BEFORE: A Woman With a Bucket List and Questionable Judgment

Let me set the scene.

I am 50-something years old. I have a mortgage, a good moisturizer, and strong opinions about thread count. I also, apparently, have a death wish — or at least that's what my friends said when I told them I'd signed up to throw myself out of a perfectly functioning aircraft at 15,000 feet.

"Why?" they asked.

Because I could. Because I wanted to. Because nobody gets to tell me what a woman my age is supposed to do with her weekends. And honestly? Because I'd been playing it safe for long enough and the universe owed me something spectacular.

What I did not know — could not have predicted — was just HOW spectacular it was going to get.

I showed up in my cutest athleisure (yes, I dressed for the occasion, don't @ me), signed what I can only describe as a very long contract that essentially said "you might die and that's on you," and waited to see what the universe had in store.

Reader. Reader.

He had a name. It was the last thing that mattered.

What mattered was the jawline. The tan from approximately ten thousand jumps. The arms that had absolutely no business being that capable. He smiled at me like the ground was optional — which, for him, it basically was.

But here's the thing: I didn't actually get strapped to him until we were on the plane.

So there I was, altitude climbing, heart rate doing its own thing, and then he was just... there. Behind me. Clicking harnesses, tightening straps, hands moving with this completely unbothered confidence. And then — without ceremony, without warning — he repositioned me. Just picked me up and moved me. Like I was nothing. Like I was a carry-on bag he was shifting into the overhead locker.

I want to be extremely clear: I felt everything.

I also immediately forgot what country I was in.

He leaned close and said, "Don't worry. I've got you."

I said, "I know," in a voice I did not recognize as my own.

That was the moment I stopped being nervous about the jump.

DURING: Strapped to a Hot Man, Falling Through the Sky. As One Does.

Here's what they don't tell you about tandem skydiving: you are VERY close to your instructor. Like, you are attached to this person at every possible point. Chest, hips, shoulders — all of it. You are, for the duration of the jump, one single unit hurtling through the atmosphere.

I want to be clear that I had absolutely zero complaints.

We crammed into a tiny aircraft with one other jumper and climbed to altitude while I tried to look cool and calm and not like I was internally screaming with anticipation.

He leaned in close — because he had to, because we were basically the same person at this point — and talked me through what was going to happen. His voice was calm. His hands were steady. His arms, which were wrapped around me, were doing a lot for my blood pressure.

And then the door opened.

Wind like a freight train. Sky like a painting. The ground below the gorgeous waterscapes of the Florida Keys, approximately a million miles below.

"Ready?" he said.

What I thought: Is anyone ever truly ready?

What I said: "Let's go."

And then we were OUT.

Freefall is the closest thing to magic that physics will allow. For sixty seconds — sixty! — we were just falling, and the world was wind and color and the most absolute, terrifying, glorious silence inside my own head I have ever experienced. Every single thought in my brain evaporated. There was nothing. There was only this.

Also there was a very attractive man holding me, which didn't hurt.

The parachute deployed. We jerked upward (gently, but dramatically). And then — peace. We floated. I laughed. I may have cried a little. The view stretched out in every direction like the world was showing off just for me.

What people don’t tell you is that you can hold a conversation with the man strapped to you without screaming (while my body was screamin sumthin!). The silence as you use the chute to navigate left and right was deafening.

"You okay?" he asked. "More than okay," I answered.

And I was, in every possible sense.

AFTER: A New Woman. A New Tattoo.

We landed. My face hurt from smiling. I hugged my instructor for slightly longer than was strictly necessary and he was an absolute gentleman about it.

And then I did what any sensible 50-something woman does after jumping out of a plane:

I went home, replayed every second of it, and not long after — got a tattoo (more on that another time).

Because some experiences leave a mark. Might as well make it intentional.

Because here's the thing nobody tells you about getting older — the part they leave out of all the pamphlets and the "aging gracefully" articles and the unsolicited advice from people who have clearly never lived: it's not a narrowing. It doesn't have to be. It can be an expansion. A full, glorious, terrifying, arms-wide-open expansion into everything you haven't done yet.

I fell out of the sky at 50-something and I felt more alive than I had in years.

I got a tattoo (ok, another) and I love it.

I was strapped to a beautiful man for sixty seconds of freefall and I will be telling that story for the rest of my life.

This is what I know now, firmly and permanently and at altitude:

The Big O doesn't do small. Not anymore.

Have you done something that scared the hell out of you lately? Drop it in the comments. Let's compare notes.

• 🎧 Spotify Pick - I actually created an entire playlist.

• 💭 The Big Question Have you done something that scared the hell out of you lately? Drop it in the comments. Let’s compare notes.

• ☕ The Big O Afterthought Take that leap.

Ladies.

Let's stop the lyin.

None of us turned on Off Campus because we suddenly developed a passionate interest in collegiate hockey.

I couldn't explain offsides if my life depended on it.

I still think "icing" belongs on cinnamon rolls.

And yet...

Here I am.

Several episodes deep. Completely invested.

Now, before anyone gets their Spanx in a twist, yes, the story is actually good. The banter is funny. The chemistry is ridiculous. The friendships are surprisingly sweet.

But let's not ignore the six-foot-three elephant in the room.

The cast is ridiculously attractive.

I said what I said.

We're Gen X women. We don't have to whisper anymore.

We spent our teens drooling over posters of rock stars taped to our bedroom walls. We survived the Brat Pack, boy bands, George Clooney, and every firefighter calendar ever printed.

We're allowed to appreciate attractive men.

It's not a crime.

Duh, it's practically cardio.

And honestly? It's refreshing to watch men who apologize when they're wrong, communicate their feelings, and look like they know how to fold laundry.

Even if they are fictional.

Especially if they're fictional.

I've seen a few people online apologizing for enjoying Off Campus because the characters are younger.

Ladies...

We're not applying to transfer schools.

We're watching television.

No one bats an eye when men watch movies starring actresses half their age. Somehow, when a Gen X woman enjoys looking at a handsome hockey player, we're expected to file a written explanation with the Homeowners Association.

I decline.

Besides, I'm here for the complete package.

The romance. ❤️

The comedy.🎭

The friendships.💑

The emotional growth.

The hockey. 🏒

Okay... that's a lie.

I'm here despite the hockey.

Every once in a while someone scores, everyone cheers, and I assume something good happened.

Good enough for me.

So here's my advice to every Gen X woman reading this:

Watch the show.

Laugh at the one-liners.

Swoon over the leading men.

Celebrate the maturity of relationships.

Pretend you understand the rules of hockey.

And if someone asks whether you're watching for the plot...

Smile sweetly.

Then answer, "Absolutely."

Because technically... Those college boys are part of the plot.

• 🎧 Spotify Pick Bitch is Back - Elton John (watch the show, then you will understand.

• 💭 The Big Question Does this generation understand how lucky they are that there is a show about selflessness in the bedroom versus one about body shaming?

• ☕ The Big O Afterthought It is not too late to read the series, even if you have seen the show.

There was a time when getting ready for bed meant washing my face, slapping on some moisturizer, and calling it a night.

Actually...there was a time when one product did just about everything.

Remember Noxzema?

That blue jar sat in just about every bathroom. It removed your makeup, washed your face, treated pimples, soothed a sunburn, cooled your skin after a day at the beach, and if we’re being honest, probably cured a broken heart too. We didn’t have a 12-step skincare routine—we had Noxzema and a washcloth.

IF, and only IF, we had more than Noxema, it was Ivory soap, Noxema and Oil of Olay!

Those were simpler times.

Now? My bathroom cabinet looks like it belongs in a high school science lab. Somewhere between turning forty and fifty, I apparently enrolled in Advanced Facial Chemistry without realizing it and started clicking “Buy Now” more often than not.

Every bottle promises something different.

• Vitamin C brightens.

• Retinol renews.

• Hyaluronic acid hydrates.

• Peptides firm.

• Niacinamide calms.

• Eye cream depuffs.

• Neck cream tightens.

• SPF protects.

The moisturizer seals everything in like some kind of skincare Tupperware.

I don’t even know what half of these ingredients are anymore, but if someone on Instagram with flawless skin says I need it, into the shopping cart it goes. BUY NOW!

My nightly routine has become a carefully choreographed performance.

1. First, cleanse.

2. Then Vitamin C. Wait...that’s the morning.

3. Retinol. No, not on the same night as the exfoliating acid.

4. Moisturizer.

5. Eye cream.

6. Neck cream.

7. Lip mask.

Did I remember my sunscreen this morning? Is it too late to apply it at 8 p.m.?

At this point, I spend more time preparing my face for bed than I spend sleeping. (Thanks peri/meno)

And don’t even get me started on the instructions.

• Use only at night.

• Avoid sunlight.

• Don’t mix with this.

• Don’t layer with that.

• Apply to damp skin.

• Apply to dry skin.

• Wait three minutes.

• Wait thirty seconds.

Somewhere along the way, skincare stopped feeling like self-care and started feeling like homework.

The funny thing is, I actually enjoy it. I 100% know I am doing it all wrong and it probably make ZERO difference in my aging (remember that thing called genetics?)

There’s something oddly comforting about ending the day with a little routine. It’s ten quiet minutes where nobody needs anything from me, and I’m doing something that’s just for me.

Will every serum erase every wrinkle? Probably not.

Will every cream magically make me look thirty-five again? Definitely not.

And here’s the part that makes me laugh.

After spending hundreds of dollars on miracle serums in sleek glass bottles with names I can’t pronounce, I discovered that one of my favorite toners is still a bottle of Witch Hazel that costs about $2.99.

Go figure.

Maybe our mothers and grandmothers knew a thing or two after all.

At twenty-five, I was trying to be beautiful.

At fifty, I’m trying to be healthy, confident, and comfortable in the face that’s smiled, cried, laughed, worried, and continues to live a whole lot of life.

Somewhere under all these miracle products is the face I started with.

She’s just collected a few stories along the way.

• 🎧 Spotify Pick Flowers - Miley

• 💭 The Big Question Is my medicine cabinet the reason I learned the period table?

• ☕ The Big O Afterthought If I need a spreadsheet or the help of AI to remember my skincare routine, it might be time to simplify.

Where have you been allllll myyyyy liiiiife? Rihanna wants to know. Fair. But she’s asking the wrong woman the wrong question — because the real scandal isn’t where you’ve been. It’s where I’ve been.

So. About the last year.

I’d love to tell you I disappeared to do something glamorous — a silent retreat in Bali, a torrid affair with a sommelier, a deep spiritual awakening that left me too enlightened to type. The truth is more pedestrian: life happened, the blog didn’t, and every time I sat down to write, my own website looked at me like a DMV form. Buttons. Plugins. “Update required.” A theme that fought me like a cat going into a carrier.

Turns out the thing standing between me and my opinions was software. Insulting, really. I have NEVER been short on opinions. I’ve been short on patience.

So I burned it down. (Digitally. Calm down.) New home, same me. Less wrestling with the website, more telling you what I think about the stuff nobody admits out loud — the ugly clothing trends, the indignities our aging bodies inflict on us without consent, why your brain drafts a grocery list at the least appropriate moments, and yes, eventually, the Cybertruck. Why are people actually buying that thing?

If you're new here: I opine, I observe, I obsess. Opinions are mine and not up for debate (challenging an opinion is a waste of a perfectly good afternoon). Observations spark questions. Obsessions are the crap that makes me throw my hands up and say words my mother wouldn't approve of. It's gender-neutral, it's not for the faint of heart, and it operates on the firm belief that most people are wearing leather and lace under their work clothes — or wish they were.

Here's the part where I ask something of you, which I hate doing, so I'll do it fast: hit subscribe. It's free. It means the next O lands in your inbox instead of relying on you to remember I exist — a big ask in this economy of attention. No website to navigate, no carrier-cat energy, just me showing up uninvited in your email like the friend who always has a story.

So let’s get back to it. I’ll talk (fine, write). You listen (fine, read). Nod, recoil, comment, or just let your inner voyeur enjoy the show.

Preview: skydiving! tattoos. blue water! red light for your hoo-ha?

So — where have I been? Doesn’t matter. I’m here now, the song’s still playing, and I missed this. Don’t tell anyone I said that.

Should I sell my Feet?

It starts like most great ideas do: in a group chat, half-drunk,. “Should I sell my feet?” I ask. The silence that follows is not judgment. It’s research. One reply appears, “Duh.” The next one includes a wikiHow link. Suddenly, I’m not joking. Suddenly, I’m wondering if my second toe being longer is a niche market. I’m wondering where I put that toe ring from last summer.

This is how it begins. This is how the feet go public.

Toes for Cash, Confidence for Free

We live in a world where everything is monetizable: your attention span, your dating life, your leftover food prep meal (HelloMold) ingredients. Why not feet?

I’ve sold my time. I’ve sold my brain-power. I’ve sold my 20s to a job that thinks “pizza Fridays” are a personality. Why not sell the one part of me no one in corporate has ruined yet? My pristine, pedicured tootsies.

It’s not even that weird anymore. There are spreadsheets, rate cards, market guides. It’s Etsy, but for body parts. And the more I look, the more I wonder: which part of the foot or set of feet has the most followers? Toes? Heels? Arches? And would I stop at the foot, what about back-of-the-neck girlies? Elbow guys? The shadowy underworld of wristbone enthusiasts? Is there a dark market for knees? Someone, somewhere, is already into it, maybe I should sell ’em what they’re looking for.

Faceless Parts Anonymous

Let’s be honest: feet are just the gateway drug. First it’s soles, then it’s ankles. Next thing you know, I’m staging sultry photos of my clavicle like it’s 1823 and collarbones are illegal. The economy may be mid, but niche content is thriving. I could be three months away from running an entire faceless empire: feet, hands, knees, and (if things get desperate) earlobes.

The best part? No one has to know it’s me. I could be two fake usernames and a watermark away from financial freedom. Wouldn’t you rather fund your iced latte habit via pinky toe selfies than another depressing freelance invoice?

Conclusion: I Have the Range

So… should I sell my feet?

It’s 2025. Morality is a suggestion and everything’s content.

Until then, I’ll be moisturized, pedicured, and watching the DMs like a hawk. Not because I want to sell my feet. Just because I like knowing someone out there would pay.

And really, isn’t that the dream?

O Rating:

Let’s do it! Feet? Knuckles? Tongues? Snap those pics.

Big O Mood: Brain in overdrive.

The post Money for nuthin’ appeared first on The Big O.

Curated. Chaotic. Comforting.

The scene: If social media apps were places, would you be shopping, dancing or oversharing in a support circle? An unofficial Gen-Xers survival guide to the social media in 2026.

Instagram is a Mall (for those of you who remember what that is)

Polished. Suspiciously perfect.

You walk in with a goal – one store, maybe two. one item. okay, maybe two. Two hours later, multiple bags in hand, are you satiated or just left wanting more? The all-too-familiar feeling. You hit that little Insta icon and tell yourself “just 5 minutes.” Yeah, good luck with that.

You’re hoping your #FYP pulls up that hot guy (or girl, or both) that you love to ‘watch’ do whatever it is they are doing that day. Jumping rope (have you seen that guy?!) Working out. Telling Dad jokes. Attempting the latest dance craze. BOOM – POP- POW – 30 or 40 minutes later, you are left unsatisfied, possibly unworthy (are your eyebrows up-to-snuff?) and wanting more, just like when you walked out of the mall (or had that horrible date.)

TikTok is a Rave.

No rules. No time to process. One second you are watching a cat chase a laser light, the next a group of kids using slime to explain quantum physics. It’s chaotic, while euphoric. You want out but NEED to stay in, “just one more minute.” You become ten feet tall and bulletproof thinking “I can do that” with each 15 or 30 sec dance or workout bit you watch. It’s now 3:00 am and you have aged a decade while making a mental note of 10 new beauty products, shapewear and red light therapy contraptions that you MUST have.

And finally, Reddit is Group Therapy that can also be an Orgy

No music. No filters. You and a roomful of strangers trauma-dumping and making appliance recommendations with alarming sincerity. And if you want intimacy (of all sorts), you can drill into subreddits. It is never-ending maze of random commentary, open space bitching and then some actually decent content – exactly like therapy!

How do I choose?

Depending on your mood o’ the moment

–

Instagram: Be pretty, be polished, be pretend.

TikTok: Be loud. Be real. Laugh-out-loud and get outta there in 5 seconds (so many jokes, so little time).

Reddit: Be anonymous. Be weird. be naughty. Be ready for nuance (and most likely a heated debate about air fryers)

Consider the irony – socials are supposed to bring us together and connect us. While it has, it’s merely the new definition of connection. You can curate a whole new life, you can easily escape your existing one or you can simply be reminded that you are not the only one to Google “How to apologize to my goldfish.”

Happy scrolling, just don’t forget to logoff… eventually.

Vibe O’ the Day: Confessing my addiction to blue lights and media outlets

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The post Demented and sad, but social! appeared first on The Big O.

The scene: There are two types of people in this world: those who admit to structuring their day around bathroom logistics, and liars.

Let’s talk about it—the unspoken calculus behind every meeting, commute, shopping trip and coffee refill: When can I go? Where will I go? Will I be alone? And the most crucial question of all: Will there be noise-covering ambient music or will I be forced to layer in a strategically-timed cough?

We’ve normalized Slack statuses for everything from “deep work” to “picking up sourdough starter,” but no one dares write: “BRB, praying for an empty stall” or “BRB, coffee kicked in.”

And oh, the stall dilemma. Nothing says “designed by someone who hates humans” like the American public restroom: inch-wide gaps, mystery fluids, and those paper-thin hiney hiders that neither hide your hiney nor your shame. Meanwhile, Europe? They give you walls. A door that touches the floor. A full-blown room where your dignity can stay intact while your intestines panic in peace

But here in the U.S.? You’re a pair of shoes, a nervous shuffle, and the deafening sound of your own betrayal echoing in porcelain.

Remote Work: The Great Equalizer (and Unclencher)

Let’s be honest: the single best part of working from home isn’t your dog, or ditching your commute, or attending meetings in pajama bottoms.

It’s the bathroom autonomy.

No stall roulette. No awkward eye contact as you both pretend you’re not waiting for the same toilet. No wondering if your boss recognizes your shoes under the divider. Just you, your private porcelain throne, and the sweet, sweet silence of dignity.

Remote work gave us freedom—from geography, from dress codes, from microwave fish in the shared kitchen. But most importantly? It gave us back our bodily privacy. And we’re not going back.

Remember the early days of WFH, when no one scheduled meetings between 12:00 and 1:00 because we all collectively respected “lunch + bowel movement buffer time”? It was an unspoken golden age. Glorious. Human. Brief.

Of course, now we’ve collapsed back into back-to-back Zooms, and the panic has simply migrated. You’re muted, camera off, speed-walking to the bathroom like it’s a high-stakes pit stop. You return three minutes later, breathless, trying to act like you were just grabbing a water/sweater/charger etc. But your mic is hot, and someone definitely heard a flush.

Back-to-Back Zooms and the Bio Break Ballet

Somewhere around Month 8 of remote work, we collectively forgot how to take a break—but our bladders (colon) did not. Suddenly every hour of the day is triple-booked, and you find yourself jumping from client call to team sync to “quick 15?” without even time to blink, let alone pee (ok poop.)

There is no phrase more vulnerable—more human—than “I just need to step away for a quick bio break.” It’s the corporate version of whispering “I have a body and it has needs.” And somehow, saying it out loud in a meeting with leadership feels more taboo than accidentally screen-sharing your therapy notes.

Let’s normalize it. Let’s embrace it. You take your bio break, Brenda.

Because we might live in a world of metrics, mute buttons, and branded virtual backgrounds—but behind every calendar block is a human being doing their best not to explode before the all-hands.

So next time you feel that flush of anxiety, remember—you’re not alone. You’re just human. And your body isn’t broken. It’s just on a schedule no calendar app can quite accommodate.

Now go. Literally.

Vibe O’ the Day: Holding it together… barely.
Part caution, part catharsis, all-too-human

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The post Flush with Anxiety appeared first on The Big O.

The scene: Let’s set the record straight: Barbie didn’t give me a complex about my waist-to-hip ratio. A response to a trending Meme.

Barbie gave me, and I wonder if others, something much darker, much more formative—Barbie taught me that once that head pops off, there’s no going back.

Forget body image. Let’s talk about Barbie trauma.
One minute she’s twirling around in a sequined cocktail dress (at 10 a.m., naturally), the next, your brother has yanked her head clean off, and you’re staring into the cold, plastic socket of loss.

You try to fix it. You try shoving it back on with the stubborn force only a furious child can summon. It never fits the same – END OF STORY. Her neck is too long, her head wobbles like she’s perpetually confused, nothing will be the same.

This was my first experience with irreversible consequences.

Barbie didn’t teach me to hate my body. She taught me:

Trust is fragile (especially if Ken, ok- Love- is involved).

Tan lines are forever, but neck joints are not.

You should never leave a sister, or my brother, alone with scissors, especially if she’s “giving Barbie bangs.”

And yes, maybe she did have impossibly long, thin legs, but didn’t most marketable ladies in the ’80s – our older selves now understand the amphetamine and cocaine usage of that decade.

Let’s save that discussion for another night.

Back to Babs – the real message was this: Barbie could be anything—astronaut, surgeon, dolphin trainer—and she did it all with a wardrobe that fit in a tiny pink suitcase. But once that head popped off , she was done. No ER visit, no resurrection.
Done. Finished.

Kaput. Finito.

So no, I don’t blame Barbie for body issues.
I blame her for my intense fear of commitment, breakage, and futile attempts at trying to repair things that are obviously broken.

Thanks for the life lessons, B.

Vibe O’ the Day: A Meme started a memory, so why not write about it.

The post A Lesson in Decapitation appeared first on The Big O.

Last week, someone called me a cougar.

The scene: I’m 50(ish). He’s 42. That’s not a scandal, that’s a Netflix age gap. Eight years and suddenly I’m out here being cast as some wild jungle cat with a thirst for young blood?

Bitch, please.

Let me break this down: when a man dates younger, he’s “successful.” When a woman does it, she’s a cougar. I didn’t pounce—I just existed, confidently, in my prime. And that alone seemed to trigger the wildlife metaphors.

If being attractive, self-assured, and unbothered makes me a “cougar,” then get me my own nature docuseries. But let’s get something straight: I’m not stalking anyone. If anything, they come sniffing around me.

This isn’t about age—it’s about energy. And mine is seasoned, sexy, and selective. Call it what you want. I call it thriving.

At The Big O, we embrace the things people try to turn into punchlines—and turn them into power. So yeah, I’ve got the claws. I’ve got the confidence. Sometimes I’m the hunter and sometimes I’m the prey.

Have you been labeled lately? Drop it in the comments if ya want to discuss.

Vibe O’ the Day: A little bit flattered and a little hung over.

The post I am woman, hear me… appeared first on The Big O.

My Take: Someone called you on your bullshit and now you must assasinate them via cryptic FB or Insta messages and bad vibes.

People who can’t handle the mirror will try to break the one holding it. If they’re trashing your name, just know you’ve probably upgraded your peace and exposed their plot holes.

I sorta thrive on hearing that I have been the topic of a trash-sesh. Let them talk, Let them trash you. It says so much more about them than it ever will about you.

Oh This one hits like holy water to a narcissist.

Mood O’ the Day: Mess w/ me, I dare ya.

The post Thursday is Trash Day appeared first on The Big O.

My Take: Golden in theory – Convenient in practice.

Silence can be powerful. It can be graceful. It can also be manipulative, evasive, or just plain lazy.

Let’s not confuse “maturity” with conflict avoidance wrapped in a soft-focus quote.

Because

Sometimes… the last word is necessary.
Sometimes… it’s how you hold your boundary.
Sometimes… it’s how you stop the gaslighting.
And sometimes… it’s just you being clear, calm, and done.

We all know people who weaponize silence and call it virtue. They disappear, say nothing, and then act like that’s the high road. Newsflash: the high road has Wi-Fi and accountability.

So yes—know when to be silent. But also know when to speak up. When to end the conversation with intention, not ego.

And if that just so happens to be the last word?
Own it. Say it well. Then walk away with your head high and your dignity intact.

Vibe O’ the Day: Sassy with a splash of I said what I said!

The post They say speech is silver, I say it’s platinum appeared first on The Big O.

I say F-you to that, okay, unless it’s something positive. But still, it can’t be for the gain of others (which these days it usually is). We toss around the term “influencer” in such a cavalier manner and now the latest – Granfluencers. Influencers over the age of 50. Yup, you read that right.

50! F-I-F-T-Y! FIVE-Oh! What in granny’s name? Who they callin “Gran?”

Ok, ok, in technicality, just over 50% of women age 50 and older DO have a grandchild. But still, stop with the Granny label, it’s gross. Almost as gross as being an influencer for your own personal gain.

PEOPLE! Think about it, (and you know you don’t need to think very hard) influencers are rarely there to help you. Yes, getting instant style ideas for your body type or make-up inspo is AH-mazing, but heed warning – most of these folks are doing it for THEIR own benefit. To fill their pockets.

Don’t get me wrong, kudos to them – hustlers they are, brand ambassadors, sharing associate links getting a commish on your sale.

Just be smart, people, please. They know absolutely nothing more than you do but they will influence, they will increase sales and they will benefit – leaving you with another delivery, another unreturned item and probably some magnetic eyelashes that you just never figured out.

Rant over!

The post Obsession: “X”fluencers appeared first on The Big O.

I do enjoy the espresso martini. A simple one, no irish cream. It’s always an adventure ordering one – as the recipes seem to vary by region, time of day, type of establishment and bartender (or are they called mixologists now?).

So, what makes them differ?

• The Vodka – again, I am a purist, but some folks use vanilla vodka, others layer in the espresso or coffee flavored vodkas

• Coffee v Espresso – I can’t even believe we are having this conversation, but yes, not even 2 days ago I had an espresso martini made with COFFEE.

• The Liqueur – To add to the depth of the cocktail, a good coffee liqueur is called for.

• Don’t be a lazy shaker. Don’t even present me with an espresso martini unless it has an expertly crafted layer of caramel colored foam.

• Speaking of lazy – they now offer premixed cocktails at your local liquor store where all you have to do is pour, shake and serve. No judgement here, as long as said pouring, shaking and serving is taking place around a campfire.

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