SEXTING after 50

OMG. KATHY LEE and HODA are talking about SEXTING. AFTER 50. And "selfies" those pictures . . .
I haven't seen my own ass in twenty years and frankly I don't want anyone else to see it. It's candles (waxless from QVC) by the bedside for me. It's laying flat then bunching my arms by my side so my boobs stay out of my armpits. He needs bifocals so thank God he can't see the sprouting hairs under my nose.
OK- I admit I have sent messages to David while he's working upstairs and I'm working downstairs.

"Honey can you walk the dog?"
Ten minutes- No answer.
"Honey PLEASEEEEE walk the dog."
Ten minutes- No answer. So I walk the dog.
We're back. I type,"Honey, I'm downstairs NAKED- I neeeeeddd you. I need you to check out my body. . . all the parts I can't see." My panties drop to the ground.

I hear the rumble of his feet.There I am naked, with the couch throw over my shoulders.
He looks longingly at me.
"I walked the dog. Now check me for ticks."

The Fine Line Between Love and Hate

I really hate my husband today. HATE! It’s OKAY to use that word, I’m a psychologist, and I gave you permission. Since we got the puppy I have learned a lot more about Mr. Perfect—and myself. How could I miss these qualities?

            “Honey,” I begged, “since I sprained my ankle on the log you threw under the bunch of leaves you had to rake in a pile across the path, could you walk the dog?”

            He grabs a sweatshirt (so I know this isn’t going to be a long trek), then discards the leash. Princess, he claims, knows he’s the alpha male.

            Five minutes later I ask, “Did she poop and pee?”

            “I don’t know, I was raking, and cutting shrubs.”

            “Shrubs, cutting? I ask the man who doesn’t know a tulip from a rose.

            “I found a clipper.”

            That thought is ambushed when Princess begins to sniff the new wool rug in the dining room. Princess is now 12 weeks weighs 43 pounds. I find out in the next minute her poop weighs half of that. One ruined cake spatula later, a roll of paper towels (Bounty), I see her squat again.

            I scream so loud even David’s rectum seizes two stories up.

            What to put on? Princess has thankfully left me with one of every shoe; a boot and rubber clog (which worked with my ace-bandaged foot), David’s sweat shirt; my fifty dollar silk scarf (for only $19.00 at Marshalls) and I run outside.

            Princess unloads. She makes a prefect Dairy Queen size softie on David’s sacred lawn. Yes, he designated the “lawn” as sacred. We have 4 acres of grass. Oh well, we couldn’t make it to the hinterlands, I thought. “Rotten me,” I tell princess.   

            She appeared to know exactly what I’m thinking. She looks quite charming with my scarf run through the collar. And I smile, long enough to crook my head down to her and glimpse the climbing roses that should have been behind her head.

            A nub. They are nothing but a nub. Twenty years and my roses look like that discount plastic sack they sell for $5.99-take-your-chances at the discount department store. The ends of the branches were ripped and torn as if they were sawed off.  

            I yank my silk scarf and march upstairs to his library (the bathroom).

            “What the F-U-C-K is wrong with you? Yeah I spell it. But that’s another story.

            As I yelled out my complaint, as he told me his story—fining the new clippers—a You Tube video on pruning—my hand found the weighty object in his sweatshirt pocket.

            I pull out my brand new ergonomic orange handled fifty-dollar Frisker Sewing Scissors.

            “Dawn, you know, they really took you on those things.”

ONE HOUR LATER: 

             "Sweetheart, you're not blogging that story, are you? You know I'll go right up to that store and buy you another one of those things." 

           

What Do Men Want?

Today I met a friend for lunch with a copy of my book on men—a book jammed packed with their love stories.  For one hour we discussed my ideas.  The woman at the next table felt my very words were an insult to her ears.

She went militant on me.  I tried to calm her.  But when she called me a crazy religious zealot and an affront to all women who fought for women's rights I went "Gloria" on her.  I lived in a women's commune in the mid-seventies!  Burn my bra?  I cut a huge hole in the ass of my jeans and let my checks spill out.  I fought idiots at Planned Parenthood.  This wasn't the first time I got that reaction and it won't be the last.  I love men and because I love it doesn't negate the fact I love women.  SO I'm reposting Dr. Helen Fisher's blog that gets to the meat.

For centuries Americans and people just about everywhere else, have believed a lot of things about women that we now realize aren’t true.  Among them, the credos that a woman’s place is in the home and that aging single women—long called spinsters—are sad misfits.  Decades of marches, articles, books, law suits and national, regional and local discussions have finally uprooted these and many more wrong beliefs about women.  This national survey furthers that cause.   Indeed, it shows that women seek more independence in a partnership than men do.

But I have long wanted to bust myriad myths about the other half of the human race–men.  Single in America does it in spades.   This national survey clearly shows that men are just as eager to marry as women are; 33% of both sexes want to say “I do.”  Moreover, men in every age group are more eager than women to have children.  Even young men.  Among those between ages 21 and 34, 51% of men want kids, while 46% of women yearn for young.  Men are less picky too.  Fewer men say it is  important to find a partner of their own ethnic background (20% of men vs 29%  of women said this is a “must have” or “very important”); and fewer say they want someone of their own religion (17% of men vs 28% of women said this is a “must have” or “very important”).   Men are also more likely to have experienced love at first sight, as well as open to introducing a date to their parents sooner.

Perhaps most impressive:  In a committed relationship, men are less likely to say they need personal space (58% vs 77% of women); less likely to want nights out with friends (23% vs 35% of women); less eager to own their own bank account (47% vs 66% of women); and less likely to want to take a vacation on their own (8% vs 12%).  Remarkably, men under age 45 are also more willing  than older men and women to enter a committed relationship with someone who has everything they were looking for in a partner, but whom they do not find sexually attractive.  And just as many men under 35 believe you can stay married to the same person forever (84%). http://blog.match.com/2011/02/04/the-forgotten-sex-men/

Sorry, we are not from other planets.  Dr. Dawn Hopper

Dr. Dawn: On line dating rules and Boundaries

Boundaries.

Rule number one.  The most sacred rule of all: boundaries.  You need boundaries.  Without them you compromise yourself, values and worse you send out the signal of DESPERATION.

Women appear to have much more desperation when looking for love than men.  If there is any cue that can bite you, it's being desperate.  Nothing men like more than a desperate woman and a woman with low self-esteem.  It attracts the worst. There are blog sites that train men how to find a desperate woman out there. 

Desperation can bring out the worst.  It leads us to wear the too tight dress, revealing too much cleavage, coming off to sexual and nixing the chance to find that commitment switch.  Being the girl next-door is probably the most powerful tactic you can take in finding Mr. Right.  One of the biggest mistakes women make is in amping up their sexuability too soon.  Good men want wholesome women who will be fabulously sexual with them and only them. If you don't agree go into therapy or become an escort.   

Let me tell you about what my friend Tara did.  She is probably one of the most beautiful women I know.  She had one goal: to find love. For the next year I watched her fumble and bumble her quest with at least twenty different guys.  For the sake of parsimony I'll narrow them down—I want you to see how attachment style feeds off of desperation.  It you looked up that word in the dictionary her face would have been plastered to it. 

            At the time of her divorce I was a teaching at a small college and I introduced her to Rob, a clam handsome divorced father of two.  I knew him well, he came from a wonderful family and had strong values and was looking for exactly what she was; a loving partner to spend the rest of his life with.  He was secure, came from a close knit family and they hit it off.  She'd call me each day and tell me of their wonderful conversations and how quickly they found shared interests and that connection.  But a months into their connection I sensed something was wrong.  

            Driving some 60 miles each way to his house, she was there every day and had practically moved in. "Don't you think you're moving too fast," I asked her.  She thought nothing of it and waylaid my fears.  But soon after he called me to tell me that he had to cool it all off.  "She's a great woman, but she is too over powering.  I think she needs time to figure out what she wants," he said to me.   The next weeks were spent weeping into my pillows and accidentally texting him.

            Her next plan was on-line dating.  After hundreds of profiles she found Barry, he looked good, had a great job and relayed that he was seeking a long-term relationship.  Barry however was our dismissive type; he was already forty and had never been married. All his vibes told me he lived to fly solo and had little need for a real relationhip—one that required real interaction—because for the next weeks they texted compulsively, chatted on the phone all night and there was still no meeting.  I had no doubt he was a pretexter- my term for those people who form on-line attachments and never move beyond the surreal world of texting and sexting because it satisfies them.  Finally she wrangled a meeting out of him.  When she stopped over before her date I was shocked.  She stood in a revealing dress, too blond, too overdone and raged desperateness. So can you guess what happened?  His picture didn't say that his head was far too puny for his body, that he had a weak chin and small female-like hands.  Nor did it say I hate desperate women.  Before they even ordered the entrée he fled the scene.  We had another week of crying and self-loathing. 

            Even approaching that desperation thing was impossible.  Next was Mr. Preoccupied—Nate. The desperate meets the desperate.  Nate was handsome and giving and soon I named him Mr. Velcro.  That name—preoccupied—it means they are preoccupied with getting dumped. When you are afraid to lose in the game of love, you tend to do one thing; wind your way into that target's  life.  He whined and wined her—practically moving into her house. He had no career to speak of other than worshiping the various women he had loved, or professed to have love.  I listened to his syrupy sweet anthems each night, and watched her walks around my house like a deranged Fellini character, in a bra and thong. I wanted to vomit.  

       Way too fast is how these relationships work because desperation feeds off other desperation.  It took some shocking realities to lift the veil; he was an alcoholic, had a criminal record, was living off his mother's credit card, had no real job aspirations and the house he supposedly lived in?  At forty, he had 8 college aged roommates.  Her puppy dog turned into a monster. 

            Now that we've described it, my next blog will detail the signs.

In the meantime tell yourself you are worthy, he needs to prove himself- not the other way around.  Men need to compete, to woo and to work for our love.  THAT IS SCIENCE my dears.

Anything worth having is worth working for- the principle of effort justification.  Google that !     

ONLINE DATING: Ok cupid, make me a match with those plenty of fish over fifty or Christian Mingle me with eharmony for a Jdate with chemistry. Yahoo!

ONLINE DATING: Ok cupid, make me a match with those plenty of fish over fifty or Christian Mingle me with eharmony for a Jdate with chemistry. Yahoo! 

So confusing!  The scientific truth is that there is little reliable research.  I just read a book review where some woman conducted her own experiment and delivers her say on the matter, without any  scientific reasoning behind her common sense rules. What she did was to dupe 90 women into thinking they were dating a man, profiles she created.  She catfished them all and her lack of ethics in doing this makes me question anything she might say. 

"I also wanted to learn everything I could about my competition. So I created profiles of 10 male archetypes and spent a month as these men, interacting with 96 women, researching their methods and scraping data from their profiles."  From http://www.cnn.com/2013/01/22/living/online-dating-amy-webb/index.html "Data, A Love Story: How I Gamed Online Dating To Meet My Match," By Amy Webb, to be published January 31 by Dutton.

OMG, are you kidding?  I've got a lot to say about algorithms used by dating sites.  Unfortunately dating-sites are not keen on giving anyone access to what they know.  But there are scientists in Universities, real ones, who number crunch and pick through the BS.  In the next series of articles I'm going to tell you the truth. I only hope those women she catfished come forward and those sites investigate. Anyone could be out therecould be pulling an "Amy."  

I'll give you the second rule: Identify the person. Try to date people in your area.  Google their names.  If you don't see their names anywhere, be suspicious.  If you find a job listing, call, ask for them and listen to their voice- just to make sure of their gender.  Speaking about gender try Gender Genie on Google, you paste some interaction in and they spit out the gender of the writer.  

If you cannot dig up this person on the internet - don't go on.  More about this later but this leads to the best way to identify--meet as soon as possible.   

The first rule?  Have boundaries.  That means getting rid of desperation, that is your worst enemy and perhaps the most difficult to tackle. Keep on dating!  Dr. Dawn Hopper  

  

Love and Hurricans and Tropical Storms. Sandy is coming

It was November 9, 1965 when the black-out happened.   No storm, just no power and nine months later, babies.  The legend was published in a series of three articles in the New York Times where doctors reported that they saw an increased birth rate after that week of hell.  Five years later it was debunked by  love-skeptic,  J. Richard Udry, who claimed he saw no statistical surge in screaming women in laboring.  He was so wrong.  It takes up to one year to get an egg and sperm to shake hands.  He forgot that back then there was birth control.  I know—I babysat plenty of people who had condoms in their nightstands, making a side business of harvesting their crop—it was better than weed.  I lived in a time where you might have to produce a marriage license or have your parents phoned if you tried to purchase one of those things.  But that's another story.  

Some twenty years ago there was the October snow fiasco.   Then I lived through Irene. 

Hubby didn't take it seriously so we never prepared.  By the time we realized this huff-and puff might be true, we had to battle torrents of rain to the local  Piggly-Wiggly.  No candles left I was left to use my Jewish-Italian-Hispanic resources—I knew the international aisle.  Amidst the Kosher soups, the bags of beans and boxes of pasta my hands knew where to reach,   Rokeach and Manischewitz Yahrzeit candles—to honor the dead, then Maria Mother of God greeted me between the Allessi Risotto and Colavita olive oil, followed by San Lazaro nesting next to the rice and Amanida Ajo Blanco- a Spanish white garlic.  I grabbed that garlic along with the tall yellow glass candles.  A hundred dollars later I had light.  That's when I learned what the term WATT meant: one candle equals one watt, unless they are kosher —those ingenious Jews know that white wax reflects more than yellow, blue, green or red.  Leave it to them to come up with a perfect small candle that lasts 24 hours and in the end gives you a shot glass.   

Then it hit.  We were trapped by the private road that showed us what being cut off from the world was really like.  Crazed with e-withdrawal, no power, cooking formerly frozen steaks on the barbi in the garage, eating canned goods I thought were only good enough for the poor, re-reading dog-eared novels, watching my Benz float away, my roof come off, crapping on a dry-wall bucket, drinking water from my tub, I began to go crazy.  Hubby was worse—there were no video games, baseball, football and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies to capture his attention. 

I did what and any normal person would.  Using the grill  I made a chicken dish using the risotto, an entire head of parsley and Spanish garlic I met earlier.*  I broke out the whiskey and wine, followed by the three year old weed found in my kid's knapsack.  OMG, weed is so much more potent nowadays.  We lit the fireplace and hunted down the old scrabble game now missing half the tiles.  I managed to place "frenzy" in my first hand.  He got "now" off my N.   I responded with "you" leaning off his Y.  And then he placed "uck" beneath my F. 

I was stunned, which is a strange perception when you're high.  Do you know it?  It's when half your brain is saying "wow man, isn’t this cool," and the other side is panicked and screaming,  "OMG-you shouldn't have smoked this shit."  Suddenly I realized why I gave up on pot.  But David came to my rescue.  He tenderly kissed my mouth and smiled, revealing his parsley checkerboarded teeth--confirmation that I was a great cook.  What more could  Jewish, Italian and Spanish woman want?  So with San Lorenzo summoning his power of everlasting endurance, The Virgin Mother smiling, and Jewish spirits dancing on the walls, I slowly settled on that scrabble board and did what Dr. Urdry said was a myth.  An hour later, my ample ass embedded with tiles that spelled frenzy, now, and  fuck I was tempted make the words  "fun,"  "funky," "zen," and "rock." 

Now it's Sandy.  Again, he did the same thing- poo-pooed the storm.  But not me.  After buttoning up our Woodstock house I assembled a horde of saints and Jews to back me up, with some wine.  The glass and wax is gleaming on my kitchen island, waiting for the power to go and the power to come—to learn again what's important. 

Yes I'm scared.  But the scrabbled cubes are lost and the only letter I might assemble are on keys!   So write.  dawnmhopper@gmail.com

* Lemon-garlic Chicken- (Really Italian)

I should know, I live in Italy half the year.  Don't get scared by the ingredients.   First, slowly begin to sauté a lot of chopped garlic (the whole thing head)  in olive oil, making sure you don't burn it.  Add an entire bunch of chopped up parsley.  That parsley will actually fry and transform into something you never thought parsley could be.  (Think of great sex with a really nice man).  The rule is that you don't want to burn the garlic or the parsley. Set this aside.
Now you need the chicken.  You can make this recipe with any kind of chicken.  If it's boneless breasts, salt and flour lightly, it in olive oil and butter.  Pieces can follow the same rule.

 After they are browned, put the chicken in a baking dish, followed by the garlic-parsley mix and squeeze a lemon over all of it.  Bake at @350 until you are sure that chicken is done.  Boneless breasts are done very quickly.  Cook risotto or pasta and top it with our garlic-chicken.   Now top the entire dish with a ton of grated Romano cheese.  Make sure your lips are olive-oiled  and you have plenty of parsley in between your teeth as you kiss.  My husband has fished out that green for me.   

Online Love

The Love Lost Generation: The Problem with On-line Dating and Choice.
Love-lost genration? Sadly we are more confused than ever. Our cave life made it all much simpler. A hundred possbile dates? Are you kidding?

GF Becca calls. Disgusted with on-line dating- too much time, too much work, too little results. Is she alone? Hardly. The industry calls it “one of the best tools,” but unfortunately our cave brains see it as a massive stimulus overload. You just have too many choices! It might seem great to have hundreds of potential matches but then again our mind plays some tricks with all that information.

First, it gives us a false sense of confidence that we are in more control than we are. Then we make the next mistake, thinking we have control we maximize our pay-off. So when Becca saw Tom, a heart surgeon who took a liking to her pic, she chose him—Not for nothing but Becca is a cocktail waitress and wouldn’t know an artery from an arterial.

What she doesn’t know is that our brains get irritated when we are faced with too much choice. Oh how we hate to be wrong, indecisive and leave tings to chance. So she makes her contact. Now her brain decides to screw her over again—she becomes convinced they are destined. She goes back to his profile and works over all the reasons they are a couple. We call it post-decision dissonance and without all the science gab, it’s a way that we make ourselves feel better after we make a choice. We feelmore confident. Those dating sites know this. They know you might do all the things that Becca did and that’s why they give you certain information and then smack it with a percentage. He was 97% her match. For the next day she read, reread and presumed that they had everything in common.

Now effort- justification kicks in. What’s that? It’s when we amp up our confidence that our efforts are well-justified. After all, she spent two solid days filling our questionnaires and another weekend responding to questions and queries. Our minds don’t like to think our efforts are worthless and Becca was absolutely convinced that there was a pay-off in there for her. Of course her mind filled in all the gaping pot-holes in her path—after all with hundreds of choices and a 97% match, what could go wrong? Plenty.

The date was a disaster. He, like 67% of men use on-line dating as a hook-up tool. After plying her with gin he proceeded to tell her about his other vein—She bolted from the restaurant.
But even if that last scenario didn’t happen all that choice lends us to experience some big disappointment. So what can you do? First you just learned something about how thinking can undermine our efforts. However in the next weeks I’ll set out some great rules that can help in maximizing on-line dating efforts.

For more information: Online Dating: A Critical Analysis From the Perspective of Psychological Science, by Eli J. Finkel, Paul W. Eastwick, Benjamin R. Karney, Harry T. Reis, and Susan Sprecher

Grandma, grandpa, parents, young and old ..What do they have in common?

The word love- as in lovers. There are more lovers in this world than not.  It's a uniting force that has sustained humanity.  Do you love some one?  Research tells us we say nicer things to stranger than the person we love, because we count on their unconditional love.  Today, tell that person how much they matter to you. Say something to rock their world.  Today I have summoned a paragraph for my love. . . How 'bout you?    

Can Friends Become Lovers? Tell me. . .

Can they?  It happens more than we know it.  When you notice they are better looking than you thought, it's working.  When you are happy just seeing them, i'ts working. Comfortable together? It's working.  Research tells us that the mere exposure effect makes us sink into happiness when we see a familiar face, a loved one or an accepting friend. In spite of on-line dating,  more romances happen when faced with a familiar face.  And it keeps love going.  Happy couples relish seeing one another.  Have you had this experience?    

Italy is for Lovers

Apologies for my absence but I have been getting fodder from my travels.  Yes, I was in Italy exploring the world of sex and love, food and wine and vista's and scenery with my husband David.  ans our college age son, Matthew. All of those I listed are aphrodisiac's in one way or another.  You can't help feeling sexy after devouring plates o mushrooms, stretching mozzarella with your teeth, while sitting on a terrace overlooking a castello. The Italians know this; there are condom vending machines even next to the Vatican. Even in the small Village my family lives in, the condom machine is mounted on a wall in the piazza.  From our window, during the last week of our stay I kept count of all the local lovers, whose twist of the handle caused a ratchet sound which echoed off our walls.  I counted 52 in one night, and that is in a village of 350.  Then there is the wine.    

Italy is wasted on beer drinkers.  Wine is truly the best Viagra. After a bottle I felt sinfully sexy, nixed any idea of plastic surgery.  I began fluffing my hair, batting my mascaraed eyes and speaking with a slight Italian accent to my suave husband, in his fedora and banana hammock- by the private pool at our rental. Actually I bribed him to wear my black jockey microfiber hipsters.  Yes I did and as soon as I can bribe him for the photo evidence it will be posted.  Anyway, David agreed about the wine thing, said it was an airbrush.  I was insulted because he never noticed I shaved my legs and prepped (you know what I mean) for our adventure.  My kid noticed it.  "Look," he exclaimed. "Mom shaved!"

We went with our two best buddies, Cristiana and Laurie and their kids- they noticed our absences a couple times a day.  But Matt shared our room.  Of course it was really hard and we couldn't act on all our impulses with him in the next bed.  By the way, I did mean that pun and if you don't get it re-read the last sentence.  Nevertheless, the car, shower, rolling hills of Tuscany, my aunts bathroom and the swimming pool all provided opportunities. Wine loosens tongues and bras, lubricates the mind and opens up all sorts of fantasy.  We had a ball.  Best of all, the night I found him in the bathroom showering, and slipped in, telling him I was a hooker, from Rome, I blamed on the bottle of Chianti the following morning.

My theory is this: The test of a great relationship is the vacation.  If you can leave the stress of life behind, devour the pleasures of their company, enjoy, your relationship is sound.  We came home soo happy....  Oh, have I told you all the things Italians do with olive oil?

I missed you-  Dr. Dawn Marlena Hopper. ..or Donatella ...my new name.
Tell me about your love holidays- ---

In Case you Didn’t Know, We Baby Boomer’s Invented Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ Roll

In Case you Didn’t Know, We Baby Boomer’s Invented Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ Roll 

When I said that to my college class, they applauded.  I know I invented the first two.

I could roll a joint with my toes when I was 16.  I perfected the art of sex with my first husband in his mother’s basement. Although he got carded when he bought condoms, we managed to make a love nest in an old coal bin.  We bought a kerosene heater for the cold winters and of course, a cot.  Little did we know that the fumes went upstairs and his mother ended up calling the fire department who busted through the tiny window above our heads—finding us naked under a moth-eaten army blanket.  I was grounded for a year and sent to a shrink.

It didn’t stop me from growing pot, a need that grew from my grounding and the weirdo I was forced to meet with once a week.  So, in between my mother’s tomatoes the tall plants thrived.  After I ripped out all the males (you can tell them by their tiny balls at the crotch of a stem) I harvested the five pounds of heavenly weed, with Krissy, my best friend.  We hung the plants in my basement, in the closet that my mother’s wedding gown and honeymoon ensemble were in.  They never smelled the same again.  Krissy ended up getting busted at a concert when Stewie Savolinsky narc-ed her out.  I buried my stash in my grandmother’s yard and then I drove to the jail with her father and we bailed her out.  In the car she pointed to the tiny vest pocket where she revealed a rolled joint.  It’s amazing how clever we were.

Do any of you have those memories?   

We were the Woodstock generation, primed by the mantra “if it feels good do it.” We protested and rocked.  We made love and fought to end the war that took our young men to Vietnam,  battled to end segregation and spread the seeds of tolerance for gay rights.  I even stopped shaving my legs—for about three years, then I burned my bra in Philadelphia with a woman who wrote Sisterhood is Powerful.  I’ve often wondered where she is now.  However, I can hardly think of another generation that did as much.  Tell me if I’m wrong. 

Of course if you’re younger you might not believe your parents did these things.  Perhaps they weren’t as wild as I was but the air of the era was contagious.  If they had a Bob Marley album in their vinyl collection, or if they know who he is, they rocked.  But time rolled on and most of us left those lives behind when we faced babies, mortgages and car payments. I shaved my legs, bought a support bra when I saw what my grandmother (who never wore one) looked like in the nude.

  

I never told my own children what we did—at least not until they got through all their adolescent temptations.  I stopped the smoking—you can hardly get a PhD being stoned all the time.  My attitudes towards sex have changed too—we are having way too much with too many people and for all the wrong reasons.  Who ever thought you would be able to flip a switch on the computer and have streaming porn.  In our time my bothers thought the Sears catalogue was the deal.  After it arrived, the bra ads would be missing.  They swore they could see though the fabric. 

I live in Woodstock now, a community with one of the largest aging in place boomers.  My kids are grown and I find my life in a sort of pleasant retrograde.   I’m having fun.  I’m not the only one.  Our generation is not taking to retiring in a rocker.  We’re beginning our second act; new careers, new lifestyles and breaking the rules—again. 

Time Magazine and the Breast Advice for Mothers

     In case you have not gone to a news stand this week, Time ran a cover of a three year old breastfeeding and people are FREAKING.  In a nation saturated with porn, where clitoral vibrators and penis pumps are sold across the airways like TV dinners and where the flip of a channel tells the story about a man with a twenty-something inch penis (who cares), adults who dress up as animals while they screw, Sister Wives who take turns with little Napoleon or a three year old in a thong gyrating her ass in a pageant- we have to get up set because a woman might be doing something with her mammary gland- that it was meant to do.  It's hit a raw nerve in me for several reasons.  You are not wrong if cannot breastfeed that baby!  It does not devalue who you are, nor does your choice to breastfeed deserve criticism- as women, we need to support one another.

The Power of our Words

The single largest predictor of happiness in a relationship comes down to the number of positive acts, affirmations compared to the number of negative actions.  In other words, actions and words can hurt.  The quickest way to rid yourself of a partner is to forget this rule.  So for today try this exercise a practice I live on a daily basis.  Tell the people you love something nice about themselves.  Maybe it is something you appreciate; a quality, a small act they might have done for you....

Why am I telling you this? I've been doing this for almost 2o years.  It came to me one day when I stood at the base of the staircase screaming at the kids and my husband. As my voice echoed up the landing and around the corner a reality hit me: I sounded exactly like the kind of person I did not like.  I sounded like my own mother!  (Sorry mom, I love you  but you really were a huge complainer!)

On that day I tried a new tactic.  Polite asking, calmness and reminding myself to tell my family and those I love something that affirms my feelings.  So often we say nicer things to strangers than the people we love.  We take advantage of the fact that their love is always there - despite what we do.  Unconditional love needs to be rewarded!

I have spent the last three weeks flat on my back from a surgical procedure and while I have had a headache,  been unable to write, have a mental fog,  and I have been depressed.  I cannot take care of any of them.  I can't even bathe.  My kids and husband have rallied around me and when I began crying about how terrible and confused I feel my husband looked at me and said, " We all love you so much and have no problem taking care of you for a while."  Then they made me dinner and after my husband helped me shampoo my hair and painted my toenails.

I lay on the bed laughing while he made polka dots on my nails.  "You are the best husband," I told him.  He smiled back and cuddled up next to me and said, "I know you think so and I hope I can always be that great-man-on-the-pedestal that you put me on."  And he is and was.

Today, for me, tell someone you love something nice.

For everyone on V-Day

Someone is alone today.  A friend may be trailing a broken heart, another might be mourning the loved one that has passed on, and many on this special night have no waiting arms to fall into.  But they are still recognized on this day when we celebrate our profound capacity to connect to others though the unique human gift we all possess: the ability to love. Love is an elixir there is no one true recipe for and all its ingredients are attainable—to anyone at any time.  Love can shape itself into any form, is bottomless, endless, can laugh in the face of time and can be summoned from a simple wisp of thoughtful energy.  So my friends, today remember to send that gift to someone...Dr. Dawn Marlena Hopper

http://www.myspace.com/music/player?sid=50213531&ac=now

Happy Valentines Day- Can you Please Penis and Clitoris up?

What?  What the hell is that about?  My girlfriend told me she wanted one thing for her Valentine's day present.  It was not a ring, a piece of jewelry, flowers or chocolates.  In fact it is free.  She asked me to write this and she is going to set it under his pillow.
First, only 20% of all women can orgasm without clitoral stimulation.  I think is a hell of a lot more but since we are all supposed to be orgasmic and amateur porn stars ready to go for that great guy, few want to fess up to their need for some FOREPLAY.  What is FOREPLAY?  I actually heard this once while giving a sex lecture -" Four minutes of sexual play before penetration." Blame it on porn- the absolutely worst training material- but that will be another blog! 

So what does girlfriend want from her husband?  A warm bath, bubbles, a massage, a bottle of wine, to sit face to face naked and talk about love for a full five minutes, no touching, to kiss for a whole five minutes without tongues, then another five minutes with tongues, and then she wants him to ask her one question.  "What can I do to make you happy? - Show me" 

She tells me this story and I all-of-sudden- get something really big- she cannot bring herself to tell this man!  Is she alone? Hardly.  Many many women stay silent.  Research tells us they do this for many reasons; sex guilt, embarrassment, afraid they are abnormal or will be viewed as abnormal, they don't want to be demanded, hurt his feelings...on and on the list goes. 

Here is my Valentine’s Day suggestions to write on that card.
Actually make a list of all the reasons and qualities you love then for.
Write the lyrics of a song that reminds you of them.
Send that loved-one the song as a message.
Text lover all day with simple words that all add up to a romantic encounter "Tonight...." pause for a few minutes..."I want ...." 
Or text lover with a menu of the dish you might be serving.
And for my shy friends, do what my girlfriend is going to do. She is sending him a card and beginning with the following words "Honey, I found this on the internet in a sex and love blog,  and I thought it would be the best gift we could give each other.  So read this and tell me what you think:

Happy Valentines form your Sex and Love Fairy Godmother.  Here is a special recipe for a great night.  Give this to your lover!

1. Let's take a bath.  Please open a bottle of wine and light a candle. 
2.  Let's sit face to face and let's tell each other what we love about each other. (Tonight it is only about the two of you- no other's, no erotica, no sex toys, it is only the two of you.)  We have to come up with at least 10 qualities or memories.      
2.  Now we need to kiss for five minutes, gentle, no tongues. 
3.  Now we need to kiss for another five minutes, no rules. 
3. Stop.
4. Now we tell each other something that we have never shared before: 
   * Tell me one fantasy that you have had about me and I will tell you one I have had about you.       
   *Tell me one thing you would really find pleasurable that I can do, that involves me that you have not told me before. I will share the same with you.

  * Show me, by taking my hands or describing exactly one thing I can do to give you pleasure - and in return I will show you or teach you something that can give me pleasure. 

Do men love? Giving Men a Bad Rap

            Recently, a comment swayed my thinking about love and sex towards a different direction.  “I don’t have bad men stories to tell,” was the comment I made, which might be defined as “I don’t have man-hate.”   For sure I do have some really bad stories to tell that have involved a man.  I have been that one in four statistics often quoted; it was a relative and I was a mere three when it began.  In my younger years it did shape some perceptions of trust but bad things happen to all of us.   It really is what we do with the bad that truly shapes us. 

            When I began my research on men and love I discovered (it was easy) that many of us hate men.  Really hate men; and we love to hate men.  Sure, we find one here and there we exempt from the man-hate rule.  We brand them different, exceptional or worthy for some reason.  “He’s not like the rest of them,” I heard my girlfriend tell me. 

            Man bashing is a sport.  I have spent a lot of time around women and a lot of time they get on the male bashing rant.  I remember many years ago  the conversation in college that turned to the bad sex we had experienced with men and dialogue went on to the about the strangeness, uniqueness of their body parts or techniques.   This poor guy Rob was discussed by two of the women.  He was my Physics study partner and every time I looked at him in the face I could only think about the fact his penis turned to the left and he had one testicle.  Okay- that might be funny but here is the real point- How often do men get together and degrade vaginas?  Tell me if you are a guy out there and you and your buddies have sat around degrading and discussing the bad sex you’ve had.  And it’s not all about sex.  I’ve been privy to all the faults of men for my 25 year history as a therapist.  In couples therapy I hear it all, what a louse he is, his sexual follies, fetishes, hygiene habits but when I meet this guy he only mutters “I don’t know what is going on.”  Nothing about fat ass that say in my chair the hour before.  Men have a really difficult time ranting about us.  And God forbid they do- I cannot image a male college professor entering a class and talking about women and the power tactics they use. 

            But we are entitled to do this.  Yes!  Somehow our enslavement has given us a sort of permission to sling the mud right back and in a way, we are set up for us to do this.  We can hate men politically and historically for enslaving us and taking away our freedoms.  Show me a time in history where women were on equal footing, when double standards did not exist—yes there are a handful of examples out there, but it’s child-sized.  I’ve had women heckle me—yell out in lecture centers, “ female circumcision…rape…divorce laws….”  Yes I agree.  They also kill us!  Murder us!  I have a theory about why men have done this, why some men do this and why society and social forces were culpable.   It might be a strange idea but I believe that men love women far more than women may realize.  Controlling women is the cultural or societal method to do so- bind them in marriages they can’t leave, sew their vagina’s shut, stone them for adultery.   What religion is not guilty of setting up rules to make women obey men?  Yeah, I know we’ve come a long way.  But really, women are second class citizens in most of the faith realms. 

            Aside for culture, religion and history, on a personal level men will go to great lengths for their love objects; they take the physically most demanding jobs, they take the riskiest jobs, they die on the job ten times more than women do, and engage in the most dangerous activities to support their families or women in their lives.  And they die much earlier than we do.  My poor father-in-law built his own house out of wood crates, worked 60 hours a week as a meat cutter to support his 10 children and dropped dead days after he retired.   Yes, my poor mother-in-law was delegated to her role of cooking, cleaning, making him happy and reading her bible which told her to never complain. 

            I know I’m getting philosophical on you.  but I want you to think of all the things we have come to associated with mans’ hate and control a little differently—It  is driven by fear of abandonment or the fear of losing the object of love.  Men might love us so much they enslave us, and sometimes themselves in the process.  And there is evidence in the brain and the neurochemical make up- but that will have to wait.   

What do you think? 

The Naked Truth

     OMG- this topic sooo deserves to be front and center and I credit my gf Laurie for the idea.  Some of us hate our nakedness.  I mean HATE!  Body dysmorphia - the idea that we do not have the correct perception of what we look like, is epidemic- most especially in the US.  Most women rate themselves heavier and less attractive.  When it comes to getting nude, unless we do porn for a living, nude modeling or spend weekends in a nudist camp, we are nervous.  By the way, you can blame it on those bitches who bleach their sphincters, rip out their body hair and inflate their boobs like basketballs and the media that shoves such ideals down our throats.  I like my bod but I have to admit even I have moments.  If you say you don't you are a liar. 
       But I will share this- last year my very close friends and I decided to get to our naked flaws and show each other what we hated about our bodies the most.  So there we were, seven of us topless, bottomless, stomachs out, bent over, OMG did we look like a sight. But the strangest thing was none of us thought any of the others were offensive, ugly or strange.   And we all felt that way about one another.  So we went around the room and talked.  In one of those powerful sisterly moments I felt so beautiful....  We all did.  It was truely a lesson, or reality check.  But not everyone lives in Woodstock and has friends that will do this.
      I will admit my favorite shopping moment is when I see that STAR magazine at the register covered with horrendous celebrity pics in bikinis; this one emaciated and that one with rolls but the best are the saggy, baggy and flabby ones.  I gloat because Demi Moore has cellulite all over her ass.  "Ha Ha Ha," I  say to myself.  If I could have turned to kiss my own ass at that moment I would have.   I stand at the longest line and tear through the pages to see those fat bitches, dimpled and sagging and then I say to myself;  wow self, wow sister-women we are not the only SHAR-PEI females!!!!  Why do I feel so good? Because someone tells the truth and somewhere in east BumF--k there is this woman, who is down on her self,  who sees that STAR magazine and realizes there is no such thing as prefect. 
Alas, I have not really let it get to me. 
     But here is what one of my Girl friends told me:  I figure that my poor husband has not seen me totally naked in 20 years.  He only thinks he has.  I told him the topic of my blog and he laughed.  "I've seen you naked every day."  But he doesn't know that it is an optical illusion.  It's like the fan dance the old strippers did.  First I uncover myself on the bed.  Everyone looks good horizontally.  That is the reason we go into the ground on our backs not standing straight up and down.  They lay us out this way because all the flesh seems to stay put- like Jello.  Using gravity and a forced suck of air, I flatten my stomach, raise my floppy thighs up so they look thinner and reach for the robe.  Then I slide out of bed with the robe.  I let it grace my had-too-many-babies-belly.  Expertly I allow some peeking and then I turn fast, the robe is on and I make my way to the bathroom. 
     Women, we all know the tricks to give us confidence.   Then there is candlelight.  OMG if ever there was every a cheap aid for sex (besides olive oil) it's candle light.  Light them up!  Then there is lingerie.  Preferably the kind that gives you a lift here and there.  If that doesn't work make sure you use your upper arms to prop your poor old girls up and out of your arm pits.
     Finally there is wine.  Everything looks better through rosé colored glasses.  A few later and you won't care what he thinks! 
     If you are young and reading this I'm only telling you what you have to look forward to.  Hard to believe but younger women are MORE bothered by their physical appearance than older women.  We have confidence on our side.  Actually when I think about it I really don't think I have seen my own self in the mirror too recently.  But the truth is we shouldn't worry at all.  Why?  Men really don't care, they are really not that critical!
     Think about it for a minute.  Imagine this: have you ever heard of a guy stopping sex and saying "Wow, I can't get into it now that I see you have cellulite on your thighs."  Are you kidding!    I know I've told you some funny things and my husband is reading over my shoulder at this very moment.  He just said "passion is an airbrush."  Yes it is.  In those moments you don't notice the flaws or what we think are flaws.  In reality there are NO FLAWS.  What we need is confidence in who we are and what we bring to the relationship-   You are beautiful and deserving.  Say it again- YOU ARE DESERVING-  Dr.  Dawn Marlena Hopper
What do you think????

Worth the Wait- miniblog

A tiny tip- (miniblog)
Playing hard to get works, for both men and women. "Easy" implies a lot: you are not discreet, not choosy, got one thing on your mind, you do not require work, you do not require anyone puts effort into your needs. . . It takes weeks to get the most beautiful flowers in my garden to grow, but the weeds shoot up in 24 hours; the more effort we put into something, the more we tend to value it- it's called effort justification (a psychological principle).  We want what we can't have (the forbidden toy), another principle.  Last, the double standard will always exist; men don't look for wives in strip clubs. Make a "so many date" rule. 

Dr. Dawn Marlena Hopper

Looking for Men in Love- Are you There?

No, I am not crazy.  Men love more than women think.   I am looking for men who would write their love stories.  Yes, men!  So if you know a  man who has a love story, ending good or bad, long or short, pleasure or pain,   I’d like to hear from him!   Length is unimportant.  Love, livid, lurid, longing, life-changing, lachrymose, lascivious, lustful, lasting, laudable, lubricous, low-bred, luminous, lush, or lucid  -  I want them!  Lesson learned, hearts tormented, love that sustains It is all good.  Email the longest to dawnmhopper@gmail.com   -  I am collecting them.  Yesterday an 87-year-old man wrote me a 6 page single spaced story… WOW!  It was great.  I might publish it in a series, so wait….Thanks!

Men Love!

Who loves more? I believe men do.

You are laughing right?  Stop.  Women don’t kill themselves over men, women don’t kill their families, rivals, stalk or obsess anywhere near the rate the men.  Rejected men go nuts.  Why?  Because they tend bond to the women they love furiously. 

     Stereotypes however portray men as cold, aloof, cunning, ruthless in exploiting women, going from conquest to conquest.  Women are the lovers and men are the leavers.  Not so. One of the most interesting studies on this topic was done by Zick Rubin, Latitia Peplau and Charles Hill in 1981 who followed a large group of couples over a long period of time examining their love relationship and their break-ups.  That stereotype of men as cads is false.