Alright, ladies, listen up. Since I’m the official “cougar” of this site, I thought I’d give ya’all lessons on being a cougar (in case it’s an idea you’ve been tossing the idea around in your mind). This first little handy post is going to introduce you into the life of being a cougar and show you it’s not something to be afraid of anymore. Younger men are out there and we older women want them! For the record, I am 7 years older than my husband. Quiet frankly, we are both VERY happy.

Since the beginning of time, men have dated younger women. Why should they have all the fun? It seems that more and more men are finally opening their eyes and looking at the older woman. It’s not just rich women looking for a boy toy anymore, my friends. With a little help and insight from me, you can become a cougar!

A prime example in today’s celebrity world is Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher. They have over a 15 year age difference. They were married September 24, 2005. Although, it is a little creepy with Bruce Willis always in the background, their marriage seems to be going strong.

Sources: Ashton & Demi

There are many appeals of being a cougar. Here are a few:

*Sex. Yes, sex. If you catch your younger man at just the right time, you can both be at your sexual peak at the same time. Need I say more?

*Because we can! We are all beautiful women and some of us just aren’t attracted to older men for various reasons (one being that reason I listed above).

*I won’t go all scientific on you, but women live longer than men. So, why not have a younger husband? Then you might have a chance at kicking it with Jesus (or Buddha) at the same time.

*Younger men still have dreams. Most of them haven’t been shat on by the world yet. They still have ambitions and the fire inside of them to make dreams come true. Who wants a washed up 40 year old, who feels he’s done with life and dreams?

*Younger men are more active than older men. A lot of women I know are still active well into their 50’s and 60’s. With a younger man, he’s still a risk taker. He’ll probably jump out of a plane with you, ride roller coasters, parasail, or go on an African Safari, whatever your desire.

If any of these things don’t appeal to you, go back and reread the first one:)

I’ll be back with more lessons and insights soon.

-Camo

Hello Everyone! I’m back…..miss me? Probably never realized I was here or gone. I’m going to bring back two of my blogs from a few years ago from letters of truth. Please read them….because the newest letter of truth will be at the bottom!

Letter 1

Dear Boyfriend,

This may come as a surprise to you, but you no longer make me happy. You make me want to run my nails down a chalkboard or go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Your emotional basketcase attitude makes me want to vomit. If you mention getting married one more time, I will gouge your (or my own) eye out with my Tinkerbell pen.

I am attracted to a 19 year old. Yes, 19 year old. Before you say anything, I am well aware of the fact that I am 26. I am well aware of the fact that it will not go anywhere with him, but I don’t care.

I want to be the older woman that “teaches” him things. I want to be Mrs.Robinson. Is that so wrong?

I’m sorry, boyfriend. Please take your overbearing, obsessive ways and hit the road. Your services are no longer desired nor required.

Kiss it,
Camo

Letter 2

Dear 19 year old,

You are messing with my head. Your piercings are turning me on. Especially the one in your lip. I want to twirl my tongue around it. Over and over. Your sarcastic attitude leaves me begging for more. I want to be the “hot” teacher from all your teenage fantasies. I’m sure you still have them. You are, after all, still a teenager.

I am a grown woman and should not have these feelings of attraction for you.

Oh well.

I guess age doesn’t matter unless someone could go to jail.

Why must you torment me so?

Hot for you,
Camo

Letter 3

Dear Husband,

I am now considered a cougar. I just couldn’t let my teenager go. However, isn’t it funny that wherever we go, you NEVER get carded and I always do. It makes me giggle inside. Isn’t it funny that we find happiness in the last place we would have ever thought? My husband, my best friend, my soul mate. My very own personal Slash, John Mayer, Muddy Waters or whatever music I want to hear played.

Happiness, bliss, and love,
Camo

Check back soon. There will be more Confessions of a Cougar coming your way.

I can’t write these days, not for lack of want or trying, but simply because every time I sit down to hammer out a blog, my mind wanders to the same place. It doesn’t matter if I’m trying to write about my obsession with Wolfgang Puck’s HSN gadgets and gizmos or my newfound love for Tom’s shoes, every blog seems to turn into some glowing tribute to my favorite virginal vampire that sparkles in the sun.

I’m convinced that my brain has some sort of Edward Cullen disease, one that is contracted by spending way too much reading Twilight books, watching the movie, and searching out photos online while I drool on my keyboard. It’s like a computer virus that somehow left my computer and entered my body. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Edward Cullen was a zombie that had eaten my brain. There’s just no other way to explain it. I am completely enamored! Recently, I’ve been trying to distance myself from my obsession, hoping that a little time would lead me to something else. Okay, so maybe I haven’t been trying very hard, but I have been looking for other things to occupy my mind….sometimes.

Imagine my delight when I happened upon another young, hot, brooding vampire.

[source]

Hello Stefan Salvatore, as seen on the CW’s Vampire Diaries. This vampire is absolutely delicious, though a bit of a Edward Cullen knock-off. It’s like when you can’t really have the one you want so you settle for his not-quite-as-attractive but still totally do-able cousin. Yeah, like that. While no one could ever come close to Edward Cullen’s immaculate jawline and stylish bouffant hair, he’s a close runner up.

You know you’re a DORK when you make it a point to learn the zodiac sign of your celebrity crush.

You know you’re OBSESSED when you take it a step further and look up your crush’s astrological birth chart. (Hey, you can do this for free on line. Just go to http://astro-software.com/cgi-bin/astro/natal)

So yeah . . . that’s right.

I admit it.

I consulted the stars and checked out Kevvy Baby’s astrological chart. I was bored, and you know how ridiculously curious I can be. Plus, many, many moons ago in the prime of my youth, I developed a casual interest in astrology. It started after I happened upon this ridiculous book that belonged to one of my older sisters. I think the name of it might have been “LOVE SIGNS.”

Oh, that book was rich, I tell you. It analyzed every sign of the zodiac and revealed exactly what must be done in order to make this or that particular sign fall in love with you. The omniscient text also informed you whether or not you were compatible with the object of your desires (according to the placement of their stars, of course).

Thus, by the tender age of 14, I knew exactly which boy I — the earthy and sensual Capricorn woman — should or should not dance with at the Sadie Hawkins sock hop. Of course, with my Venus in unpredictable Aquarius, things seldom turned out as planned.

But back to my original topic.

Are you aware, dear readers, that Kevvy Baby is a SCORPIO, the most magnetic, mysterious, white-hot, alluring MAN-HUNK sign of the entire freakin’ zodiac????????
No joke. And when I checked Kevin’s birth chart, I was stunned to discover that not only was he born under the sign of Scorpio,  at least five or six of his other planets dwell in the sexy sign of Scorpio.

If you don’t know what this means, allow me to spell it out for you. Usually, people’s charts are comprised of an eclectic, well-rounded smattering of different planets. Variety denotes balance and, perhaps in some cases, mediocrity. But when an individual possesses a bevy of planets in the same sign, LOOK OUT.  Such a heavy helping of Scorpio indicates that a volcanic intensity and molten sexual energy seethe beneath Kevvy’s cool, composed, nonchalant surface.

YOW! Yank my hand away from the flame before I burn my finger!

Of course, such a weighty dollop of Scorpio also indicates that Kevin is an intensely PRIVATE and SECRETIVE individual.

Thus, I feel I must issue a small apology of sorts for what I have started here. Before this blog, Kevin was just the unknown Kohl’s Hunk, tantalizing scores of women everywhere as they flipped the pages of their Sunday circulars, their burgeoning lust stunted by an impenatrable wall of anonymity.

Before these blogs, few could hang a name on that stubbled jaw or those tousled, sun-drenched locks. The women of America were forced to resort to fanciful pseudonyms during their orgiastic throes of blond worship.

At midnight, beneath a pale glow of moonshine, when Kevin followers united to participate in their secret, estrogen-ridden Dionysian rites of Ralph Lauren homage, their chanting lips could manage only the mute call of : “Kohl’s Hunk. ..Kohl’s Hunk… Kohl’s Hunk.”

But now, hear them as they link arms and frolick in barefoot circles of abandon through the misty, moonlit meadows! Hear their wanting lips cry the name of their golden-locked Adonis!

Hear them as they frolic freely somewhere near you, their long hair flying loose, their Grecian garments falling to the ground. . .

But wait. . .  I was, um, apologizing, wasn’t I?

*Ahem*

Really sorry, Kevin, for spoiling your cover. But it was bound to happen sooner or later. You just can’t look that way and expect the masses not to wonder who the heck you are.

Good morning my dear readers. Summer is rapidly coming to a close, and next week I shall immerse myself in my second year of English graduate school. This means it’s time to switch gears from summer sloth to scholarly word wizard. Thus, I decided it might be useful to flex my linguistical muscles by writing some poetry – limericks to be precise. Remember limericks? That clever AABBA rhyme scheme? I’ll give you three guess who these poems are about . . .  ;-)

Limerick #1

Thou sun-kissed locks and scruffy beard

Impair my judgement as I steer

My shopping cart through clearance racks

Of reindeer sweaters and pinstripe slacks

Over and over I find myself here

Limerick #2

I race to my mailbox, my heart all a-twitter

Awaiting a glimpse of golden stud glitter

That graces the cover of every Kohl’s flyer

And makes me Ohio’s number one buyer

I shop ’til my other credit cards turn bitter 

Limerick #3

My heart was heavy, my senses dull

That day I headed to the mall

And all the Kevin posters were missing

Not a speck of Rice to dream of kissing

To customer service I must place a call

Tee hee hee . . . That was fun.

There’s been a problem at my local Kohl’s store recently. As I’ve perused the various departments, my eager eyes have been sorely deprived of Kevin Rice posters. I have searched high and low through women’s, men’s and, of course, the ever-reliable Ralph Lauren Chaps section, but nary a particle of Palomino Stallion have I found.

Woe dear readers. WOE!!!

I was beginning to wonder if Ralph Lauren had found a new Palomino Poster boy, and then one day an odd thing happened. I randomly stopped in a Peebles store near my home in BFE to see what was on the summer clearance racks. There, guarding the entry of the men’s department like a golden viking of gorgeousness was Kevvy Baby.  (Not the real Kevin — a poster, of course!) Even more unbelievable was that in this shot Kevin was grinning broadly with more cheer and abandon than one ever observes on the posters at Kohl’s.

My jaw dropped and my eyes widened. Had Kevin become The PEEBLES HUNK?

Oh dear readers, I certainly hope not. Kevin Rice the Peebles Hunk sounds so pathetic. The very word PEEBLES promotes wimpy, non-sexual images in my brain. For instance, Peebles rhymes with Weebles, and what 1970s child doesn’t remember playing with those fat, grinning little figures that wobbled but didn’t fall down? Peebles also sounds suspiciously like Pebbles, and that makes me think of Bam Bam and Pebbles from the Flintstones.  Right away the catchphrase YABBA DABBA DOO dashes through my mind along with a cartoon image of the frantic spinning of cave man feet, and I cringe. Kevin should NOT be associated with these images.

Thus, Kevin just cannot become The Peebles Hunk. He must remain the Kohl’s Hunk. Forever. Don’t you agree? Kohl’s and Kevin have such strong, commanding K sounds, after all. They belong together.

So get with it, Kohl’s marketing team. Fall is coming, and it will soon be time for Chaps reindeer sweaters again. I’d better see some Kevin posters the next time I go shopping.

Oh, that Miss Calamity is one awesome bff. Not only did she win us some sweet ass NKOTB tickets for our joint birthday celebration, but she bought me an awesome gift (unlike the lame-o knife I bought her):

Yes, that’s right, bitches. Cardboard Cullen is now in my possession. The only question that remains is what do do with him? Ms. Sunnybrook recommends that I make him cook me a delicious dinner. I’m debating taking him for a spin in the suv and letting him hang out of the moon roof. What do you think? What sort of adventures would be appropriate for a cardboard vampire that sparkles in the sun? The more ridiculous, the better.

I have no words, just a neverending trail of drool leaking from my mouth….

source

Robward = Delicious

The Internet is a peculiar place my dear readers. Dare to blab your deepest, most torrid fancies within the loosely-netted parameters of a blog, and you just never know WHO will stumble upon your blither.

I know, I know — it’s tempting to believe no one will ever read what you write. 

As you sit solitaire at your keyboard in the wee small hours of night, it’s easy to imagine that only YOUR peepers will peruse the words you’ve carefully plucked with the rhythmic tat-a-tat-tat of your lonely keyboard.

Yes, it’s easy to imagine, but don’t be fooled, dear readers. ’Tis a fallacy — a big fat Dunkin donut-sized fallacy.

Just imagine my recent shock and surprise when I learned that Mr. Kevin Rice himself had been browsing my humble facebook fan page and most likely also the girlish gushings of these  lustful blogs. (since handy links are provided)

Egads!!!! I was more than a bit befuddled at the thought.

I was also QUITE EMBARRASSED. Yes, my dear readers, Ms. Sunnybrook’s cheeks turned nearly purple as I contemplated this most interesting twist.

You see, I am really a rather shy little mortal, and blogging about men who make my lady parts tingle is not my usual pastime (even if they do happen to be blond gods.)

Of course, when the initial embarrassment faded like the bloom of a summer rose, I began to feel a bit giddy at the prospect.

KEVIN RICE WAS READING MY BLOGS!!!!!!!

Golly Gee Willakers Land Sakes Alive – KEVIN RICE THE KOHL’S HUNK was reading my freaking blogs!!!!!!

@#$%^&*(

Oh yes, dear readers, the Internet is a peculiar place indeed.

So now that all of these brave new thoughts have been absorbed into my brain, I feel a certain obligation to ensure Kevvy baby that I am not really a rabid stalker booking a flight right this minute to his hometown so I can camp out in his hedge row and root through his trash for discarded bits of dental floss and Kleenex.

In fact, I feel that I MUST write Kevin a personal letter to ensure him of my sanity. So here I go…

Dearest Kevin,

Please don’t worry. I am not really crazy, and I won’t come after you and hold you hostage until you agree to father a brood of love children.  (I have their names picked out already. What do you think of Kevin Jr. if it’s a boy?)

And please don’t fret. It wasn’t really me who stole the giant poster from Kohl’s and then drove around town with the top down with your cardboard image propped beside me on the passenger seat. That must have been somebody else who did that.(btw, I really don’t understand why that boy at the Burger King drive thru couldn’t stop laughing at me. . .)

Oh, and please don’t lose any sleep. I’m not going to Photoshop my head onto the female model who poses as your pretend wife and then post the picture here. (I am still learning Photoshop and Ms. Ambrosia hasn’t had time to do it yet.) 

So rest assured, Mr. Rice, I am not really a nut job, and this is all in good fun. (Oh, and that wasn’t me who drove past your house last night and threw the tiger thong panties out the window.)

Sincerely,

Your Biggest Fan and future wife,

Ms. Sunnybrook