All posts by lovelolaheart

Top Ten Sexy Men Over Sixty

Last night I had my reoccurring Bill Clinton sex dream.  There’s nothing remarkable about the dream other than the fact that when I leave, I smell like barbecue sauce, Old Spice and regret.  Usually his Secret Service agent high-fives me on my way out.  Sometimes the agent has olives on his fingertips.

I think the Bill Clinton dream warrants a top ten list of men over sixty who I think are totally doable.  I’d put Bill at 11.  When he was the Leader of the Free World and could pretty much get any woman he wanted, he got it on with Monica Lewinsky.  So clearly he’s totally cool being with a woman who has never used her gym membership.  Gotta love that quality in a man.  Anyway, here is my list of the Top Ten Sexy Men Over Sixty.

10. Harvey Keitel – 73 – there’s just something about a man who dusts a piano naked.  From cleaning musical instruments to cleaning up crime scenes as The Wolf, Harvey Keitel seems like he knows what a woman wants.

9. Christopher Walken – 69 – he plays a villain better than anyone and there’s something incredibly appealing about a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.  There usually is a connection between being crazy and being good in bed and I suspect Christopher Walken has some moves that should be added to the Kama Sutra… I bet at least one of them involves puppets.

8. Sir Anthony Hopkins – 74 – he was knighted so that means he’s already better than anyone you’ve ever brought home to meet Mom.  He even managed to make the role of a cannibalistic serial killer hot.

7.  Samuel L. Jackson – 63, he’s smooth, he’s strong and he curses better than anyone.  Scarlett Johansson astutely named him the sexiest Avenger.  Samuel L. Jackson puts the sex in sexagenarian.

6.  Sean Connery – 81 – it’s the voice.  He’d probably leave me before the Viagra kicked in because I would constantly beg him to say, “that’s the Chicago way”, “you call it luck, I call it destiny”, “where I am going you cannot follow” and “shaken, not stirred”.   The accent is so sexy, I could overlook the fact that with his white trimmed beard, he kinda looks like a Hot Santa.

5.  Robert Redford – 75 – the Sundance Kid aged well.  He is just a ridiculously handsome man.  Paul Newman made salad dressing, Robert Redford established an independent film dynasty.  I totally would have given the “Indecent Proposal” money back.

4. Jack Nicholson – 75 – Hollywood’s eternal bachelor is eternally cool.  In some of his best film work, he made mental illness sexy.  He’s got a charm that makes you want to dance with the devil in the pale moon light.

3.  Victor Garber – 63 – he’s been in pretty much every tv show from “Law and Order” to “Will and Grace” and he’s had me swooning since the scene in “Sleepless in Seattle” where he is talking about “The Dirty Dozen”.  He’s a Broadway actor, too.  I know what you’re thinking but he might not be gay, he might just be able to sing and dance because he’s Canadian.

2.  Mikhail Baryshnikov – 64 – I probably still have the soundtrack to “White Nights”. Misha has a boyish charm and smoldering sexuality.  His 5’6” physique is still powerful enough to make a girl lose her train of thought.  Um, where was I?  Ah, yes…

1.  Don Henley – 64 – he is an elegant songwriter, a conscientious conservationist and a drummer which always has primal appeal.   The Eagles co-founder is intelligent, witty, and deliciously sarcastic.  While he is graced with a mischievous glint is his steely blue eyes and a ruggedly masculine cleft chin, his soulful vocals land him the top spot as the sexiest man over sixty.

Sweet dreams.



Berry Berry Quite Contrary

White Mulberries

For about three weeks each year, the mulberry tree in the yard next to me drops an aerial assault of white mulberries down on me.  While in theory, an abundance of fresh white mulberries only a few feet outside of my back door is a gift from Nature, it is in fact, the reason why I develop a noticeable twitch three weeks in the summer.  The tree in the yard next to mine drops the mulberries rapidly everywhere in my backyard.  The berries hitting the canvas roof of my cabana sounds like artillery fire.  This tree has become my Nam.

I am for the most part a tree hugger.  I love nature, but right now I’m in an abusive relationship with this mulberry tree.  Even when I try to reason internally that it’s not the tree’s fault, it was a warm winter, hence the early attack, the tree senses our relationship is strained and beams me repeatedly in the head… at first you feel the painful sting, followed by an antagonistic stream of mulberry guts oozing from the point of contact.  Last year the harvest started almost a month later, I remember quite clearly the tree had just gone into full attack mode when I hosted Lise’s Going Away BBQ.  Each and every one of her friends got “berried” during her sendoff.  I forgot to warn people that the falling projectiles made the leaves of my hostas dance more than anything that ever grew in the Chuckle Patch.  My Enchanted Garden really did appear to be enchanted.  One guest was visibly frightened by my moving flora and she kept her feet off of the ground, unsure whether my plants were magical or if there were some sort of animal puppeteer darting underneath that caused them to dance.

Apparently there are people who travel all over the city in search of one of the New York City’s 1,200 or so mulberry trees.  I call these people Non-Mulberry Victims.  Some people like to make jam, some like them straight from the tree, and others like them as a topping for cereal or yogurt.

These people don’t know the dark underside of mulberries.  First of all, mulberries are big fat liars.  They’re not a berry at all, as their name would have you think.  They are actually botanically “swollen fruit”.  So right there they’re already deceptive and you know not to trust them to watch your kids or manage your financial portfolio.

Mulberry trees are native to New York… famed Mulberry Street in Little Italy derives its name from the trees that once lined the street mid-18th century-ish.  Now New York  has gotten rid of almost all of the mulberry trees along sidewalks because they are a hazard.  Until you have had the terrifying near-death experience of hydroplaning on mulberry guts, you haven’t really known fear.  The native trees produce red mulberries.  As you can see from the picture, the mulberry tree that taunts me is a white mulberry tree… the fruit pictured is fully ripened, sometimes they get a little darker towards the end, but for the most-part, it’s a pasty white fruit.  The part that gets me while I’m suffering from mulberry warfare is that white mulberry trees come from China, so someone imported this hostile tree.  Son of a bitch!

The white mulberry tree was introduced to the United States for silkworms. I will have you know, that tree has never once coughed up a silk top for me.  Mulberry trees are also often fed to livestock… of which we have in such abundance here in Manhattan.  In Chinese medicine, various parts are believed to provide health benefits from prematurely graying hair to diabetes.  The only health benefit I receive is exercise as I daily sweep up the mulberries so local insects don’t rate my backyard as a Best Restaurant in Bug Zagat.

The Brooklyn Brainery blog momentarily inspired this Uptown Girl to think about embracing my mulberries, put down a tarp, channel my inner-Martha Stewart and whip up some mulberry ice cream.  That positive moment was probably mulberry-induced head trauma.  Because even though I’ve already got the tarp, I’ve also witnessed many kinds of birds feasting on the mulberries and not once have I ever seen our feathered friends wash their feet or even whip out some Avian Purell.

Despite my germaphobia, I think I am going to have to eat a mulberry this year.  Obviously, it will be washed, rewashed, washed again, and then I’ll take a bite, experience the fury and then scrape the remnants from my tongue.  Because how often do you literally get to taste the enemy?

The one good thing about the tree, other than the aesthetic appeal of the delicately outstretched limbs, is that it’s a hotspot for birds.  A few days ago, a fat happy robin came right up to me and we shared a Disney moment.  Yesterday, a mellow little dove hung with me as I did yard work, picking little seeds from fallen mulberries as her part of the effort.  At first I was mindful not to scare her away but after a while, the only thing I had to be mindful of was not stepping on her.  Each day small little birds chase each other in the leaves and even though their rough housing usually sends mulberries showering down on me, it’s still a nice little moment that makes you forget that you live in a big city.  Because when you live in the greatest city in the world, having a refuge from it makes you love your city even more.



The Fountain of Youth

Most people associate the Fountain of Youth with sixteenth century explorer Ponce de Leon.  The legends of springs possessing restorative powers date as far back as 400 BC.   Ponce de Leon was in search of the mythical land of Bimini when he stumbled upon Florida.  According to Historia General y Natural de las Indias 1535, what Ponce de Leon was really searching for before he hit our most phallic looking state was Bimini’s impotence-curing water.  Whether or not Ponce de Leon was having problems hoisting his flag (almost went with the seacock joke but the hoisting of the flag by Spanish ships actually has historical relevance), if it were not for his discovery of Florida in 1513, Spain wouldn’t have had it to trade to Great Britain for the release of Havana and then maybe Florida wouldn’t have good Spanish food and cool pubs for my friend Lise and her husband today.  There’s actually no real evidence to support Ponce de Leon was searching for the Fountain of Youth.  What make the story interesting is that it is filled with as many confused facts and misguided attempts as the quest for recapturing youth is today.

Despite the fact that I love that Florida might have been discovered by a man in search of a good boner and I never really get to say seacock enough, the direction I’m really heading with this that all water does have restorative properties, it’s a simple way to look and feel younger.  The legend of Ponce de Leon searching the world for something he had all along isn’t the only time in history that’s happened with a man.  Wow, still a little bitter after all these years.  Good to know.

We live in a youth-obsessed culture, I don’t think that comes as a shock to anyone.  Women have their faces lifted, lasered, peeled and injected, some spend hundreds of dollars for a bottle of moisturizer and *gross alert*, even drink urine.  Vomit.  Ultimately whatever a girl can stomach to make her feel more beautiful, she should go for it if that’s what she wants.  The one thing I think is important, though, is that a woman should only do these things for herself, no one else.  Not a husband, wife, girlfriend or boyfriend.  Not to not to look less Crypt Keeperish next to the new perky little twenty-two year old intern, not because there’s a class reunion coming up, and not because someone else did it.  Beauty really is just being comfortable with yourself because there’s nothing sexier than confidence, if you believe you are the most beautiful woman in the room, you will be.

Not all attempts to look younger need to be drastic or expensive.  Ultimately, how your skin ages is genetic.  There’s a reason why all of the women in my family lie about their age, we can get away with it.  Don’t hate me because I won’t have to worry about crows feet until I’m fifty, I got genetically shafted in other areas.  But like any other woman, I’m always looking for ways to turn back the clock even a little more.  Here are some basic non-evasive ways to cheat age a bit:

1. Water.  Regular spring water is fine.  Our bodies are 60 percent water and it’s happy when we replenish it with more.  64 oz daily flushes out toxins.  Skin cells are organisms, and all of our bodies’ organisms need water.  Keeping them hydrated keeps them happy and happy cells don’t wrinkle.

2. Sex.  And I’m not just saying that because I’ve got seacocks on the brain.  Sex increases a woman’s collagen levels and collagen makes skin more youthful.  It also produces more estrogen which makes hair healthier and shinier.  And of course it releases  endorphins which are the body’s natural wonder drug… endorphins reduce physical and emotional pain and most importantly, you don’t have to worry what it’s cut with and it’s nearly impossible to overdose on endorphins.  Pain ages people.  I’ve got back problems and today the pain is a little worse than what I normally deal with.  Earlier I passed a mirror and noticed I was hunched over like Father Time.  My face always looks a little ashen when I’m in extreme pain.  The word “endorphin” literally means inner morphine.

3. A white smile.  I actually didn’t believe it until I had my teeth whitened a while back… my OCD draws me to anything involving bleaching which is why I tried it.  It makes sense, though.  As we age, things like coffee, wine, blueberries, cherries, and countless other things we consume yellow our teeth.  Younger people don’t have that stain build-up.  That first whitening made me look and feel younger.   All of the equipment that was used was a little Silence of the Lambs and it wasn’t cheap.  Fortunately, it’s much less expensive to whiten nowadays and you aren’t tempted to ask anyone if the lambs have stopped screaming yet.  There is one product line with which I’m obsessed called IntelliWhite.  The Pout and Polish pen is great to carry with you in case you have a spontaneous rendez-vous and ate tunafish for lunch. You use the polish pen to erase that tunafish furry film from your teeth and the lipgloss on the other side makes your lips kissably minty as well.  The Pro White Professional Whitening Duo from the line is also phenomenal.  You have to brush your teeth anyway and it’s an effortless way to a brighter smile.  The entire product line is great because it’s invented by a woman who understands what women want.  You can check it out at

4. Anti-aging products. Do you know what always beats out those ridiculously expensive anti-aging products in product studies? Oil of Olay.  The stuff our grandmothers use.  I follow these studies just in case anything new that’s magical comes out, but to date the winner is always Oil of Olay.  If it feels weird you aren’t getting ripped off for the most effective products, go to a movie and hit the concession stand.  You’ll be broke before the previews.  Or take the money you saved and donate it to your favorite charity.

5. Play like you did when you were a kid.  I have a pretty serious Peter Pan complex and have concluded that spending part of your time in Neverland slows down the aging process.  I wholeheartedly believe that adults should play. Think about it, when you were a kid, you would probably ride your bike until the sun came down, maybe you had a hula hoop or a basketball net, would go exploring, swim or at least run through the sprinkler, all of which burned loads of calories and didn’t feel like working out at all.  The term “working out” has “work” right at the front of it.  That’s why I started going to the batting cages.  It’s exercise that feels like playing.  Exercise always gives your skin an extra boost and when it doesn’t feel like exercise you’re more willing to do it.  I don’t have an inner child, I have an outer adult.  I think it’s important not to get sucked into all the stresses of adulthood.  If you don’t take yourself too seriously, you don’t get those little frowny lines.  Childhood was a happy time for most people and when you connect with that and celebrate it, it’s a fun little endorphin party.  Earlier I took a trip to Imaginationland because my tv remote isn’t working.  First I tried to telekinetically turn it on because it’s always possible I suddenly developed superhero powers, that’s why I always randomly check.  Judging by the size of the moths lately, there definitely could be some kind of radioactive action going on around here.  Shockingly my telekinetic  attempt didn’t work.  Then I tried to figure out if I could craft a long stick out of anything near my bed that I could use to hit the power button which as it turns out I could but it would have involved damaging some pretty expensive stuff and my outer adult can be a buzz kill sometimes.  Then I tried to think if anyone had the keys to my apartment who I could summon over but no one does so I just turned on the tv in my head and started to picture Big Bird and Mr. Snuffleupagus starting a bar fight but that ended quickly because apparently Mr. Snuffleupagus has a lot of pent up rage from all of the years of never being seen and he’s pretty bad-ass with whipping a broken beer bottle around in his trunk.  Then I started to imagine which Sesame Street characters would win one-on-one fights. Obviously Ernie over Bert.  Anybody who spends that much time in the tub with a rubber duckie is just mentally off enough to fight creatively.  Definitely the Cookie Monster over Elmo because people with serious addictions like the chocolate chip monkey on Cookie Monster’s back get surges of adrenaline when they are in need of a fix.  Plus Elmo is really ticklish, one brush with Cookie Monster’s blue fur and he’d be down in giggle fit.  Then I started pitting Muppet against Sesame Street character and Miss Piggy just had too much of a weight advantage over Abby Cadabby and broke her wand before Abby could go all fairy on her.  Sadly Animal and the Count were next and it was hard to see my two puppet crushes go at each other like that.  Drummers have a freakish amount of upper body strength and the Count was down for the one, two, three ah ah ah count.  Most people don’t know that the Count has a very sensitive side.  He’s a lover not a fighter.  So that’s my most significant contribution to the world at the moment.  The only vaguely adult thing I did was momentarily wonder why I smelled like Elmer’s glue and decide I didn’t care.  Frivolous days like that remind us of our carefree youth. They rejuvenate the soul.  Without the inside taken care of, it doesn’t matter what you do to the outside, our souls are our life force and that’s what makes us beautiful and youthful.  That’s the best make-over tip anyone can give.




Something truly disturbing has invaded my realm: a fly has penetrated my Fortress of Solitude.  My backyard is some kind of refuge for the misfit creatures of Manhattan and among its visitors are a bipolar cardinal, a schizophrenic squirrel with a possible eating disorder, a dove that should really be wearing a helmet and moths that momentarily block out the sun when they pass overhead.  Normally my Misfit Creatures are respectful of the boundaries between outdoors and inside.  There was one incident last year when Mothra flew in and tried to date my chandelier, but for the most part, it’s a peaceful co-existence.  Until now.

This isn’t just a fly who dive-bombed his way in the second I opened my back door, it’s a Super-Fly.  At first I tried to reason with it and encouraged it to fly back outside, but I think Super-Fly thought I was trying to dance with it so it dosey doed around me.  This fly has got bionic speed and survived a direct hit with a hard-cover book, mocking me afterwards with an uncomfortably close fly-by.  The most disturbing attribute this fly possesses is that it’s been outsmarting me for the last five hours.  I laid a trap for it by leaving some soppy cookie milk next to me but Super Fly hasn’t fallen for it.  In fact, I suspect he’s working on a Lola Trap and is gathering up diamonds and French chocolate to lure me to my demise.

Some of you may wonder why I’m freaked out over a fly, but here are some fun fly facts that should make you understand my Clorox-wiping ways:

The average fly lives about thirty days.  A female can lay 400-600 eggs in her lifetime.  Eat your heart out Octomom.  Flies defecate every four to five minutes.  So that means Super-Fly has already taken at least 75 dumps on my belongings.  Before a flies eats, it has to secrete digestive fluids on its food to break it down into a liquid, it can’t consume solids.  So not only does it poop everywhere, but it also spits up acidic drool all over the place.  Sooooo gross.  That’s why I think any gold-digger who marries an eighty-nine year old billionaire with failing health has earned that money.  But most disgusting of all is that flies can carry over six million forms of bacteria on their feet.  Among the many diseases they can spread are typhoid fever, cholera, dysentery, malaria, anthrax and leprosy.  Fun stuff.

Who knows what else this fly is capable of while I’m sleeping later.  Wild parties? Going nuts with my credit cards and buying cases of turtle and swan pins from Joan River’s QVC collection?  Reorganizing my closet so my shirts are no longer subdivided by sleeve length?  Oh, the horror… the horror.

This fly is going down, even if I have to hire the A-team.




Without a Helmet

My grandmother taught me two life lessons before she passed.  The first was that putting on lipstick makes everything a little better and the second was a warning issued right before she died to only love a man half as much as he loved me.

Her first life lesson came naturally to me.  I suspect more people have seen me without clothes than without lipstick.  I wear lipstick or lipgloss to bed because it feels unnatural to me not to have it on.

If I hadn’t been so young when she passed away I would have asked her how the second was possible.  That control of the heart is unfathomable to me.  I know only one way to love and that’s without the safety on.

Did my grandmother possess some great wisdom on protecting oneself from heartbreak?  I’m not sure.  Her life wasn’t easy.  In a family of great beauties, she was considered the fairest of them all.  My great aunt who used to be a model told me that she hated going to the beach with her sister because everyone stopped and stared at my grandmother, no one could take their eyes off of her.  My grandmother had a bevy of suitors to chose from, all vying for her affection.  But that beauty became confined to a wheelchair when she was afflicted with Multiple Sclerosis when my mother was just a little girl.  She spent a lot of time in hospitals, always wearing lipstick.

After my grandmother passed away, we found a lot of money hidden throughout her bedroom, folded inside picture frames, tucked in gloves, bundled in hatboxes.  When all was totaled it was considerable amount of cash.  I discovered a few years ago that all of the women along my maternal line have that compulsion to hide things throughout their homes.  For each of us, the item itself is different but it’s always the thing we most fear losing.  For my grandmother, it was a means to take care of her herself if she was no longer loved when her beauty faded.

I wonder if my grandmother was a master of controlling her affections or if she simply was an expert on heartbreak.  If she was able to keep her feelings in check, that ability definitely wasn’t passed on to me.  I often wish my heart wasn’t so stubborn and would listen to reason.  I have three different kinds of helmets that protect my head: a batting helmet, a bike helmet and a roller blading helmet. Unfortunately there’s no protective gear for my heart.

When I was a little girl, there was a steep hill to which I would ride.  I would pedal as hard as I could right up until the pavement started to dip.  Despite the fact that I knew it was dangerous, I would close my eyes and lift my feet from the pedals, my heart would rise up within my chest as if it wanted to be closer to my skin so it too could feel the exhilaration of wind and sun skimming over it.  Back then kids didn’t wear bike helmets but the rules of gravity still applied so a few times, I bit it.  Hard.  And somehow I always got up.  That’s the way I think people should love because it’s better with your eyes closed at dizzying speeds.  Every time I’m picking the gravel out of my wounds, I wonder if my grandmother was right.  On some level, I know the falls are worth it, but I worry there will be a time when I won’t be able to get back up.



Lola Looks For Love

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets, right?  Well, not so much lately.  I just canceled my Match membership because while it supplied endless fuel for future comedic endeavors, it did nothing to enhance my love life except possibly make me slightly more comfortable with the prospect of dying alone.  Most people get excited about finding someone on Match, I was popping bubbly when my inbox was no longer the Make A Wish Foundation of Creepy Weirdos. I had a few marriage proposals from random men I’ve never met who looked like creatures from George Lucas’ Industrial Light and Magic. Because I didn’t want to exit Match with at least one sampling, I agreed to go out on a date with a guy I will call Edgar because he made a Poe reference which is of course my kryptonite.  When two people clash as much pre-meeting as Edgar and I did, it means just one thing: phenomenal sex.  Shockingly he was even more handsome in person than in his pictures and it should be noted up front that my questionable actions were all clouded by the fact that he was really really hot.  He was a  cross between Mark Harmon and Anderson Cooper and he had the body of a 24 year old professional athlete.  During our first and only date he planned out the rest of our life together, after we got married, we were going to move to Bethlehem Pennsylvania (on purpose), he wanted me to learn to cook, had rules for dealing with fights and keeping the sex steamy during our marriage and we quarreled over pets… the canine controversy lasted a week until I called his bluff and ended it via text. Sadly, I never got to take him for a test drive. Despite the fact that he’s probably looking for a Stepford Wife, I’m still kind of thinking of proposing a purely physical relationship with him.  Pretty much no man says no to that, right?



Lola in the City

I was watching a “Sex and the City” rerun the other day and asked myself, “why don’t I have all those fabulous shoes?”  I think people have a bit of a distorted image of what it’s like to be in your thirties and single in New York City.  It’s kind of like musical chairs except the music stopped and there are no men left standing. My life has its fabulous moments, in one night I made Paul Simon laugh, Yankee catcher Jorge Posada blush and Mrs. Tom Brokaw very nervous. My backyard is pretty big by Manhattan standards and oh yeah, I live in Manhattan and have a backyard.  My friends are amazing… when you’re still single at this stage in your life, you become like each other’s spouses.  So I thought I’d start a blog about what it’s really like to be a single woman in New York City. It might be a long journey so wear comfy shoes.