whore decides to induct Husband into the Man Whore club.¬† He dresses him up, gets him out there, and turns Husband into a fully practicing Man Whore.¬† Yes ladies, it’s contagious.

The movie has other bits to it.  Seems like everyone but the dog has an unrequited love.  Long story short, Husband no longer bores Wife when she finds out about his new womanizing ways and they get back together.  Pretty Girl who rejected Man Whore at the beginning turns out to be the eldest child of Husband and Wife (this town is too bloody small).  She  brings home Man Whore as her new-found boyfriend and love of her life.  Turns out she saw through all his crap and he was so impressed by her wit that he decided to give up his whoring ways for this beauty with a brain.

What bullshit.

What woman is there alive that can tame a Man Whore?  Not one.  The only woman who has any influence over his ways is his mother and by the time he becomes a Man Whore she has already spoiled him beyond repair, helped him become what he is, stroked his vanity and damaged his view of women.  She cannot cure him and the time for prevention is past.

Only a Man Whore can truly cure a Man Whore.¬†¬†With a nudge from God or extreme circumstances like tragedy or illness.¬†¬†It’s like a¬†bad addiction – you have to know it’s a problem, want to change it, take the steps you know to change it and seek help if it is beyond you.¬† For a Man Whore it ends at step 1 – do Man Whores really think they have a problem?¬† They get all the attention strutting around bright and gaudy like peacocks and see how much more action – no matter how meaningless – they get over the good guy.¬† Most cultures teach them that their whoring ways are a sign of manhood.¬† And what man doesn’t want a full helping of that?

There are examples in the smallest of communities and the largest of cities, some never told and others on the evening news, of attempts to cure a Man Whore gone bad.¬† Politicians’ and athletes’ wives stand humiliated as he confesses to four¬†full-blown affairs and twelve hookers, usually the tip of the iceberg.¬† Behind her practiced game face I can just hear her screaming at herself “All this after I worked so hard to tame him”.

Honey it was never your job.

Hollywood should fix this.  Can we please see some more movies where the nice man gets the girl?  The one with a job, with no crazy ex-wife or children, who no longer lives at home with his mother, and who is waiting for this girl and only this girl to have crazy stupid love with him?

And believe me, they are out there.¬† Not in the meat market but in the grocery store, the book club, the church, the charity organizations, education, sports.¬† They are out there doing things, not just taking things.¬† If Hollywood lights came off the peacock every once in a while I’m sure many more of us would know our eagle when we see him.

Finally ladies.  One thought for you.  A peacock is earth-bound.  It is the eagle that flies.

Meat Market

Single Men of a Certain Age

Good girls know they will not find the man of their dreams in a club.  And so they bring home their nightmares.  No matter what their mama teaches them or their daddy warns them away from on pain of death, at some point in their single-and-seeking days they find themselves under the flashing lights dancing dirty on the drink splattered floor of the Meat Market.

This girl was no exception.  There were nights I came home flush faced and seventeen with echoes of shouted sweet nothings replaying in my head.  And then there was the night I met, after several years, the love of my highschool life and brought him home a few days later to meet my mom.  He was beautiful and troubled and I was determined to save his life.  A year later we were tired and bruised and parted with sweet sorrow over differences we both wished we could overcome.  Differences we wished we had been able to communicate over the noise of the club.  And that was one of the happy endings.

There are girls in my generation who went home pregnant on one of those nights.  Others still went home black-eyed and battered.  But every single one of us came home on at least one night with a broken heart.

Last night we revisited some of the local meat markets.  They all looked the same as I window shopped with no intention of buying.  Two friends of mine turned 30 and because of this the crowd was more mature than usual Рnone of us are frequent visitors anymore.  Looking out from the safety of their company I struggled with a mix of sadness, relief and the memory of my young bashful self.  As it has been for years, the place is filled wall to wall with beautiful bodies just bursting out of their teens and single men of a certain age who no one in their generation have deemed fit to take home and domesticate.  The two levels rock with insecurity and awkwardness not yet rubbed off the newly minted adulthood and predatory lust lurking behind still, practiced eyes.  In market terms, there is the healthy red gleam of fresh clean cuts intermingled with the greying edges of reeking old meat gone bad.

It made me glad to get old!  To no longer be unwitting prey.  To be over the battle of accepting who I am.  Yes, I am in a battle with a body that needs to fit into a Trinidad Carnival costume by next February, but I have won the war with loving myself.

I came away excited to be off the market Рtop shelf and not for sale.  My night is not defined by a gaze held across a pulsing room.  The life I lead does not follow the path of the frustrated from date to date seeking personal purpose in a meaningful relationship.

Another thing I came upon was a strong desire to quit drinking.¬† Why numb senses that are designed to enjoy music and disciplined enough to avoid harmful encounters?¬† I am so much fun and so very brave without it!¬† My budget would look great and so would my body.¬† I am going to work on that… perhaps a new resolution.¬† After the wedding party tonight.¬† Another trip to window shop in the Meat Market.

Why Weak Girls Make Poor Friends: 10 reasons

  1. They try to sleep with your ex boyfriend.  Your boyfriend.  Your cousin.  Your brother.
  2. They cannot make¬†a single decision by themselves.¬† They will call six girlfriends and the man they are sleeping with to find out what to wear.¬† They will call ten girlfriends to find out whether to date such and such a guy.¬† They will call 15 girlfriends to determine what the “He” of the moment meant when he said “xyz”.¬† And then they go ahead and do the opposite of what they have been advised by the panel.
  3. They enjoy being the victim.  In order to maintain victim status they get into bad situations that they know are bad situations (because all 15 friends in point 2 above have TOLD them they are bad situations) and then cry about it later.  Bring on the violin.
  4. They bore you to tears for ten years about the mistake they made in point 3, usually dating someone who they knew was going to treat them badly and then proceeded to treat them badly (surprise surprise Рstring quartet).   All at the same time as sneaking behind your back and sleeping with your ex boyfriend.  Your boyfriend.  Your cousin.  Or your brother.
  5. They get jealous of the friendships you have with other people.  Other women.  Particularly good-looking ones.  Men.  Particularly (but not limited to) good-looking ones.
  6. They insult you in front of others to make themselves look stronger/better/prettier.
  7. They gossip.¬† Usually in the form of “can I trust you with this?” or “can you keep a secret?”
  8. They are always in competition with someone.  Mostly you.  To the point of embarrassment.
  9. They comfort you when you have been hurt by your ex boyfriend or boyfriend (or cousin or brother), let you vent, agree on what an asshole he is¬†and then go home and call him up to “comfort” him too.
  10. When confronted with their weakness the only response they’ve got is tears.

Cry me a river.

In My Own Bed


© Brent Mclennon

I’ve travelled the world

And learned what I could

I’ve been more adventurous

Than they said I should

But if on one morning

I find myself dead

I’m sincerely hoping

It’s in my own bed.


Love has come and gone

And left me all shook

My own fragile peace

I have often forsook

And learned the hard way

There’s much to be said

For the sweet solitude

Found in my own bed.


Still though I roam

Seeking all earthly good

Venturing far from

My own neighbourhood

Betrayals lay waiting

Down paths I’ve been led

Leaving me deeply longing

For my own gentle bed


So I’ll let myself be

Wined and then dined

And choose for my company

Life’s best refined

But when time winds down

To rest weary head

You best be believing

It’s in my own bed


Vodka makes you pregnant

Bile makes you wise

But the truth of the moment

Lies hid from one’s eyes

Fight hard dear one against

Games played with your head

And escape from all danger

To your sensible bed


Pick sense from nonsense

And do not be fooled

For the bed of another

Is only a tool

Employed by the best

Who will see your soul dead

You’d best be retreating

To your own honest bed


There you’ll find a dear sister

In sweet solitude

And her gentle companion

A charmed interlude

That lures a dear lover

With words yet unsaid

And a heart that finds passion

And home in your bed


In my own bed

Overlooking the sea

I’ll rest in the peace

Of me doing me

And no matter the poison

Whether thought, done or said

I’ll sleep easy knowing

I’m in my own bed.