Mary Margaret Unrestrained

Mary Margaret, Blue Jeans and the Vanishing Male Butt

After a day of shopping with her husband, Mary Margaret’s late-night email was an alcohol-fueled vent. Her unedited revelation follows:

I know for certain that God is a man. Only a man would cause the aging male butt to vanish and increase a woman’s the size of an SUV.

My husband brought me his ancient blue jeans and wanted to know if I could alter them so they would fit. Forget cosmetic surgery. Those jeans require burial.  The waist sags and there are two yards of extra fabric covering a formerly cute butt. In addition to a disappearing hiney, he must be going blind how can he fail to notice his six-pack morphed into a full keg that dangles over his knees. There is no way any type of acceptable resolution can come from this situation. There is not enough vodka in the world to prepare me for telling him his is butt is history.

If I survive explaining  testosterone-be-gone,  there remains the delicate task of explaining costs. We have to make concessions to overcome Father Nature’s cruel tricks and solutions apparel solutions, as every woman knows, can be pricey.

In the land before time Years ago he wore slim cut, off the rack jeans. The man has no clue that sizes are a toss up these days. A thirty-three waist may be too big or too small, especially if one is dumb enough chooses to shop for apparel at Big Lots.

I devoted an entire afternoon to fetching and retrieving jeans while he screamed from the dressing room, “they don’t fit”. It isn’t my fault his body is in this shape. The tailors in Bangladesh have yet to experience creating a pattern for a non-existent butt. He’s too cheap frugal cost conscious to consider buying jeans that look nice but require a bit of tailoring to adapt them to fit his warped self-image. Noooo, he’d rather run me ragged.

I have run a marathon from the jeans racks then back to the men’s dressing room. I consider leaving him stranded in the dressing room and making a run for the parking lot. Surely the security staff would find him when they lock the building for the night.

There is no reciprocity in this situation. He hides like a rat when I shop; there is no way that man would run back and forth getting fifty pairs of jeans for me. Where is he when I am shopping for swimsuits?

I am done. He can adapt and wear geezer pleated polyester khaki slacks from Walmart. If he wants to look as hot as he did twenty years ago he would consider having an ass plasty gluteal sculpting. By my calculations, the procedure would pay for itself in tailored jeans and Xanax/Vodka in two years.

sketch copyright©by Krandel Lee Newton artist





Note: Originally published January 2014


Mary Margaret’s New Holiday Rules

Mary Margaret is instituting new holiday rules.

She is done; her give-a-damn is good and damn busted. Her email follows:

To people I can’t stand but tolerate family and friends:

I know you believe staying up until the wee hours of the morning preparing holiday meals for your enjoyment gives me pleasure. Well, you are crazy as hell couldn’t be more wrong.

I have concealed my true feelings for too long. The plain truth is on most holidays I feel like pure crap, the walking dead. I ask you, what kind of woman with half a brain today enjoys shopping for food, and spending hour upon hour in the kitchen chopping, stirring, and baking.

To the troglodyte family member who presented me with the five pound suckling pig, as a gift, guess where I ‘d like to stick the pig (at the risk of appearing unappreciative) I am not so naive as to believe this was a gift intended for me as much as it was a treat for you. A heartfelt gift from you would be for you to move to another continent to bring a single rose.

After the meal, there is none of the Norman Rockwellian bonding while clearing the table, loading the dishwasher and putting the table linens in the washing machine. Everyone scatters like dingos after the meal, leaving more hours of clean up for me.

You mistakenly assume cooking is my hobby. It is not a hobby; drinking reading is a hobby. Cooking ranks somewhere up there with cleaning the bathroom. I cook every single day, at least twice a day. I overheard that nitwit Shirley, say my holiday dinner is a labor of love. The only labor I’d love would be driving myself to a spa day alone, with some super hunky a masseuse who is mute.

I am more than a kitchen drudge. I’m turning a new page. My image is long overdue for an upgrade. Next year, feel free to have fries with your meal because  I am going on a cruise – ALONE.


Note: First published Januarry 2014


Mary Margaret Lashes Out About Ageism

A recent article highlighted the misconceptions about ageism in America.
It featured a photo of some unattractive, or as they say in Texas, butt ugly old people. First glance, led me to believe it was a political piece about Trump supporters the dust bowl.
It was a piece about aging in America. The photographer had to send out scouts far and wide to locate folks that unattractive. As they say in the backwoods, “They were so ugly, if they fell in the creek, you’d skim ugly for a week.”

For a second I thought someone had actually drained the swamp and these were the survivors.

They looked like a bunch of trolls with woebegone facial expressions and eyes cast downward. You’d have thought someone had announced an end to the early bird dinner specials.
A man who wears a mullet hairstyle has three teeth and believes a sleeveless tee-shirt is au courant attire, is not representative of my age group
The woman wearing a sweatshirt that said “Bite Me,” had never seen a underwire bra. She is not representative of older women including die-hard Trump supporters. People who looked like Shar-Peis posed with walkers and scooters.
We don’t turn into toads as we age.
Older people are a cross-section of society. Some of us have been botoxed and had other enhancements; many have not.
These days at the gym one can find walkers and other assistive devices parked on the sidelines while their owners exercise. Quite a few of us are attractive and handsome even Trump supporters.
It’s like being in high school. Some are cheerleaders and football heroes and others are benchwarmers and wallflowers.
There are all kinds of “Isms” these days, and as a woman, I’ve dealt with misogyny most of my life. I have tons of experience in handling that issue, but ageism is the worst and most cruel. To those who perpetuate the ideology that aging morphs into butt ugly, I challenge them to check out their own gene pool of aged ancestors. Karma can be a bitch.
Who knows, by the end of the Trump administration, we may ALL look like evacuees from the dust bowl.



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