Wednesday, March 17, 2010

does your mom know?

So I went to McDonald's today because I had a stressful day and I am a sugar addict. So, I fed the craving with soft serve. Yes, I am perfectly content to live my life in drawstring pants. I've given up.

But, while in line I had the distinct pleasure of listening in on the trials and tribulations of a certain plaid skirt wearing, all-girl-school world.
These girls, MaryBeth, MaryFrancis and MaryWhinesALot where in line in front of me, after ordering: a 6 peice mcnugget to split among the 3 of them, 2 diet cokes and one McCafe. I guess MaryFrancis has given up, too.

So Mary#1 says: "you're so lucky I have to drive my mother's hand me down shit volvo wagon."
Mary#2 responds, "I hate my Prius. I want a Range Rover, screw the environment. Al Gore's a fatass anyway."
Mary#3 says, " I got stuck with my Dad's Mini Cooper. Eww. It's so midlife crisis."
** I wanted so badly to say, "Does your Mom know? That your Dad's gay?"

But I kept it inside and decided to share my hatefulness with you, blog world. Amazing what a $25,000/year education delivers.

Monday, March 15, 2010

a lesson about comfortable shoes

Honeys, mama is having a awful time with this getting older thing. I went out Saturday night with my rowdy friends. We ended up at some club and let's just say things ain't what they used to be. No body asked mama for her number, no body looked my at me. I think I heard one rude child with an X on his hand yell, "Tommy, your mama's here to get you." Then at the end of the night somebody (I may or may not have had a previous romantic entanglement with) shoved a cell phone in my face and asked me my last name and proceeded to lick my face. There was a time in my life when I might have thought that was hot, or romantical even? But I just felt plain dirty. Not dirty in a good way, dirty in the way that I wished I had a wet wipe to clean up and disinfect. I think you don't get to lick someone if you don't know their last name, call me old fashioned.

Yes, I went into that bar feeling like a cougar. But I left like a lamb, or maybe more like an old goat that you need to put down. So, thank god it was daylight savings time. Yes, I was thankful the bar closed an hour early so I could jump in a cab and get home. I used to run for the bar at last call. This time I ran for the door. Nothing worse than that moment when they turn on the lights- people scatter like roaches. The cruel overhead lighting is like finding a million love letters and none of them true. Things just are better in the dark, with some bass, but not too much, my damn ears were ringing through lunchtime.

Sunday morning I woke up and my feet felt as though they had been run over by a truck. You know you are old when your feet hurt. You know you are getting old when you have to start thinking about what shoes you are wearing and if the floors are going to be concrete or carpet. You have to start planning for the terrain. You don't worry about that shit in your 20s. In your 20s you worry if you have enough cab fare to get home after you paid two covers and four rounds of shots named after bombs. You worry if you can find your panties and your house keys when you wake up and realize that is not your ceiling fan you're staring at. That's why I always kept a spare pare of panties in my glovebox and a key hidden in a decorate plastic rock in the garden. Nowadays the only thing in my glovebox is asthma medication and antacid pills.

Yes, I gave that weekend hell. I said, "take that weekend!" I had to do it. I was feeling old and you ain't no good to nobody when you feel old. By Sunday afternoon my age called up and said, "sit the hell down, fool. What is wrong with you?" Thank god for the magical healing powers of taco bell. So, kids, let me leave you with a few cautionary lessons: (1)You are never too old to act the fool (2)Always have cab fare and (3) for God's sake wear comfortable shoes. With any luck you'll have a long walk home

do as I say, not as I do
yur mama