Every Wednesday night at 8 p.m. Pacific time I co-host [i]Aging Nymphs[/i], an Internet radio show on www.blogtalkradio.com/agingnymphs.  It's a half-hour chick-fest, though it seems that men comprise most of our listeners.  (You can listen to our archives anytime by clicking the link on the right side of my website www.vegaslindalou.com or go to www.agingnymphs.com

Back in July, we did a show entitled "What Women Do to Turn Men Off."  For that program, we reviewed a list of annoyances we found on the Internet.  Next Wednesday night (September 10), we're going to do a show on what men look for in a woman, and rather than turn once again to the Internet, we're asking real live men for their opinions.

So guys, what do you look for in a woman?  What types of personality traits and physical characteristics make a woman attractive? What is it about a woman that makes you think, "Yes!  She's exactly what I want"?

This should be interesting!  (Ladies, you'll have your say soon...)

http://agingnymphs.com/ in a while, check it out!  Deb has been posting daily, and I put my crap up there once in a while, too.  (Although for more of my crap, you can go to

As I floated in the pool this morning in my two-piece (which I actually don't look entirely disgusting in), looking up at the palm trees and blue sky and reading my OK! celebrity rag, all I could think was two things: 1) I am so freakin' lucky, and 2) I am so going to kick John Mayer's ass if he breaks Jennifer Aniston's heart.  

http://agingnymphs.com/

It is a summer of $4.00 gas. ($4.25 on Saturday night.) It is a summer of car repairs–six hundred here, three hundred there, six hundred, two hundred, one hundred, three hundred, six hundred. The good news is that now nearly every fucking thing has been replaced, so I think we've bought ourselves a breathing space.

It is a summer where hundred degree temperatures feel cool. It is a summer of gnats, sprinkler repairs, neighbors with small barking dogs and cats that use our back yard as a litter box. There are cats with hairballs, trips to the vet for yearly check-ups, extra laundry, trips to the doctor, the annual mammogram, home repairs. Today the washer and the dryer both decided to fritz out a little. It wasn't an actual breakdown, but more of an appliance muscle-flexing: "So why didn't you buy that extended warranty?"

This summer I turned 54.

At a time when I might panic, I start up the Gratitude List: This is the summer of my first yoga job, of getting fit, making art, fixing up our house, of gardening, taking care of all sorts of household accounts, cooking great food, hanging out with people I love. The Gratitude List helps to stave off the mind fuck, that silent monologue that explains just how unfair life can be for an utter failure like me.

I take a deep breath, consider my situation, add a couple of items to my list: This summer I am writing more than I have in years. And we have a radio show.

I've often joked to the people in my writers' group that the only good feedback is the feedback you agree with. At least I thought it was a joke. But now I realize that's the God's honest truth.

After our first show, we heard from a lot of listeners who said it was great and a lot of fun to listen to. A couple of people had different opinions. One told me we need to be more organized and, "You have to stop laughing at yourself." Another had more pointed criticism. "I hate to see you dumb yourself down," he said. "I know you're smarter than that."

I told him he was missing the point; that yes, there is a very intelligent side to me, but our radio show is not the forum for that. Our show, I explained, is the forum for the side of me that's incredibly immature–the giggly cheerleader trapped in a 50-year-old body. What's more, I'm not only at peace with my girlish side, but I dig it and I'm not about to give it up. That's who I am.

Nonetheless, I insisted to Deb that we tighten up our second show. "First we'll talk about this, then this, and you say this and I'll say that." And yes, the show was much more organized, but this time we heard things like, "It wasn't as spontaneous" and "It sounded more professional, but not as funny."

Fuck!

And so Deb and I have been discussing how to find the balance between strategy and surprise. We're also trying to find the balance between helpful feedback and that which could be inhibiting, however well-intentioned. Gary Shandling once said, "If you see an artist who's afraid to fail, it's not someone who's doing real art. What they're really doing is looking for approval." Not that our show is a work of art, but it is our creation, and it should reflect who we really are. Even if it's not our most mature side.

It's not easy, but over time we'll find our groove. We both enjoy doing this radio broadcast and it's exciting to imagine what it will sound like after several months. Right now, though, we're like The Simpsons back when they were on the Tracey Ullman show.

But the most important thing is, we're having fun. And that's what life's about.

If I could only be sure that mouseover-type transformation would take place, I would definitely be buying Neutron Pro-B5.

I pull up my skin around my ears with two fingers, and use another two to prop up the flesh around my eyes until I look vaguely and, I think, pleasantly Asian. Some days I have a nice glow and I look hydrated. Some days I look like this. It bothers me that I don't have a better attitude about aging. I can't expect to look young always, or not get flabby or saggy. And who says I look young now?

Why is it that when I see the evidence of aging it's such a blow? It's one of those inevitable things. Isn't it? I've met people who say physical aging is a matter of personal will and the mass consciousness. If I could really get behind that idea, I would spend a lot more time buying product and willing my way to youthfulness.

And that brings up the idea of attractiveness. Because I don't know why I think that a woman of a certain age can't have beauty. When I see someone very poised and graceful, I think it's possible. Then I wake up feeling scratchy and stiff, looking gray around the eyes. And it frightens me to be that way.

Last Wednesday night my friend Deb Wilborn and I debuted our half-hour Internet radio show, "Aging Nymphs." The experience was both exhilarating and nerve-racking; Deb and I are very similar, to be sure, but one difference between us came out big-time.

First, some background information–anyone can have a show on blogtalkradio.com. You sign up, schedule your segments, and then call in at the time of your program. In a test show we tried out the technology using our cell phones from our respective homes. Everything went fine, though Deb and I agreed that we should be in the same room during our broadcasts; that way we could pick up on each other's non-verbal cues.

So last Wednesday before our premier, we decided to meet at Green Valley Ranch at 6:00 for dinner and a cocktail and then head over to my place, just a couple of exits away, to do our show at 8:00. Great plan; made total sense. We'd have plenty of time.

At this point I should say that I'm the type of person who leaves for the airport two hours before my flight in case there's a long line at ticketing, a back-up at security, or any other unforeseen disaster that could come between me and my seat on the plane. Similarly, if I'm doing a training presentation or stand-up performance, I arrive a half-hour early to case the room, review my carefully prepared notes, and collect my thoughts. That's how I operate.

Beloved Deb, I now know, is a different story. At the point where I'm relaxing pre-flight in the airport bar, she's just hopping out of the shower, wondering what to pack for her trip. So I shouldn't have been surprised when she arrived at Green Valley Ranch at 6:15 (late due to a traffic snarl on the 215) and announced that her cell phone was dying.

"Is there a Walgreen's nearby? I'll just pick up a new phone on the way to your place."

I held my head in my hands, mentally reviewing the timeline I'd envisioned. I don't have a land line for her to use, and I hadn't anticipated a stop at the store. Surely she'd need some time to figure out a new phone. "We'll have to do it from your house," I told her. Yes, her house on the west side of town, a good 20 minutes from where we sat, still waiting for our meal to arrive.

"I should tell you, my car might overheat on the way," Deb said. "If it does, I can just abandon it."

And so at 7:40, a mere 20 minutes before show time, I'm driving on the highway, checking my rearview mirror every second to make sure Deb is still on the road, and FREAKING OUT that we're going to be late for our show.Fortunately, we arrived at her house with a few minutes to spare–but definitely not enough time for her to chat with her neighbor about their new litter of puppies–and her godsend of a husband fired up the Internet site so we'd be all ready to go.

Deb sat at the computer, looked at the monitor and then at me. "So now what are we supposed to do for the next 6 minutes?" she deadpanned.

I took a breath, hoping my blood pressure would stabilize. "Maybe we should go over our notes."

"Notes? What notes?" my dear friend replied. I felt the blotches on my neck turning a brighter shade of crimson.

As it turned out, our show started on time, though being in the same room didn't work out. We had a lot of feedback and there was a distracting couple-second delay, and so I ended up talking from Deb's living room. Because we couldn't pick up on our non-verbal cues, I know we interrupted each other a lot since we didn't know whether the other person was done speaking.

Overall, though, it went pretty well for a debut show anyway. A few minutes afterward, my big Italian hunk-of-man friend Joey D. called with his expert commentary. I put him on speakerphone so we both could hear.

"You have to stop laughing at yourself," he began, "and let Deb run the show. She sounds more in control than you. You're all over the place–she's much more organized."

Again, I held my head in my hands.

Here's how I feel about being over 50 and having a radio show:

I feel the same but people look at me very differently than they did in earlier years. Where once people might have been shocked by my inappropriate behavior, now they probably think I'm trying to hold on to my youth. Still inappropriate, but actually more disturbing.

And while I say I feel the same, I don't exactly. I will hesitate to wear something that shows a nipple outline. This is because I feel that somehow nipples and wrinkles don't go together. And yet I have them both.

Which reminds me–the radio show agreement tells us that we can't be offensive or advocate anything illegal or subversive. So I'm worried on two counts: I don't know how to be completely inoffensive; and some of my best ideas are (currently) illegal.

How will we stay within the parameters that they've set? I sense we can get away with at least a little bit. I've heard some pretty raunchy stuff online. What we write on the blog can take the place of the offensive things we can't say on the air. And in the same vein, I suppose my posts can also take care of the illegal suggestions. But I really would like to do a half-hour show on why everyone should be forced to take acid at least once.