I’ve had a thing for antlers for a few years, and I see I’m not alone. Antlers seem to be pretty chic all of a sudden, and even though I hate it when the whole world has to copy me, I want the antlers to keep on coming!  This deer head is at Vivre.com, and it would make a nice Mother’s Day gift for me. Click on it to see its full glory.

This antler hat is at Patricia Field Online, and speaks for itself.

Then there is this unforgettable image, my original mySpace photo!

It was the armpits that attracted all my “friends” of course, not the antlers. Still, antlers are the way to go. If you come across any antler items that make you think “Sister Wolf!” please give me a shout.

No, but why do I always look like one?!

I was surprised to find this old photo on Facebook, posted by one of my younger sisters. Since it’s already up for people to make fun of me, let’s make fun of me here, where I can maintain a tiny bit of control.

This is a very former Sister Wolf, age 38, soon to become pregnant and give up the weightlifting.

What about that dress!!! Purchased at a thrift shop in Ventura for $1, and worth every penny. Don’t get excited though; I never wore it out of the house!

And the armpits! Jesus Christ! If only my armpits were still this luxurious! Now I only wish I’d flashed them more often.  Maybe I’ll see about getting extensions.

The saddest part, beyond the unbearable stupidness of the whole enterprise, is the worthless calves. I tried and tried, but No Calves, as Arnold would say. They’re the hardest muscle to build, and thus a badge of honor, or dishonor, in any serious gym.

The couch, the painting, the lamp, the shoes, all history, but at least I have this photo to remind me what a nutcase I once was.

Comments?

Arts & Letters led me to an essay titled “Are Men Boring?”, where I expected to find some breakthrough study that proved the obvious, beyond a doubt.

Instead, it was the usual anecdotal findings of irritated wives and girlfriends whose male companions had nothing to talk about. Not “nothing” exactly, just nothing that they cared to share in conversation with a woman. I did like this quote from neuropsychiatrist Louann Brizendine:

“Connecting through talking”, she wrote in her book The Female Brain (2006), “activates the pleasure centres in a girl’s brain. We’re not talking about a small amount of pleasure. This is huge. It’s a major dopamine and oxytocin rush, which is the biggest, fattest neurological reward you can get outside of an orgasm.”

Yes, Louann, DUH, we love to talk. We are starved for conversation if we live with men. We will make conversation with practically anyone after being home all week with kids who only know how to yell, “BUT WHY? JUST TELL ME WHY!” when you don’t cave in to some demand. We crave conversation so much that we’ll talk to anybody who’s wiling to venture an opinion or relate some experience, however mundane.

Are Men Boring? Is the Pope a former Nazi? Of course men are boring, because they talk only to achieve a goal. The process is just too girly for them and makes them uncomfortable. Sometimes you can put two obsessive men together and they’ll talk about drill bits or blues singers or even sports, but it’s not talk as females experience talking. It’s a dry exchange of information, or else a competition.

Lately, I see there’s a breed of men who talk endlessly about their game with women, but it has the same quality of men talking about business strategy, only more paranoid.

Men must know deep down how boring they are. And I guess they’re proud to be indifferent to conversation. They’re not pussies, dammit!

One thing men don’t like even more than talking is a woman with armpit hair. Every so often, I like to seperate the men from the boys by lifting up my arms. I’m not trying to be obnoxious! I’m just letting them know who they’re dealing with.