Vogue Schmogue

Is it all just #dejavu?

I am wondering.

Maybe I've just #seenitall at this point in my life? (naaaaaa)

What's bringing this up? #decembervogue

Used to love print fashion mags. And I used to buy a lot of stuff.

Now I don’t. Buy much stuff …

Or magazines. But with my J.Lo on the cover — I couldn’t resist.

We start strong with Jenny from the Block, and the ever luminous Beyonce graces the back cover. But as I leaf through .... snore. One tall thin white ingénue after another. What year is it??

Getdafuckouttaheah with this lack of #diversity? All stick thin. I guess #bodypositive is over? Annnnd all 16-18ish. I guess #silvermodel is over, too?

A couple of features are interesting — some sapphic love —  OK, so I am in 2022. Only willowy white girls are pictured mind you, but — they do know how to tell a story.

And the ads: Ralph’s models … looking so Ralph. Prada (LOVE) features a young thang — styled as a girl in deep need of guidance. Valentino — didn’t we go through this cool look in the 70’s? We did. Lauder selling “serum” via a 13-year-old sans dark circles. Miracle!. And 36-year-old Amanda Seyfried re-re-retouched to unrecognizableland.

Hold up! Julia Roberts on the inside back cover??? Weirdly retouched into a skinny alien version of her already skinny self. What happened to #retouch? We ARE back in the 90s.

“Arrrrrrgh. I am done with this rag. And pissed again”

Fed up with what felt like at the time these important SHIFTS away from all whiteness, and away from women-hating retouching, and away from fat phobia, and away from ageist bullshit... From all of those just becoming hashtags — that vanish. Why isn’t this shit changing? And when it starts to change — why doesn’t it keep moving FORWARD.

1. Cover: Been there.

2. Valentino: Done that.

3. Prada: Duh.

4. Estée Lauder: She’s 15. You don’t get dark circles.

5. Amanda: I swear I didn’t even recognize her.

6. Features: Oh shut up.

7. Julia: I’m scared.

I'm #overit -- You?

In fact: I put this up on IG. And got lots and lots and lots of other OVERIT comments. Yea! I’m hoping for a bunch of GenZ’ers who will embrace this new world — some exist. No doubt. But I mean seeing the change at Vogue. Oh please ….

Globe Trottin' Broads

The one and only Hattie Retroage

Some inspiration and motivation for the traveling female, SOLO and ecstatic. Ages, 84, 86 and 99.5. Going, Going, Gone

GOING: OFF TO THE TROPICS — HATTIE, 86

“Courage? As I see it, just contending with being alive takes courage. Being older has made me braver, not more timid. How many times have I vowed: "No more New York winters for me!"  It was finally time to take action. I'm cancelling my lease and relocating to the tropical island of Anguilla. Seeing myself dancing to live Reggae in cut-offs. Brave? Perhaps. Passionate? Definitely!” — Hattie

GB: Starting it all over at 86? OMG.

Liz Friedman, rockin the look, as always

GOING: BOARDING — PRONTO — LIZ, 84

“In the past, when I was going on a trip, friends and colleagues would say “Have a blast” “Get Wild” “F*** your brains out” and other variations of eat, drink and be merry. This time, at 84, I’ve had dozens of friends admonish me with “Stay safe” “Be safe” “Be careful” etc. I wanna kill them for setting the bar so low. Is being safe what travel is about? NO! It’s new adventures, new people, FUN. If it’s safety I want, I can stay home in bed, under the covers — and save a lot of money!”
— Liz

GB: I love this bad-ass broad so much. Enough with ageism crap!

Vija Vetra, blew me away at first sight

GONE: JUST BACK FROM GREECE — SOLO, VIJA, 99.5

“My favorite night was when the moon was almost full. Over the Aegean. I danced under it. From my terrace. I focused on the waist up because of my arthritis. But my emotion lives there — and I’m better than ever.”

When I was leaving the plane, the pilot and I locked eyes. He asked if he could escort me. I said yes. And he and I swanned out. Purely magic moments.” — Vija, 99.5

GB: I MEAN

Paulina. Paulina.

“This is the gap I am stepping into: Not to shame women who refuse to age, but to offer an alternative.”

— Paulina Porizkova, Model, Author

“I see the distinct lack of visibility of women my age looking their age, proudly and beautifully. And this is the gap I’m stepping into: not to shame women who refuse to age, but to offer an alternative. Self-acceptance is, after all, the one thing age has over youth. – P.P.

Hmmmm.

Oh Paulina, that GENE pool of yours. This is not a hate piece. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re fierce. You’re gutsy. And congrats on the new book. But I am stating … you are not so great a representative for the rest of us … and we’re Glorious Broads. You, Paulina, are the blonde prototype of Goddess.

You’re a damn good writer. I often eat up your Instagram. Your causes. And often roll my eyes on your “invisible” rap …

When companies ask you to represent “middle aged” women – fighting “invisible” (which I’ve have always RUN from – you demand being visible!) — that Laura Geller Campaign this summer — “Let’s get old together” – swanning around with your spectacuar body that – supposedly — represents the rest of us as we’re aging together? No. Buzz kill.

You have NEVER been invisible.

We Glorious Broads say NO to this invisible shit.

No no no.

Nobody is invisible if they choose NOT to be.

But what do you think out there? Does Paulina represent “us?”

PS. I put this on IG. Got lots of comments. And I realized — duh — that of course there is no one woman who represents “us” — but I do give P.P. credit for creating a very distinct voice. That I do. And I blame marketers for hiring this goddess as representing “us” — and doing some women damage. And still say — she was never ever ever invisible.

Youth. Nuptials. Escape. And Me.

My “engagement” photo — in all its retouched splendor.

August 29:

I’m always skippin’ for joy on this day, August 29. ‘Cause exactly 51 years ago, I was to be wed. At 19. To a local boy. At a local wedding factory. In my local town. In Joisey.

Funny that I remember the date. But I do.

The breakup — in my tiny orange volkswagon  — of course it had flower decals — with THE WHO’s screaming “I’m Free” in the background. Roger Daltrey helped me seize the break-away moment. He’ll always have a special place in my heart. And I am sorry I broke this young boy’s heart. Though he did impregnate my neighbor within 3 months. And married within 5.

On this day, I am so damn grateful to have walked away from a life I was THIS close to. So close that my poor dad never got his $100 deposit back. And 100 bucks was some kind of money back then.

Here I am, 19 — my formal “engagement” picture. It took me 90 minutes to walk out of the house back then — to look “presentable” — I mean, do you see what we use to call “spit-curls?” Oh darling, that alone ate up 20. I think scotch tape was involved. And teeny curlers for “the look.” It now takes me 3 minutes to walk out the door — and I looking better and so much more glorious than this child I do not know.

What near catastrophe did you escape from — what life did you leave far far behind?

Belly Fat — MANopause Style!

JOSH K - WORKIN IT

ARTIE G - PILLOW TALK

JOSH H - NOT GIVIN A F***

HENRY - PERFECTION

Loved seeing the reaction to NYTimes belly fat in midlife piece …

FUCK pears and apples … and guilting us out …

HERE’s an article I did — about MEN and their rolls and handles and — big “apple” (sigh) middles in midlife — for @disruptaging. And the guys went there …

1/2. Josh K: “All of the sudden, I have clothes in my closet that I can’t fit into — but don’t wanna throw out.”

3. Arnie G: “I was Mr. America in 1994. Instead of a six pack, I have maybe a three-and-a-half pack. I’m not crazy about it. But my wife calls it her comfy pillow.”

4. Josh H: “I’m tired of trying to become something I’m never gonna be. I don’t want to fight it any more”

5. Henry: “I love all of my body. Now. But be careful with it. It’s gonna last you longer than cars. Love that body.”

Sound familiar ladies? Give us more of these pieces!

I’m with Henry. Love it up — and go for the ride…

Photos Scott Pasfield / Styling Regina Harris / Art Direction/Concept: Moi

Broad Hunting NYC Style

What we learned from Week 1 of BROAD HUNTING in the wilds of New York:

1.     Do not fuck with two Broads who are in deep conversations.

2.     They may bite.

3.     The worth of the term “Broads” is quite debatable it seems — not everyone gets power from it. Particularly the generation before me.

4.     Once we start pokeing crocodile hunter style — they start to love Broads with a capital B.

5.     Why they are so damn Glorious.

6.     And why we’re reclaiming it.

Photos: Mariah Carpenter @itsmariahlourielle

Sex After 50 Isn’t Good — It’s Fuckin’ Great

Go forth my preeties!

True, not every romp is as “athletic” as it was at 29 (five times a night, I’m looking at you). But fear not! Sex after 50 really does get better. And I mean heart-pumping fanamazintastic banging. For context, I just turned 72 and I’ve experienced plenty: Married, divorced, straight, bi, partnered, unpartnered. I’m writing to you from the promised land to say: Please anticipate — with sexual glee — the time ahead of you. Here’s what sex after 50 has looked like for me.

Breakthroughs

Age 50-54:

I got divorced at 48. He was beautiful, Brazilian. My type. But hardly any brains and no ambition, making him hard to respect. The sex life went kaput after seven years. I found myself free — with a need to explore what I’d fantasized about during the last bit of that snore-y marriage: Women. Not a woman. Women.

Unleashing desires tucked away for nearly 40 years? Now that is sexy. I am an extremist — either very “out there” or “very in.” And when that “very in” time is over — the coming out party can be ferocious … and it was. I had deeper orgasms with partners for the first time in my life. I realized I had been “performing” — not connecting during sex. Women (and lots of them) helped me with that. But it took some learning. And communication. And patience.

My lesson: Learn how to become a good lover. It makes the sex better for you, too. And scratch the itch of those pent-up desires. Now. Don’t wait ‘till you’re 50 people.

Age 54-56

I fell into a relationship with a Persian stud. But it wasn’t fair to her. I started to miss men. Well, not so much “men” — but their anatomy. I took my lessons of connection — and a tubful of sex toys — to be with a sexually charged man who happened to be 18 years younger. His sex drive was equal to mine — yea! And his disgust for anything “traditional” was deeper. Kink entered my life — a bit of bondage — a tad of spanking. Fun. New. And — for the first time in my randy life — a third party was introduced. I was open. Curious. We were officially polyamorous — for about 10 months.

While it was exciting at first, I found myself jealous about the time in the sack he gave her — versus me. I was disappointed with myself but, alas, my progressiveness had found its limit. I’d become a one-on-one gal once I was in deep.

My lesson: Follow your gut. While I loved the novelty of polyamory — it wasn’t for me. The kink stayed. The third party didn’t. And the sex was even hotter once I stopped worrying about pleasing him and came clean to admitting what I really wanted.

Sex In The Menopause

Age 56-58

All was horny and fabulous with my young buck until … Menopause. Desert crotch. It’s real. And sex f*cking hurt. Here’s an example of a conversation with my male gynecologist:

Me: “I don’t know what is wrong with me — I no longer have any desire for sex.”

Him: “I don’t know why either. You’ve got all the equipment.”

Nice.

Our wicked sex life reduced to nearly zip. And I had no clue what to do.

My lesson: Read a damn book! Prepare for menopause in your 40s.

Age 59-60

The stirrings returned … But still no home nookie. Whaaaa?

I pushed my workout routine to get my muscles (and my groove back, Stella) and — at 60 — became stronger than I’d ever been. It's possible!

The self-esteem from the workouts (kegels, kegels), emotional support from pals strapped into the same menopause roller coaster as me — nothing like a laugh during a hot flash — did wonders. And, oh, I canned that tone-deaf gyno, replaced him with a compassionate woman who prescribed a low dose hormone. They’re not for everyone, but for me — my desert was suddenly abloom!

But then my young dude dumped me. Ouch!

My lesson: My flood gates finally opened — and the partner who always wanted me passionately is suddenly never in the mood — and I kept telling myself it’s OK. It wasn’t. If you don’t want a roomie — move on. ‘Cause they’re about to.

Age 61-65

Into the world of internet dating … and what a world! Turns out older women are a sizzling commodity! Score. And I did.

The last thing I wanted was “romance” after that confidence-stealing heartbreak. What I got: All the ferocious head-banging sex I could handle.

During these years I specialized in “wrong” dudes — the broke and mostly drunk artist, the sad (but funny) comedian with the unfortunate habit of saying “awesome” after sex.

After crossing every sexual proclivity that called my name (which again, strongly recommend), I needed a little softness in my life …

My lesson: Important: Stand up to slut-shaming! I was getting some of that from my “pals.” Nope.

Embracing Change

Age 65-68

The f*ck-you 50s: Totally real. But for me? It happened at 65.

I used to be a freak about my body being “perfect.” But the body does change, and I wasn’t covering up anything anymore. You get all this — body and mind. And anybody who didn’t want it — didn’t deserve me. No sugar-coating. This mindset takes inner work, folks. And acceptance. I softened — my workouts “softened” — swimming, yoga, walking, breathing. And yes, meditation.

And the sex softened. My lover at this time was a man my age — gasp! — a good-looking director ... with erection issues. Softening everywhere, but sensuous imagination replaced hard-driving thrusts. He was a yogi — and helped me slooooow down. We made erotic films together, explored kama sutra positions, and a few rope tricks — with a little pill for the penis occasionally. Now, a director in the sack can work, but a director butting into your everyday life? Time to skedaddle.

At 68, I realized, I was ready for a kind, loving partnership. With great sex. Possible?

My lessons: Your body will change. No matter how hard you work out. Accept. Love. Also: Soft can be hot.

Age 68-72

My current lover was a good friend first — a widower who sports (bad) checkered shirts, khakis, and long black socks. Umm, can you say not my type?

Sitting on the orgasmic train with a person I actually like? And love. Feels like my standards are higher than ever. Even with the khakis.

My lesson: Move beyond your “type.” Consider someone who has been happily mated — they know how to love.

From my p*ssy to your bedroom and beyond. Go forth and frolic, my pretties. And you’re welcome.

NOTE: This story was originally written for The Zoe Report, whom I love.

https://www.thezoereport.com/wellness/sex-after-50

72 — and learning to give a damn about the things worth giving a damn about.

I’m puzzled at the doctor’s office. So many bizarre questions from the new PA… why is she asking me to draw 3:00 on a clock — am I in kindergarten? And repeating 3 simple words (apple, clock, chair). Her balance questions were not about what I owed them but about my ability to stay upright.

Then. I realized. She sees my number on the chart. She’s checking me for early signs of dementia. And — damn — I showed up looking so fine in my newest hot mama getup — and Balenciagas. There’s some balance for you…

Then it happened.

Two days later — I lost my balance in the middle of my “power walk” — on the 9,237th step to be exact — and ended up in the emergency room — with a couple of broken bones.

Was I hexxed? Or is this balance thing … umm…. a fact.

Vulnerability set in… am I really, truly and officially….a tottering ole broad? Or Is this simply … an awakening? My ageism rageism really kicked in when my (mostly very sedentary) pals started telling (active AF) me to “watch my step” once spotting the cast. No. I’m not tottering — but the vulnerability helped me realize — yep, time’s creeping up on me. It’s just a fact.

The evidence mounts:

My very first design assistant just invited me to her 50th birthday bash. Whaaa?

The group texts with my buds sounds like the recovery ward — “How’s your shoulder” “Is your ankle any better” “How’s that back”…. Oh, there’s plenty about vibrators, lovers, ageism, movies, food — and fuckin Covid and fuckin double fuck Putin … but lots and lots about arthritis….

And then there are the photos. They contain so many facts. Sometimes too many. I splurged on a photo sesh gift for a BFF— she lost 45 pounds during the plague — walked it off — and we wanted to mark this metamorphosis. I thought the shots were FAB and sent them over. Radio silence. For days. Huh? The confession: She was, in fact, shocked to see that her neck is no longer 30, and she has some bags under those huge almond eyes. She loves them now. It was simply — a fact.

Even the almighty R&B singer, Bettye LaVette is not immune. When Covid was FULL TILT, she heard – as we all did - that the “elderly” were more prone to getting IT – and dying. The elderly — not 76-year-old Bettye. So there she was, sporting a mask and speeding around town doin’ her thing. It was her young grandson who tapped her on the shoulder and said: “Ummm, you are an elder. Please don’t go out.” Shock. Facts.

I took this selfie of myself for my 72nd birthday WEEK. Oh yeah, It’s a week! Would I ever have stood in front of the camera minus a dash of makeup in the ole days? Hell no! And it’s damn freeing! And yeah, the face has changed. Shock. Facts.

Or could it be shock and awe? Once you get it. That change is the only constant — and these changes are punctuated by some cold hard facts. That are hard to swallow. But we do (I’ve never been a spitter).

This is not advice. It is an observation. Observing the way time takes you.

With the years, you get realer about aging, unrealistic beauty standards, love, and not giving a fuck about the stupid things.

I used to go out at midnight.

Now I hit the bed at midnight, purring over a good book, with my turmeric pill, ready to kick ass in the (very early) morning.

My lover is designated every other night. No more full time -— sorry not sorry.

Aging is an eye opening. And it is liberating.

You learn to give a fuck about the things worth giving a fuck about.

And that edits out a LOT.

Ok. It’s midnight. Tumeric, check, good book, check.

And grateful — no longer vulnerable — that I am still aging. And still got my balance bitches!!!

My Very First Glorious Broad. My Inspiration. My Valentine: Clara Hancox

Thump, thump, thump went my heart strings …

I came across this obit about 6 years ago — and something about the life, the chutzpah, the unconventional who-gives-a-shit attitude …

She is exactly who I wanted to be at 87. Except for the dead part.

Scootin’ around on her badass motorcycle, writing sexy-pansexual memoirs in the 70s — helloooo. Living up in the Catskills with a village joint on the side. Opinionated as hell.

And this obit quote:
“Hancox spent her whole life breaking the rules — an avid motorcyclist, dabbled in mountain climbing, piloted airplanes and lived a rich, full life after leaving fashion. She published a ‘racy’ (oh how I love this word) novel “To Mine Own Selves Be True” and was named the best independent published book of the year. (Must have been juicy!) Kabbalah and art became her passions in her 80s.” (Before Madonna y’all.)

The obit ends with her quote: “I’ve always been outspoken — and that’s what made me a good columnist — I was fearless.”

So, thank you Clara — for being my COOL AF MUSE!!! My icon for all the Glorious Broads that have followed.

You spoke to me.