Isn’t that the way they say it goes?

My first baby turns 21 this year.   My Irish twins are making  life choices… and I have less than a year before I’m 40.  Thank goodness Tugga wants to be a cowboy when he grows up.   I need the comic relief from the lasso situation.   I’m still feeling like fast cars and freedom,  so things are pretty much situation normal at Casa Gypsy.


In case you haven’t caught on, my world is a special shade of misty mountain mauve.   My great American novel that will certainly not publish is underway and promises to be a big ball of what the heck is that.   In order to ensure this,  I’m thinking about Jim Croce.  Don’t ask me why, I really have no idea.

misty mountain

 If I really could put time in a bottle,  I’d seriously have time to catch up.   That man has good advice.   Don’t tug on Superman’s cape.   Don’t spit into the wind.  There’s no one there you really wanted to talk to.  Let those pieces stay where they lay.


Miss Shannon is off to listen to Bad, Bad Leroy Brown…Baddest man in the whole damn town.  Thank you for your time… You’ve been so much more than kind.  Until we meet again, remember wild, wild women will make you crazy.




Still taking a man break, but they are not always aware of this and so…. Well, I’m trying to teach them that persistence doesn’t always pay off.  On this week’s list of egregious contact with the opposite sex, I was advised I had better learn to watch my words because “I led him on.”  What horrible, wretched, slutty thing did Miss Shannon say to lead this fellow on?


That’s my deal.


Seriously, that’s what I said.  Apparently, those words were some sort of contract that makes me obligated to enter into a lifelong, committed relationship with a man I had coffee with once several weeks ago.  Specifically, he was being pretty pushy on the what do you want out of a relationship nonsense and I said, I want to be treated like the goddess that I am, all the time.  That’s my deal.  I had better immediately surrender myself to the dating police, because I made a verbal contract that I am breaking.

funny verbal

News flash: even if I order the lobster, I don’t owe you anything.  Clearly, Miss Shannon is not a prude.  She’s also not for sale.  She does not think her personal area is lined with gold. (She has agreed not to use the word pussy on the internet, because it makes her sister, Mary, feel upset.  Mary who wants to fix her up with the creepy guy.  Mary has clearly not hung out in the same places Shannon has.)  Miss Shannon does believe herself to be an autonomous being with the right to determine who her life partner is going to be based on slightly more than a shitty cup of coffee at Denny’s.  This is Miss Mary:


The older I get while dating, the more I realize… yeah, I have a league. It’s not based on where the cool kids sit anymore.  These days, I base these things on grown up things like… gainful employment, health insurance and a basic ability to laugh.  Plays well with others and likes kids.  A nice Harley doesn’t hurt.  Mostly…I want a man who will treat me well.  Looks are less important than hygiene, and I truly wish I did not have that information.


Now…Miss Shannon is heading to Margaritaville.  She’s still got her shaker of salt.  She is 39 years old and is tired of being pleasing.  She would like to be herself, instead.  Granted, she has it on good authority from her mama that this is a poor course of action…but Shannon is going out on a limb.  She has decided that is a man doesn’t like who she actually is, maybe she doesn’t need him.. Maybe it’s better to wait. Maybe the next guy should just be glad that I’m in the world, instead of acting as though I am there to serve a need.




















Be Mine

Still on my man rest, so I don’t have loads to titillate you with this Valentine’s Day.  Which is a Hallmark holiday… or is it??  That’s right, sports fans, you are celebrating yet another Pagan holiday.  This one started off as Lupercalia, a Roman fertility celebration.  It used to be a three day event intended to chase off evil spirits and originated from Februalia, a festival of purification.  Which is where we got the spelling of February.  I will research Wednesday another day.



Lupercus, known as Pan in Greece, is the god of shepherds. They wore goat skins.  During Lupercalia, they sacrificed a dog and a goat to the god, commemorating Romulus and Remus.  For those who aren’t fonts of trivia, those two fellows are the twins suckled by a wolf that are the basis of Rome’s creation myth.  Which brings me back to that whole creation myth situation where every culture has one and you have to ask yourself (OK, I have to ask myself, you feel free to blindly follow) how people decide that their god is the only god.  Also… the fact that these boys were suckled by a wolf should also call to your attention that there were no Playtex bottles in the caves.


Ok, back to Valentine’s Day.  The Catholic Church usurped yet another pagan rite when Pope Gelasius I declared Lupercalia to be Valentine’s Day.  The church recognizes three martyred saints with the name Valentine and there are different stories surrounding the particular guy this holiday is named for.  Some say he was a priest who performed illegal marriages, other’s say he was an imprisoned soldier who sent his love letters signed, from your Valentine.  It is the Catholic Church, so maybe he just tortured heretics who wanted to maintain their cultural identity by celebrating Lupercalia.  You can’t know.


Now go forth, eat chocolate and enjoy the day.  Pagans, enjoy your ritual cleansing.  Please don’t sacrifice any dogs or goats.  Especially not a fainting goat, which are some of the most fabulous beasts on Earth.  Really…Check them out here:


Why are you counting?

Just recently, my good pal, Natalie, told me that the average woman has 7.2 sexual partners in her lifetime.  You girls are slacking.  And why the fuck are you counting??  Stop that.


I’m going to pretend for a minute that I still believe in the God of my youth.  So when Miss Shannon crosses that River Jordan and is visiting with Saint Peter… (Please know, that’s as far as I’d get) All she can really hope for is that he’s saying, good ride, girl.  You gave us something to talk about!  Then, when I go burn in Hell for all eternity, at least I’ll know it was an epic ride.  Miss Shannon does nothing by half.


Did I tell you I’m learning to belly dance?  It makes this old girl feel sexy… and, really, what else is there?  In all reality, I don’t give two shits how many partners you’ve had.  I want you to love yourself.  I want you to know you are beautiful… whether you attain that through artifice is not my concern.  I hurt when I think of the woman who was married for twenty years without an orgasm.  THAT IS NOT A-OK.



Women are sexual beings.  Just like men. Their average number of partners is 11.3.   Slackers.  All of you.  Casual sex is a thing, people.  Girls, as long as you continue to not accept money, you aren’t a whore.  Boys, I know you only require two tits, a hole and a heartbeat. I’m not worried about you. Nope…I’m worried about the ladies who think their sexuality is dirty because our mothers taught us that.  Let that go, girls….Mama doesn’t always know best.



Better than pushing up daisies


Just lately, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting into how in the holy hell I got to this place.  The really, really jaded place.  Then I thought…. Hell, it could be my fault.   Things have not exactly been going my way for a bit…  But I am not a tree.  I do not have to bend in the wind.  I can run for cover, I can build a blanket fort and hide.  Or, I can change things myself.


We’ve all seen that meme on Facebook about Evil Queens being the princess that nobody saved.  Now, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a princess.  Evil Queen…yeah.  OK, I’ll own that.  It comes from learning the hard way that you’ve got two hands and you can do it yourself….and you’d better because nobody’s going to do it for you.


So…. Sports fans…. Miss Shannon is about to shake things up a bit.  First and foremost…. She is taking a wee break from boys.  The last promising fellow wanted to discuss marriage on our third date.  Thus, I shall run for my life and say… Self, you are not making good choices.  Do you recollect the last guy who wanted to marry your happy ass?  No good can come from it, so Miss Shannon is reverting to her virginal self (hehehe) and retiring.  I didn’t even kiss that one. I swear upon all that is good and holy in this world, I really don’t encourage this silly bullshit.


The question that’s always asked to single women is, “What are you looking for?”   The answer to the asked question is usually something like….Superman, or gainfully employed.  I honestly prefer it if they have their own teeth.  They are asking the wrong questions. The question, my dears, is really, “What are you willing to settle for?”   Now that answer varies significantly from woman to woman.


Onward to blessings.  Mine all have names… Brenna, Samantha, Hunter, Luke, Tugga James, Mary, AJ, Deb, Melissa, Heather,  The Gypsy Rose Lee, Remington, Elliot.  I could go on, but know this.  When things are seeming awfully dark… it’s still better than pushing up daisies.