My good friend Lucia had a date on Saturday night. With a younger man. It wasn't exactly a blind date, but she doesn't know this fellow very well, so it could be considered a blind date for my purposes here. But I do digress.
Anyway, he shows up at the appointed time and she asks him in for a drink before they head out to dinner-- a way to break the ice. She notes immediately that he has taken great pains to coif his hair. A hairdo, if you will. Kinda like Donald Trump. Lucia's ex-husband had his hair done at a beauty parlor on their wedding day. Anyway, she pours ol' Donald a glass of red wine, and they chitchat for a bit. But he soon informs her that he is starving, so they must get to dinner immediately as he is on a strict feeding schedule. He has had, maybe, a half-sip of his wine.
When they are seated at the restaurant, Donald informs her that he is 38. Lucia, a woman of a certain age--a beautiful woman, and a personal trainer with a body to match her career, informs him that she could be his mother.
The evening progresses and Donald just yaps away: his beautiful wife (whom he wistfully compares to a "built" Pam Anderson) left him for a younger man, and Donald was left to reorganize his life. He lists for Lucia, in minute detail, his caloric intake for the week, and painstakingly describes each exercise he performs. As a result of all this fastidious care, Donald is very muscular, and I must add, not unattractive. (How do I know this? I just so happened to be at that particular restaurant....) Hard boiled egg whites, oatmeal and boiled chicken. That's pretty much what he eats. Every day. When Lucia ordered an appetizer portion of wild mushroom ravioli, as her dinner, he almost fell over. "You eat pasta?!?!"
Oh, and another thing: HE HAS HAD A HAIR TRANSPLANT AND HE TOLD HER ALL ABOUT IT. AT DINNER. They took it from his back, and he had to have stitches because so much was needed. Way too much information, I know, but this is the truth folks. He's thinking about doing it again, too. Now, I saw this man, and I am all for hair transplants, or whatever anyone wants to do that makes them happy, but I really don't know where on his head he will possibly fit another big old swath of his lustrous back-hair. I'm just saying.
Now on to my point of this little tale: I have been bouncing around different types of blogs lately, and I absolutely love to read all the various perspectives. What has been catching my attention of late in younger bloggers is the frequent use of the word "cougar" to describe a woman over the age of, say, 35. And what really stands out is that these women are rarely portrayed in a positive light. I would also like to add that most of the young authors of these posts have neither a real command of their language, nor the correct spelling of the most basic words. You know the ones. Every once in a while I comment, correct their spelling and grammar, and sign myself as "cougar mama." I'm just so helpful like that. And a little cranky. It's that whole estrogen thing.
So there, my friends, is the story of a cougar and her younger date, the ex-husband of a "built" Pam Anderson. Just be thankful I didn't tell you about all the pictures he showed her of his truck. I am not kidding. Oh, and he allowed himself one more sip of wine at dinner, but didn't want to have the whole glass because of the calorie content. I think Donald might still be available.