Our town has a funeral home with a miniature golf course in the basement. I am not entirely sure why it does, but it does. It also has pinball machines, arcade games, shuffleboard and one of those old bowling games with the really heavy silver puck-things that you slide as hard as you can down the wooden surface to make the pins fold up.
Luckily, the grandson of the owners of this funeral home is in my daughter's Kindergarten class. (The son of the owner is our neighbor and he is also "in the business". We are not friends with these neighbors. This is not because they are not really nice people...they are. It's because I am not very neighborly. My husband, Tony is and if he had his way we would know all of our neighbors and have them over for drinks and stuff. I am a total misanthrope. Shortly after we moved in this house Tony noticed our next door neighbors were outside in their front yard. So, he walks out of the house with his tumbler of Scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other waving and saying hello while I was cringing at the front door while hissing to him, "Don't talk to them. Then they'll be waving to us whenever they see us, and coming over to borrow sugar and God knows what else!" They must have thought Dean Martin and Marlena Dietrich had moved in.)
Anyway, like I said...the grandson of the owners is in Bronte's Kindergarten class and he and Bronte are friends. So, when he threw a pre-Christmas mini golf bash in his "grandparents basement" I was dying (not literally...ha!) to go and see the legendary but not often seen funeral home playroom. You see, the basement is fairly common knowledge, but not many people get to see it or play in it. You have to be invited.
So, on the appointed morning my daughters and I went to the funeral home to play. When we walked into the funeral home we were greeted by Bronte's friends grandparents. They were all dressed up and whispered that they would hang up our coats for us. For a minute I was worried that we were there on the wrong day, but then the grandma told us how to get to the party. Although the basement was full of excited kids, you couldn't even hear them until you got half-way down the stairs. It was even better than I expected. The golf course had this fabulous macabre theme. One hole had a miniature graveyard in it. There was an old wooden coffin standing up as an obstacle for one of the holes. The pinball games both have ghoulish themes as well. The basement itself is not of the fluorescent lit variety either. It is sort of dark with spinning red lights on the ceiling and dark paneling. It was very cool. I headed over to the vintage Galaga arcade game (just like the one that was in the basement of my dorm in college. I spent way more quarters on those stupid arcade games in college than I did on laundry.) and started to play.
Then it happened. I heard a voice say to me, "Isn't this great? I really needed a break from all the Christmas decorating the boys and I have been doing!" I turned slowly, in absolute horror. Yes...it was that woman I wrote about previously. You know, the hideous one that I can't stand. I should have known that the basement of a funeral home was going to be a scary place. Of course, her son was invited too and she followed me around for upwards of a half an hour telling me all about HER Christmas tree with all the hand strung popcorn and cranberries on it, and the 8 billion kinds of Christmas cookies she and her boys made and the precious scrapbooks she labored over to give to her boys for Christmas, blah, blah, blah. Then she started telling me about how much her son loved Bronte and kept saying, "Look how he's following her around! Aren't they cute?" I wanted to point out that Bronte looked about two seconds away from telling her son to back off, but I didn't. Instead I excused myself and went up to the bathroom to take some Tylenol. (It was at that moment that I decided to ask my doctor about a Valium prescription. What the hell?)
The minute I came back down to the party she was all over me again. It was like she knows that I can't stand her so she was trying even harder to win me over. Her idea of buddying up to me included pointing out that she and I were, BY FAR, the oldest moms in attendance. She backed this up by going around to all the other moms and asking them how old they were and then running back to me and telling me. "John's mom is only 30!" "Nathan's mom is 31!" Honest to God, if I would have had a gun her body could have been the ultimate decoration for the golf course.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Big houses
I have decided that the most interesting people I know live in the smallest houses.
Part of this thought pattern has something to do with the size of the house I live in, but actually if I really think about it...it's totally true.
I have one friend who lives in a tiny ranch house with 3 bedrooms and she has 3 kids.
And they only have one bathroom. She is, by far, the most giving person I know who has the least amount of resources from which to give. (That is a p.c. way of saying that they don't have lots of cash.) She's got a happy marriage, really great kids, good friends and a huge heart. Maybe she wakes up every morning wishing she had a huge house and Merry Maids coming in once a week and the money to have steak dinners every other night...but I doubt it.
Conversely, I know another woman who has a huge house and all she does is complain. She wants a fur coat, the contractors screwed up her laundry room remodeling (no kidding...she actually had her laundry room remodeled. I know this because she showed it to me and told me how much everything cost. Her laundry room is as big as my entire first floor.), her kid didn't get the biggest part in the musical, blah, blah, blah. She never has anything interesting to say. Everything is all about her and the rest of the world is background noise. When I was in college, I had a Walkman and my boyfriend said to me that he couldn't stand seeing people walk around with Walkmen on. When I asked him why he replied that he felt like it was their way of saying that the world around them just wasn't interesting enough. At the time I took it very personally, but now I sort of see what he meant. I didn't give up my Walkman though. I needed a soundtrack. I was like John Travolta at the beginning of Saturday Night Fever...I needed to hear Stayin' Alive all the time while I was walking.
Anyway, this woman is sort of like that. The world around her isn't interesting enough. To use another fabulous John Travolta movie as an illustration...she's like The Boy in the Bubble. Only her bubble is self imposed unlike poor John in the movie. He was like, I don't know, allergic to everything so he had to live in a big bubble in his parents backyard or something. It would be like living inside one of those blow-up Santas that are on everyone's front lawn lately. I hate those things, by the way. Our neighbor on the corner has 3 or 4 of them in their yard; Scooby Doo with a Santa hat on and the Grinch, etc. They also have all kinds of mismatched lit up crap everywhere and lights hung half-assed all over the house. They're bringing down my property value by the second. I told Tony that if we ever list our house we better not do it close to any holiday because they have tacky lit-up lawn shit for every holiday.
Back to the house thing...I'm totally jealous of all the people I know that have huge houses, but I don't really ever want one because it would suck all of the intellegence out of me. (I think I may have spelled that wrong. See! Even talking about big houses makes you stupid.) (By the way, spelling is not a good indicator of how bright you are.)
Part of this thought pattern has something to do with the size of the house I live in, but actually if I really think about it...it's totally true.
I have one friend who lives in a tiny ranch house with 3 bedrooms and she has 3 kids.
And they only have one bathroom. She is, by far, the most giving person I know who has the least amount of resources from which to give. (That is a p.c. way of saying that they don't have lots of cash.) She's got a happy marriage, really great kids, good friends and a huge heart. Maybe she wakes up every morning wishing she had a huge house and Merry Maids coming in once a week and the money to have steak dinners every other night...but I doubt it.
Conversely, I know another woman who has a huge house and all she does is complain. She wants a fur coat, the contractors screwed up her laundry room remodeling (no kidding...she actually had her laundry room remodeled. I know this because she showed it to me and told me how much everything cost. Her laundry room is as big as my entire first floor.), her kid didn't get the biggest part in the musical, blah, blah, blah. She never has anything interesting to say. Everything is all about her and the rest of the world is background noise. When I was in college, I had a Walkman and my boyfriend said to me that he couldn't stand seeing people walk around with Walkmen on. When I asked him why he replied that he felt like it was their way of saying that the world around them just wasn't interesting enough. At the time I took it very personally, but now I sort of see what he meant. I didn't give up my Walkman though. I needed a soundtrack. I was like John Travolta at the beginning of Saturday Night Fever...I needed to hear Stayin' Alive all the time while I was walking.
Anyway, this woman is sort of like that. The world around her isn't interesting enough. To use another fabulous John Travolta movie as an illustration...she's like The Boy in the Bubble. Only her bubble is self imposed unlike poor John in the movie. He was like, I don't know, allergic to everything so he had to live in a big bubble in his parents backyard or something. It would be like living inside one of those blow-up Santas that are on everyone's front lawn lately. I hate those things, by the way. Our neighbor on the corner has 3 or 4 of them in their yard; Scooby Doo with a Santa hat on and the Grinch, etc. They also have all kinds of mismatched lit up crap everywhere and lights hung half-assed all over the house. They're bringing down my property value by the second. I told Tony that if we ever list our house we better not do it close to any holiday because they have tacky lit-up lawn shit for every holiday.
Back to the house thing...I'm totally jealous of all the people I know that have huge houses, but I don't really ever want one because it would suck all of the intellegence out of me. (I think I may have spelled that wrong. See! Even talking about big houses makes you stupid.) (By the way, spelling is not a good indicator of how bright you are.)
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Arggghhh!!
I just have to get this off my chest. There is this woman who has a son in my daughter's Kindergarten class and I really don't like her at all. She rubbed me the wrong way on the first day I met her and I just have liked her less with every subsequent meeting. Now, don't get me wrong...it's not like she's this great person and I am being totally irrational. She is deeply unlikable and ugly too. The problem is, I keep running into her. I'm at Jewel, she's at Jewel. I'm at the school, she's at the school. I'm at the library, she's at the library. And she always has something to say...."Oh, this morning while I was writing in my children's journals....did you know that I keep journals for all my children? I start a new one for each of them on the first of every year so that they will be able to go back and see what I was thinking when they were 2 or 10 or 15. It's time consuming, but I know they will appreciate it someday."
This is true. She actually told me that. First of all, her kids are all boys and they will NEVER care what she is thinking, let alone care what she was thinking when they were 6 months old. Second of all, they will resent her foisting these tomes upon them with the expectation that they will actually READ them. The only people who will ever read them will be the wives of these boys and they will lose interest after the first couple of years. The journals will all be about how she volunteered for every PTA committee and had to put up with the rest of the less committed moms who decided to have a life when our kids were at school. I can tell you what WON'T be in the journals...any memory of having gone and bought make-up. Yikes! Her husband must drink.
I just know that when I ran into her at Jewel she was looking in my cart and judging me according to what I was buying. She told me she was buying all the ingredients to make gingerbread from scratch so that she and the boys could make gingerbread houses that night. Give me a break. Just what elementary school boys LOVE...making gingerbread houses from scratch. Unless they are going to blow them up when they are done, I don't think they are going to give a rat's ass about gingerbread houses. Their idea of a gingerbread project is eating it. Or else their houses are just piles of gingerbread covered with frosting and they are telling their hideous mother that these are post-Katrina gingerbread houses.
In my cart? Funyuns, diet Pepsi, a bag of salad and a tube of biscuits. If only I had a bottle of Jack Daniels in there as well, I'm sure her mental notion of what kind of mother I am would've been complete.
I don't know why I let this woman bug me so much. Maybe it's because she thinks she's so superior and I am dying to point out her flaws to her. Maybe it's because she is so clueless about her flaws. Maybe it's because she wears those "mom jeans" that come up to your bellybutton and have tapered legs and she wears bright white canvas Keds all the time. What is that? Who wears those stupid Keds anymore? Mr. Rodgers? Hello! It's winter in the midwest. LOSE THE KEDS. Ick! I just can't even think about her anymore. It's making me testy.
This is true. She actually told me that. First of all, her kids are all boys and they will NEVER care what she is thinking, let alone care what she was thinking when they were 6 months old. Second of all, they will resent her foisting these tomes upon them with the expectation that they will actually READ them. The only people who will ever read them will be the wives of these boys and they will lose interest after the first couple of years. The journals will all be about how she volunteered for every PTA committee and had to put up with the rest of the less committed moms who decided to have a life when our kids were at school. I can tell you what WON'T be in the journals...any memory of having gone and bought make-up. Yikes! Her husband must drink.
I just know that when I ran into her at Jewel she was looking in my cart and judging me according to what I was buying. She told me she was buying all the ingredients to make gingerbread from scratch so that she and the boys could make gingerbread houses that night. Give me a break. Just what elementary school boys LOVE...making gingerbread houses from scratch. Unless they are going to blow them up when they are done, I don't think they are going to give a rat's ass about gingerbread houses. Their idea of a gingerbread project is eating it. Or else their houses are just piles of gingerbread covered with frosting and they are telling their hideous mother that these are post-Katrina gingerbread houses.
In my cart? Funyuns, diet Pepsi, a bag of salad and a tube of biscuits. If only I had a bottle of Jack Daniels in there as well, I'm sure her mental notion of what kind of mother I am would've been complete.
I don't know why I let this woman bug me so much. Maybe it's because she thinks she's so superior and I am dying to point out her flaws to her. Maybe it's because she is so clueless about her flaws. Maybe it's because she wears those "mom jeans" that come up to your bellybutton and have tapered legs and she wears bright white canvas Keds all the time. What is that? Who wears those stupid Keds anymore? Mr. Rodgers? Hello! It's winter in the midwest. LOSE THE KEDS. Ick! I just can't even think about her anymore. It's making me testy.
Flying and Asthma
Did you know I hate to fly? Well, now you know. I hate to fly. I flew with my daughter to Washington D.C. a few years ago and I think I managed to convince her that flying with mommy is not a good thing. Okay, I did take some Valium before that flight but I took it with a double espresso because I was completely unaware that they would cancel each other out. (That's because I got my Valium from my friend who got it from a tanning salon owner/drug dealer...but that's a whole different story) So, not only was I not relaxed for this flight, I was also not properly caffeinated. BAD IDEA. If Brenna knew what an ordeal flying with me was going to be, I think she would have taken the Valium herself. I had a fit because our seats weren't together. I had a breakdown at the McDonalds before our connecting flight. I lost my temper because I couldn't get my boarding pass through the slot to have it scanned before I got on the plane. (turns out I was doing it wrong, which just pissed me off even more.)
BUT the worst part was when we were landing in D.C. I can't remember which airport we flew into, but it's the one where you do your final approach over a body of water so it literally looks like you are going to land in the water. Rational people know that isn't going to happen, but I was far from rational at that point. I mean, the Valium didn't work, the caffeine didn't work and I was lamenting the fact that my last meal was possibly going to be the crap I had from McDonalds. So, we are making our final approach and Brenna says, "Hey Mom! Look out the window. Is that the Washington Monument?" Well, I looked out the window and all I could see was water. We were flying really, really close to the water and I just knew that we were going to miss the runway and end up in the river.
Luckily...I had once read an article about how a man had survived trapped underwater in his car for a period of time by using his asthma inhaler as a breathing device. I must have read this in the National Enquirer because even now as I am typing this it just doesn't make any sense. However, at that particular time when I was certain we were going to crash into the Potomic, I knew that my asthma was going to save our lives. I had 3 or 4 or 5 inhalers in my purse and so I decided to rationally pass them out to Brenna and the other kids sitting in our row. (Did I mention that we were on a class trip?) Here is my idea of rationally passing out inhalers to 3rd grade children..."Take this! It's going to save your life when we go careening into the water. If the impact doesn't kill us then you can use this to breathe underwater! Take it! Take it!" Keep in mind that I am sobbing and screaming at this point.
So, of course, Brenna starts crying. I am sure that she knew we weren't going to crash and die, but at that point she probably wished we were. I, on the other had, having passed out my inhalers, was sitting strapped in my seat with my eyes closed sucking on Albuterol. Needless to say, we landed safely but I could barely move out of my seat because I had sucked my inhaler dry and was shaking so violently from all the steriods in my system I couldn't pick up my carry-ons.
The best part of this whole thing is that, as I got off the plane and entered the terminal, I tripped and fell flat on my face. Just so that people would think I did this purposely, I loudly thanked God and kissed the ground. Brenna kept walking. One of the other mothers on the trip sent two bottles of wine to my hotel room every night.
On the flight back I didn't take any chances. We got to the airport early (with the mom who sent the wine to my room) and sat in the bar drinking and I took 2 Valiums. I swear I heard Brenna chanting, "Chug! Chug! Chug!" under her breath.
BUT the worst part was when we were landing in D.C. I can't remember which airport we flew into, but it's the one where you do your final approach over a body of water so it literally looks like you are going to land in the water. Rational people know that isn't going to happen, but I was far from rational at that point. I mean, the Valium didn't work, the caffeine didn't work and I was lamenting the fact that my last meal was possibly going to be the crap I had from McDonalds. So, we are making our final approach and Brenna says, "Hey Mom! Look out the window. Is that the Washington Monument?" Well, I looked out the window and all I could see was water. We were flying really, really close to the water and I just knew that we were going to miss the runway and end up in the river.
Luckily...I had once read an article about how a man had survived trapped underwater in his car for a period of time by using his asthma inhaler as a breathing device. I must have read this in the National Enquirer because even now as I am typing this it just doesn't make any sense. However, at that particular time when I was certain we were going to crash into the Potomic, I knew that my asthma was going to save our lives. I had 3 or 4 or 5 inhalers in my purse and so I decided to rationally pass them out to Brenna and the other kids sitting in our row. (Did I mention that we were on a class trip?) Here is my idea of rationally passing out inhalers to 3rd grade children..."Take this! It's going to save your life when we go careening into the water. If the impact doesn't kill us then you can use this to breathe underwater! Take it! Take it!" Keep in mind that I am sobbing and screaming at this point.
So, of course, Brenna starts crying. I am sure that she knew we weren't going to crash and die, but at that point she probably wished we were. I, on the other had, having passed out my inhalers, was sitting strapped in my seat with my eyes closed sucking on Albuterol. Needless to say, we landed safely but I could barely move out of my seat because I had sucked my inhaler dry and was shaking so violently from all the steriods in my system I couldn't pick up my carry-ons.
The best part of this whole thing is that, as I got off the plane and entered the terminal, I tripped and fell flat on my face. Just so that people would think I did this purposely, I loudly thanked God and kissed the ground. Brenna kept walking. One of the other mothers on the trip sent two bottles of wine to my hotel room every night.
On the flight back I didn't take any chances. We got to the airport early (with the mom who sent the wine to my room) and sat in the bar drinking and I took 2 Valiums. I swear I heard Brenna chanting, "Chug! Chug! Chug!" under her breath.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Spin, Spin, Spin
My 5 year old is going to be an attorney. I had hoped for a nobler profession for her, but at least she isn't going to be a politician... In any case, she doesn't know what an attorney is, but I am pretty sure that is what she is going to be.
I say this because of an incident that happened recently in her Kindergarten class. (By the way, does Kindergarten need to be capitalized? I am not really sure but I always do it anyway. I think it's because of the spelling. It seems like a fancy foreign word and therefore out of respect it must be capitalized. It's sort of like British people. Because of their accents they just sound smarter than Americans. A British person could say any damn fool thing and I would just nod, amazed at their brilliance. However, if someone from Tennessee says the same thing, I would just assume they were morons. It's the accent. One conjures up images of James Bond and the other conjures up Jeff Foxworthy.) Bronte (my 5 year old) can read. Her teacher passed out some papers for the kids to work on and then proceeded to show the class what to do with them while writing the directions on the white-board. Bronte watched her and started to work. Josh (a boy at her table) did not watch and had no clue what to do. So, he turned to Bronte and said, "What are we supposed to do?" Bronte pointed at the white-board and said, "Read the directions." Josh looked at the white-board and then turned to Bronte and said, "What are we supposed to do?" Bronte said, "Josh, just read the directions!" Josh stated, "I can't read." At this point, Bronte lost her cool and spat, "What the hell, Josh!"
Because she is her mother's daughter, of course her teacher was right behind her. (I say this because whenever I yell at my kids in a public place, my minister is right behind me. Now that I say that, I'm starting to think my minister is a stalker.) Okay, so Bronte is totally busted at this point, but her teacher thinks it's kind of funny and wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. BUT, NO!! Bronte looked up, saw her teacher and started to explain that she wasn't saying a bad word....that the word "hell" actually refers to a place. And not just any place, a place that they talk about in the Bible. She told her teacher that I use that word all the time, sometimes even in church, so it's not a bad word.
Now her teacher was aware of two things.
1. Bronte knew full well that she swore.
2. Bronte's mother (me) goes around saying "What the hell" all the time and apparently has no problem justifying it by saying it is a Biblical reference.
Guess who got a phone call from the teacher that afternoon?
She also spends an inordinate amount of time telling her teacher that calling their morning gathering "circle time" is technically incorrect because they are sitting in more of an oval shape, or that their Thanksgiving Pow Wow was just wrong because the Pilgrims and the Indians (the kids were dressed up as one or the other) would never have sat around a campfire together singing songs, or that since she (Bronte) had already gotten in trouble and was never going to get a "good behavior" sticker that day, just how bad did she have to be to get an "Uh Oh" note from the teacher instead because she wanted to go home with something.
I say this because of an incident that happened recently in her Kindergarten class. (By the way, does Kindergarten need to be capitalized? I am not really sure but I always do it anyway. I think it's because of the spelling. It seems like a fancy foreign word and therefore out of respect it must be capitalized. It's sort of like British people. Because of their accents they just sound smarter than Americans. A British person could say any damn fool thing and I would just nod, amazed at their brilliance. However, if someone from Tennessee says the same thing, I would just assume they were morons. It's the accent. One conjures up images of James Bond and the other conjures up Jeff Foxworthy.) Bronte (my 5 year old) can read. Her teacher passed out some papers for the kids to work on and then proceeded to show the class what to do with them while writing the directions on the white-board. Bronte watched her and started to work. Josh (a boy at her table) did not watch and had no clue what to do. So, he turned to Bronte and said, "What are we supposed to do?" Bronte pointed at the white-board and said, "Read the directions." Josh looked at the white-board and then turned to Bronte and said, "What are we supposed to do?" Bronte said, "Josh, just read the directions!" Josh stated, "I can't read." At this point, Bronte lost her cool and spat, "What the hell, Josh!"
Because she is her mother's daughter, of course her teacher was right behind her. (I say this because whenever I yell at my kids in a public place, my minister is right behind me. Now that I say that, I'm starting to think my minister is a stalker.) Okay, so Bronte is totally busted at this point, but her teacher thinks it's kind of funny and wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. BUT, NO!! Bronte looked up, saw her teacher and started to explain that she wasn't saying a bad word....that the word "hell" actually refers to a place. And not just any place, a place that they talk about in the Bible. She told her teacher that I use that word all the time, sometimes even in church, so it's not a bad word.
Now her teacher was aware of two things.
1. Bronte knew full well that she swore.
2. Bronte's mother (me) goes around saying "What the hell" all the time and apparently has no problem justifying it by saying it is a Biblical reference.
Guess who got a phone call from the teacher that afternoon?
She also spends an inordinate amount of time telling her teacher that calling their morning gathering "circle time" is technically incorrect because they are sitting in more of an oval shape, or that their Thanksgiving Pow Wow was just wrong because the Pilgrims and the Indians (the kids were dressed up as one or the other) would never have sat around a campfire together singing songs, or that since she (Bronte) had already gotten in trouble and was never going to get a "good behavior" sticker that day, just how bad did she have to be to get an "Uh Oh" note from the teacher instead because she wanted to go home with something.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Delusions of Grandeur
I was looking at myself in the rearview mirror the other day. Unfortunately, because I am so busy running the household and raising two demanding children (by the way, are all children demanding, or are mine just really gifted in that area?) the only time I ever get to look at myself in the mirror is in the car. Anyway, I was looking at myself and thought, "Gee, I look pretty good." That led my to my next thought, "Okay, do I really look good, or are my standards slipping?"
You see, I think I still look like I did when I was in college. I think I'm about the same size. However, this cannot be proven beyond a reasonable doubt as I no longer have any of my clothes from college. May darling husband, on the other hand, still has clothes from high school, I think. Whenever I get a call from the Vietnam Vets telling me that there is going to be a truck in our neighborhood so could I possibly donate a bag of old clothes, my husband starts to sweat. Why should I get rid of that old t-shirt from his high school swing choir? It still fits!
But I digress...I think I'm about the same size I was in college. My face looks the same. My hair...well, it's been a few different colors since college and it might be a little shorter, but it's in the same ponytail that I've worn for years and it will stay there until baldness becomes fashionable for women. (That's my dream, by the way. The ultimate in low maintenance hair. Think of all the room I'd have in my bathroom without the blow drier, various brushes, gels, straighteners, hairspray, etc. Not that I ever even use these things because my ponytail is the next best thing to baldness, but I might use them someday. I do have the hair. I need to open the drawer with the hair accoutrements in it every once in a while to prove to myself that I have the technology to achieve an actual hairstyle someday.) I wear the same clothes from the Gap I wore then. Khaki's and t-shirts or jeans and a v-neck sweater never go out of style. I still listen to Adam Ant occasionally too. (He, incidentally, looks terrible. It's not like I expected him to wear make-up and pirate gear forever, but now he's some bloated has-been who is flinging carburetors though pub windows in England.)
In college I was never really satisfied with the way I looked. Other people seemed to think I looked good, but I never saw that person in the mirror. But today I see a 41 year old who looks pretty darn great. So, the ultimate question is (and it's a two-parter) did I look great in college and therefore I look great now, or did I look terrible in college, look the same now and therefore my standards have slipped?
I was looking at some old pictures of my college days with one of my best friends. She and I were inseparable at the University of Iowa, so she and I are in a lot of pictures together. So, we're looking at these pictures and she looks TOTALLY different. She's virtually unrecognizable. I mean, it's not as if her dental records would have to be admitted into evidence to i.d. her or anything...but she looks really different. I, on the other hand, look the same. Am I delusional? Or, do I not look in the mirror often enough to see how much I have changed? I mean, let's face it, you can only see so much in the rearview mirror.
Which brings me back to my epiphany in the car. After looking at myself in the rearview mirror and thinking I look pretty good, I continue on my way to the elementary school to pick up something for my friend's son. Keep in mind that my own daughters don't attend the school I am going to, I am just doing a favor for a friend who cannot physically make it to pick up this item for her son. I walk into the gym where a few dozen PTA-type moms are also there picking up things for their children. Suddenly this blonde woman walks up to me and says, "You look so familiar. Do you have children at this school?" I told her no, I was picking up something for a friend so she hadn't seen my face in those halls before. She then asks, "Where did you go to college?" I told her I went to the University of Iowa. She suddenly gets this look of recognition and asks, "Were you an Alpha Delta Pi?" I reluctantly admitted that I was for one year. She then gasps, "Oh my gosh! Carolyn Geddis! You look exactly the same." I know she told me her name and other stuff after that, but I wasn't listening. All I could think was, "I knew it! I look exactly the same!"
My conclusion from this whole experience? I am not the only one who is delusional.
You see, I think I still look like I did when I was in college. I think I'm about the same size. However, this cannot be proven beyond a reasonable doubt as I no longer have any of my clothes from college. May darling husband, on the other hand, still has clothes from high school, I think. Whenever I get a call from the Vietnam Vets telling me that there is going to be a truck in our neighborhood so could I possibly donate a bag of old clothes, my husband starts to sweat. Why should I get rid of that old t-shirt from his high school swing choir? It still fits!
But I digress...I think I'm about the same size I was in college. My face looks the same. My hair...well, it's been a few different colors since college and it might be a little shorter, but it's in the same ponytail that I've worn for years and it will stay there until baldness becomes fashionable for women. (That's my dream, by the way. The ultimate in low maintenance hair. Think of all the room I'd have in my bathroom without the blow drier, various brushes, gels, straighteners, hairspray, etc. Not that I ever even use these things because my ponytail is the next best thing to baldness, but I might use them someday. I do have the hair. I need to open the drawer with the hair accoutrements in it every once in a while to prove to myself that I have the technology to achieve an actual hairstyle someday.) I wear the same clothes from the Gap I wore then. Khaki's and t-shirts or jeans and a v-neck sweater never go out of style. I still listen to Adam Ant occasionally too. (He, incidentally, looks terrible. It's not like I expected him to wear make-up and pirate gear forever, but now he's some bloated has-been who is flinging carburetors though pub windows in England.)
In college I was never really satisfied with the way I looked. Other people seemed to think I looked good, but I never saw that person in the mirror. But today I see a 41 year old who looks pretty darn great. So, the ultimate question is (and it's a two-parter) did I look great in college and therefore I look great now, or did I look terrible in college, look the same now and therefore my standards have slipped?
I was looking at some old pictures of my college days with one of my best friends. She and I were inseparable at the University of Iowa, so she and I are in a lot of pictures together. So, we're looking at these pictures and she looks TOTALLY different. She's virtually unrecognizable. I mean, it's not as if her dental records would have to be admitted into evidence to i.d. her or anything...but she looks really different. I, on the other hand, look the same. Am I delusional? Or, do I not look in the mirror often enough to see how much I have changed? I mean, let's face it, you can only see so much in the rearview mirror.
Which brings me back to my epiphany in the car. After looking at myself in the rearview mirror and thinking I look pretty good, I continue on my way to the elementary school to pick up something for my friend's son. Keep in mind that my own daughters don't attend the school I am going to, I am just doing a favor for a friend who cannot physically make it to pick up this item for her son. I walk into the gym where a few dozen PTA-type moms are also there picking up things for their children. Suddenly this blonde woman walks up to me and says, "You look so familiar. Do you have children at this school?" I told her no, I was picking up something for a friend so she hadn't seen my face in those halls before. She then asks, "Where did you go to college?" I told her I went to the University of Iowa. She suddenly gets this look of recognition and asks, "Were you an Alpha Delta Pi?" I reluctantly admitted that I was for one year. She then gasps, "Oh my gosh! Carolyn Geddis! You look exactly the same." I know she told me her name and other stuff after that, but I wasn't listening. All I could think was, "I knew it! I look exactly the same!"
My conclusion from this whole experience? I am not the only one who is delusional.
It's southern, y'all
Britney Spears' crotch is all over the Internet. Normally, I don't go out of my way to find celebrity crotches on the Internet, but I did Google "Britney Spears Crotch" just to see these photos. I did this mainly because my husband was so disgusted that the CNN website covered the Spears crotch. He just couldn't believe that CNN considered this newsworthy.
I just wanted to see it because here is young Ms. Spears in the midst of a divorce and will be, presumedly, fighting for custody of her sons and she is going out on the town with Paris Hilton, getting smashed, and flashing her crotch to reporters. That is just funny. I can't wait to see her chewing her gum in the middle of her Today Show interview with Matt Lauer and chalking it up to "being Southern". (Doesn't that just add a whole new level of comedy to reruns of "Designing Women"? I mean-here are all those genteel Southern interior designer women sitting in their lovely Victorian home in their lovely dresses and inside we all know they have shaved boxes and are going 'commando'?)
Anyway, because Tony (my husband) didn't think this was at all newsworthy, I thought it would be fun to bring it up to some of my friends and see if they had even heard of Britney's "pussy-gate". So, last night I was at a Girl Scout meeting and there were two other moms there and I brought up Britney's indiscretion. The first mom said that her husband had immediately gone on the Internet to see if he could find uncensored photos of this even. (Apparently a lot of websites are featuring these photos with black boxes over the box...so to speak. I had no trouble at all finding the real deal, but maybe I just googled the right combo of words...) She was disgusted with her husband for wanting to see this. She said, "For God's sake! She just had two kids! How exciting is her crotch?" The other mom said, "My question is; what happened to her underwear?"
Okay-let's pause here.
The other mom wondered where her underwear went. I admit, that never even occurred to me. Strangely enough I never thought that slutty Britney had begun her evening with her underwear on. But this woman figured that something horrible must have happened during the course of Britney's evening and she lost her underwear. I'm sure that happens all the time. Some people lose their keys, their purse, their cell phones--but sometimes you might just lose your underwear. The horror! This mom should be Britney's PR person. I would be a lot more sympathetic towards Ms. Spears if she told Matt Lauer that she lost her underwear instead of blaming this incident on her Southern roots.
In the meantime I wonder what Britney's sons are going to think when they get older. I mean, who are they going to date someday? What mother will think this behavior from the mother of the boy their daughter is about to date is OK? Will they date Madonna's daughter? Unfortunately Madonna only has one daughter and there are two Spears sons.
I just wanted to see it because here is young Ms. Spears in the midst of a divorce and will be, presumedly, fighting for custody of her sons and she is going out on the town with Paris Hilton, getting smashed, and flashing her crotch to reporters. That is just funny. I can't wait to see her chewing her gum in the middle of her Today Show interview with Matt Lauer and chalking it up to "being Southern". (Doesn't that just add a whole new level of comedy to reruns of "Designing Women"? I mean-here are all those genteel Southern interior designer women sitting in their lovely Victorian home in their lovely dresses and inside we all know they have shaved boxes and are going 'commando'?)
Anyway, because Tony (my husband) didn't think this was at all newsworthy, I thought it would be fun to bring it up to some of my friends and see if they had even heard of Britney's "pussy-gate". So, last night I was at a Girl Scout meeting and there were two other moms there and I brought up Britney's indiscretion. The first mom said that her husband had immediately gone on the Internet to see if he could find uncensored photos of this even. (Apparently a lot of websites are featuring these photos with black boxes over the box...so to speak. I had no trouble at all finding the real deal, but maybe I just googled the right combo of words...) She was disgusted with her husband for wanting to see this. She said, "For God's sake! She just had two kids! How exciting is her crotch?" The other mom said, "My question is; what happened to her underwear?"
Okay-let's pause here.
The other mom wondered where her underwear went. I admit, that never even occurred to me. Strangely enough I never thought that slutty Britney had begun her evening with her underwear on. But this woman figured that something horrible must have happened during the course of Britney's evening and she lost her underwear. I'm sure that happens all the time. Some people lose their keys, their purse, their cell phones--but sometimes you might just lose your underwear. The horror! This mom should be Britney's PR person. I would be a lot more sympathetic towards Ms. Spears if she told Matt Lauer that she lost her underwear instead of blaming this incident on her Southern roots.
In the meantime I wonder what Britney's sons are going to think when they get older. I mean, who are they going to date someday? What mother will think this behavior from the mother of the boy their daughter is about to date is OK? Will they date Madonna's daughter? Unfortunately Madonna only has one daughter and there are two Spears sons.
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