Why Won’t She Call Me?

Hello, Innernetz!  I’m back!  I would like to say that I’ve spent the last two weeks touring the White House with the First Family-Elect and trying to help them find a suitable, non-allergenic pooch from a local rescue group but that isn’t the case.  Although I’ve eagerly offered my services via emails and phone calls, I’ve yet to receive a response. What’s up with that, First Family-Elect? Call me!

So, while I’ve been waiting, I’ve been writing my thesis. I know, I know! Raise your hand if you are tired of hearing about my fucking thesis?  Hey!  I said raise your hands, not start the freakin’ wave.  Long story short, my thesis advisor has been MIA all semester.  Emails unanswered, calls unreturned, notes left in her mailbox mysteriously never received – I think the people who run her office may be the same ones running interference between me and the First Family-Elect.  *psst!  Michelle, call me!*

So there I am tooling merrily along on my paper thinking that I had until the middle of December to turn it in to my elusive advisor when I discovered that my completed draft was actually due at the end of last week.  Last. Week.  Lastweek.  Last-week. lastweeklastweek.  A cry went up all throughout the land and there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Actually, the crying went on for quite a while.  At one point, I was worried that I was going to short out my keyboard. 

You know, when you put your entire life on hold to take care of something you expect others will as well, right?  I mean, you’d think because Dingo was not blogging that esprit de corps would mean that YOU weren’t blogging either. You’d think that you’d be home wondering why your emails were unanswered, your calls unreturned, and your cute little notes in my mailbox unacknowledged. But no, not at all.  You were all blogging.  There are over 1000 unread posts in my reader.  You are all asshats.  And I mean that in the nicest way possible.  Really. When Michelle finally invites me to a White House dinner, I will make sure to mention you all fondly as I let the crunchy caramelized crust of the crème brule we’re having for dessert melt on my tongue.

What kept me sane this past week, beside the concerned emails I got from some of you – it meant a lot to me to know that I was missed – were Mr. Dingo and Dingo Girl.  Not a Dingo was of little help.  Have you tried typing a paper with your cat lying on your keyboard or batting your hand as you type?  I think the worst Not a Dingo moments were at 3am when she’d actually yawn her Breath Of A Thousand Putrid Corpses in my face and then fall asleep in front of the monitor and snore.  Loudly. 

Mr. Dingo was a big help bringing me Monster Energy Drinks by the gallon and keeping me supplied in tissues until he decided that his life couldn’t be put on hold either and he had to prepare for a hearing.  A hearing?  Don’t get me wrong, Innernetz.  I understand that millions of dollars were at stake and that he’s a big shot NYC lawyer, but I had a paper due at the end of the week!  In the grand scheme of things, I think that I trump some corporate bigwigs, don’t you?  Where is the love, Innernetz?  Where is the love?!

As usual, Dingo Girl was my most trusted and loyal companion.  She always found a way to make me laugh and she didn’t seem to mind that the snot from my crying jags dried into crusty yuckiness on the back of her neck.  But her love and comic relief sometimes comes at the price of my pride. I took a study break to take her to the park on one of the nicest fall days we’ve had this year.  There was a slight chill in the air — the kind of chill that perks you up but also has you looking forward to a cup of hot tea once you get home.  Red and gold leaves were swirling on invisible currents and there was the delicious scent of roasting chestnuts in the air.  In other words, it was a perfect day to have wedding photos in the park.

I understand that Central Park is gorgeous.  What I don’t understand is how in the world people expect to have wedding photos taken in Central Park without some asshat and her dog in the background.  The afternoon that Dingo Girl and I went to the park, we passed by one of the most popular places for wedding photos — the steps by Bethesda Fountain.  When you stand at the bottom of the steps, it seems as if they lead right up into the sky.  The symmetry and the optical illusion appeal to photographers, wedding parties, and dogs who like to mind everyone else’s business.

As Dingo Girl and I approached the steps, we saw a bride and groom posing for pictures.  I really want to see their proofs because this was some fucked up shit. In one photo, the bride is lying on the steps, head in her arms, face obscured.  The man is standing but he’s straddling her as if he’s stepping over her like a piece of litter.  The photographer is yelling, “Good, good!  That’s great!” Dingo Girl and I follow all the other pedestrians to the left side of the steps to avoid being in the photos.  The line was single-file and I went ahead of Dingo Girl knowing that she would follow me.  Only she didn’t.  She decided that it was more interesting to check out the couple who were now facing the camera gripping each other as if they were trying to withstand gale force winds.  They didn’t notice that four steps above them, a 40-pound yellow dog was scooting her butt across the steps like an Atari Space Invader. 

Although neither the photographer nor the bride and groom noticed my butt-scratching dog in the background of their pictures, everyone else did and started laughing hysterically.  I called to her, telling her to get her yellow ass over to my side of the steps but she ignored me, choosing that moment to sit perfectly still facing the camera.  I hissed, whispered, and used sign language that was unmistakable to get her attention.  When she finally deigned to look my way, Dingo Girl smiled — yes smiled! — and began to scoot her butt the remainder of the way across the steps.  It would have been more dignified had I just apologized, walked over, and grabbed her by the collar.  But no, I was still trying to play it cool and there’s nothing cooler than crawling on your hands and knees across cold marble steps hissing and sputtering to your dog who is paying you no mind whatsoever.

I managed to get Dingo Girl, not because she obeyed the commands I spent months and hundreds of dollars with a trainer trying to teach her, but because once she got to the right hand side of the staircase, she walked up three steps and butt-scooted her way back to my side of the stairs.  I promptly snapped her leash on and headed for home.  She trotted and smiled the entire way. I tell you, cold marble and an ill-mannered dog will get your blood flowing.  I think the adrenaline from our outing kept me writing and typing for at least an hour.

So, my thesis draft is done.  I’m just waiting for comments and suggestions but who knows when those will come in because I think my thesis advisor has entered witness protection or something.  My final deadline is in two weeks and in that time I have to make the revisions, give it to my second reader, incorporate those comments, blah, blah, blah.  And to make it all worse, still nothing from Michelle.  Call me Michelle!  I have a non-allergenic dog that I just KNOW you and the First Family-Elect will love!

Leave a comment....

Catatonia is not a Eastern European Country

In the midst of all the gimmicks and ridiculous rah-rah Spirit Club Drill Team Cheer Squad bullshit that the administration at my Institution of Higher Learning wants me to shovel down the throats of my students, I sometimes actually get to teach.  Sure the pom-poms get in the way and I haven’t perfected my back handspring, but I love teaching. It’s the only job I’ve ever had that has me looking forward to every day. Well, except for one summer when I worked at a video store.  The Pizza Hut across the parking lot was undergoing extensive renovations and the summer sun glistening off the sweat-slicked abs of the construction workers was enough to make the daylight shunning goth chick I worked with fight for the afternoon shift.  I’m not sure if she was motivated by lust or the fact that all the heavy lifting they were doing made blood pump through their carotid arteries like a vampire’s wet dream.  Yes, we had binoculars.  Yes, we used them.  Ahhh… summer….

What was I saying?  Oh, yeah something about loving to teach. Anyway, although I taught class this summer I didn’t have anything to write about because, except for two plagiarists (I’m resigned to the fact there’s going to be at least one fucker every semester who wants to play chicken with me and Mr. Google), they were awesome.  Truly something to cheer about.  Give me an “A”!  Give me a “W”! Give me the rest of the word without having to spell it out!  I could write odes to this summer class; their hard work, curiosity, vision, and drive to succeed is every teacher’s dream. In fact, only three weeks into the Fall semester, I’m beginning to wonder if the summer class was just that, a dream.  I know I’ve lamented the apathy of the younger generation before.  I didn’t think there was anything worse than apathy.  That, dear Innernetz, is incorrect.  You know what is worse than apathy?  Catatonia.

Catatonia is worse than apathy.  While the Head Honchos want to me to get the students fired up about inconsequential matters – anyone care for a I Heart NY pin? – I’m trying to get them interested in ANYTHING beyond their tiny little spheres of existence.  There’s a whole world outside their 18-year old, two and a half pound brains and I want them to grab it by the balls and make it scream!  But you know why they don’t?  You know why they say they are not going to vote, that they can’t be bothered to learn about the issues that affect them, that they don’t get involved in their communities, that they don’t protest against injustice and social inequality?  Because they don’t believe that one person can make a difference.

WTF?

I asked them if any of them had ever heard of the Unknown Rebel at Tiananmen Square.  Blank stares.  I refused to admit defeat at the hands of ignorance.  “On June 5, 1989, over a million students, teachers, and workers, ” I started in a low quiet voice.  I wanted them to have to lean forward to listen.  I wanted to have their undivided attention.  And I did.  By the time I was impersonating both the Unknown Rebel ("and he stood bravely in the face of certain death") and the tank drivers ("and they moved to the right but the rebel blocked their path") my shirt was untucked, my shoes were off and I was gesticulating wildy.  After my triumphant finish with a flourishing, “AND THE TANKS TURNED AROUND!” The room was silent.

A lone hand at the back of the class was raised. “Yes?” I responded secure in the knowledge that I had made my point.  “Did it change anything?” It was my turn to be silent.  I thought about it for a minute.  I thought about how sometimes big changes come about in small increments.

“We don’t know yet.”

Class dismissed.

****************************************************

Update to the Naked MILF Sweepstakes:

Thanks, Innernetz!  Crissy has made it to the first page of the Hottest Mommy Blogger Page!  We only have a few hundred votes to go before Crissy has to post her ta-tas on her site wins wins and has to post her ta-tas on her site!  If you haven’t taken a look at the bribe Stoogepie has offered as incentive to vote,you are missing out on a fantastic opportunity to win:

Sony DSC-T300 Cyber-shot® 10-Megapixel Digital Camera - Silver — list price $499.99
Sony LCS-THM/B Genuine Black Leather Case — list price $49.99
Sandisk 4GB Memory Stick Pro Duo — list price $39.99. 
Photoshop CS3

Wait! Photoshop wasn’t included in your earlier post about this contest, you say.  Right-o, my observant Innernetz.  I talked to Stoogepie about his lame assed prize package and said that a REAL prize package would also include Photoshop CS3 because that’s what I would want to win.  Somehow, Stoogepie absconded with the goods found one lying around unopened and unused at work and is throwing that into the mix as well.  Yes, you can win a camera, a carrying case, a memory stick, AND Photoshop CS3.  All that, for the person whose vote is chosen at random by Stoogepie after the contest ends on or around October 16, 2008. 

But that’s not all….oh, no, my pretties.  Stoogepie is also offering a prize for the BLOGGER who pimps this contest and whose reader is the lucky bastard who claims the prizes listed above.  You know what the pimp gets?  Guess.  No, really.  Guess!  Okay, I’ll tell you.  The BLOGGER who pimps the contest and whose reader wins the camera/Photoshop package wins:

Sony HDRTG1 Handycam – list price $899.00.

That is just too fucking cool.  I want it Innernetz.  I want it bad.  So go vote.  Because you are not apathetic or catatonic.  Your vote can make the difference.  Your vote can make Dingo oh so happy.  And isn’t that what life is really all about?

Go see Stoogepie’s post for all the details.

Leave a comment....

I’ll Give You Descriptive Language!

I am feeling a little bit overwhelmed, under the gun, and out of sorts.  Summer classes ended last week but I haven’t finished grading for my summer students because I’ve been working on syllabi, lesson plans, and reading for Fall classes that begin this week.  I didn’t intend to leave everything until the last stressful minute and the whys and wherefores of how I came to be sitting at my desk at 10:30 this evening with Mr. Dingo looking for dinner and Dingo Girl doing the pee dance and tugging on her leash by the door are irrelevant.  What is relevant is that I am trying to figure out how I’ve been to meeting after meeting after meeting at the school this last week and not-a-one of them has been informative in any way.  Sure, I’ve learned how to use technology in the classroom and can now include the new grading rubric that that the school is so gung-ho about, but will someone — ANYONE! — tell me why I have a sixty-page handbook for English Composition that includes nothing about what they actually want us to teach these kids?

In this desperate hour, I say “fuck ‘em.” I’m going to teach what I want.  What is English Composition about if not how to communicate with someone else?  So, this semester I’m going to teach my students important things.  Things that are applicable to their everyday lives.  For instance, in the analysis portion of the class, the kids are going to learn how to give directions like a true New Yorker.  This skill is particularly important when sending out invitations to a rave or a top secret sample sale that you want all your homeys to know about.  It’s also important that you can communicate this information in less than fifty characters because your Sidekick or cell phone screen will only display messages the length of the fortune in your cookie from Happy Fun Szechuan. 

I think teaching them to use language that describes or explains how to perform a task is going to be the easiest lesson.  Just this week I heard a young ‘un go into great detail about how to perform a seemingly complex task.  The first student was telling her friend how to stop his two-year old sister from dropping his cell phone down the toilet.  What follows is — no kidding — a near-perfect transcription of their conversation.

Young ‘un #1:  You just beat ha’!

Young ‘un #2:  Beat ha’?

Young ‘un #1:  Yeah!  Dat bitch mess wit my shit, I’d just beat ha!  Bam! Bam! (slamming fist into palm).  You have to teach them ‘spect and discipline.

Young ‘un #2:  No shit, mothafucka!  I’m gonna beat ha’ when I get home!  Hey, when you gonna see you kid?

Young ‘un#1:  Tomorrow.  I gots to wait until my moms gets off work so she can take me to her daddy.  She live wit ha’ daddy.  Man, these supavised visits suck. 

Young ‘un#2:  Yeah.  Dat suck.  So, anyway, when I gets home, I’m gonna beat ha’.

Young ‘un#1:  Yeah, beat ha!

Now, see?  That was descriptive language to describe a process.  If they had written that conversation in my class I think the grading rubric would give them an A.  An A+ if they gave a presentation complete with Michael Jackson impersonations and demonstrative visual aids such as “Bam! Bam!” (slamming fist into palm).

No Fs this semester.  If one of my students doesn’t get it, I will just beat ha’.  This system is so versatile.

Leave a comment....

All That Glitter

Is it possible to ask for a do-over for an entire week?  No, really, I need to do this week over.  Whom do we talk to about this? 

Monday got the week off to a great start. I managed to ignore the snooze button on my Talking Al Gore alarm clock ("Time to wake up and contribute even more to the destruction of the planet") to stumble out the door for an early morning run.  I managed to knock an entire minute off my three-mile run!  While basking in the heat, humidity, and painful glow of this milestone during my post-run stretch, I noticed a flash of white down by my little girl bits.  Huh? I had worn my black running shorts so the flash of color took me by surprise.  It didn’t take Horatio Kane to figure out that I’d committed a fashion crime.  My running shorts were inside out.  So while I was burning up the miles, the white cotton crotch sewn into my shorts was burning the corneas of my fellow runners.  Tell me, who in the world makes black running shorts with a white cotton panty?  Who!?  Some of you may be asking, “Who wears their running shorts inside out?” To you I say, shush and get back to your spreadsheets and donuts.  You shouldn’t be reading blogs at work.

The rest of the week fell into a familiar pattern:  I dropped my make-up brush into the toilet. Twice.  After spending hours preparing for class, I left my lesson plans, attendance sheet, and Red Bull at home. The lesson plans and attendance sheet were trivial matters compared to the distress of not having my liquid energy.  I put my hand through a hole in the poopy bag while picking up Dingo Girl’s evening offering and got a handful of recycled dog food organic waste dog shit. And that was just Monday.  All week long, I felt as if I were the subject of a Punk’d all-Dingo special.

But Friday finally rolled around.  Marian the Librarian and I had an appointment for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, that is if your idea of Ladies Who Lunch consists of cold pints and plates of fries.  And if that is not your idea of a Ladies Who Lunch lunch, then la-di-da, look who’s puttin’ on airs!  After pounding down a few brews we stumbled into Sephora.  It wasn’t our original destination but the sign outside advertising a free color consultation and make-over was a sign from the Make-Up Gods that we dared not disobey.  It was fate.  It was destiny.  It was the signpost leading to another disaster.

Marian got whisked away by an edgy platinum blonde with asymmetrical hair and a fun, hip vibe.  I was corralled into a chair by a woman whose sole experience with make-up application consisted of painting the detached Barbie Styling Head she got for Christmas with a floor mop.  Side note:  Did you know that they now make the Make Me Pretty Talking Styling Head?  Is it just me or does everyone else find that unbelievably disconcerting as well?  There’s nothing like trying to put glitter on your doll’s eyelids while she’s sassing you about how Glitter Glam Green is sooo not her color and did you make sure to moisturize first?  Shut up, Be-otch!  Anatomically Incorrect Ken is going to be here in ten minutes to take your disembodied self to the prom and you want to be ready, don’t you?

Okay, okay, where was I?  Oh yes, as I was leaning back in my chair futilely telling Commandant Clueless that Glitter Glam Green is sooo not my color.  She kept telling me to lean forward and to stop squinting.  I couldn’t help it.  The way she wielded that make-up brush I thought for sure I was going to lose an eye.  And she used enough frosted shadow to make me look like a three-tiered Betty- Off-Her-Crocker cake.  Between glimpses of myself in the mirror, I tried to make a run for it but she body blocked me.  I think I still have bruises. 

Realizing that resistance was futile, I humbly submitted to her will.  Forty-minutes later, she was done with my eyes.  Forty-minutes!  I asked about concealer and mascara to complete the look.  The sigh she gave me made me feel as if I’d just asked her to donate a liver to the Pâté Makers Association. Just then, Marian the Librarian appeared at my elbow.  She. Looked. Stunning.  Now, Marian the Librarian is a pretty woman in ordinary circumstances but her make-up person had accentuated her natural beauty.  She looked like she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all.  I can only imagine all the horny kids coming to her desk at the library asking for assistance.  “Excuse me, Ms. Marian the Librarian.  Can you help me?  I’m looking for Looooooove.” And then Marian the Librarian, who takes no sass from anyone and who has an incredible right hook, would knock them into the reference stacks.  They’d feel as if they’d been hit by Cupid and go away happy.

Marian the Librarian took one look at me and said, “I like it.  It’s summery.” I think it was because my face looked like a bowl filled with tropical fish.  Commandant Clueless looked at me expectantly.  Um, did she really expect me to buy any of this crap?  I didn’t buy any make-up but I did buy a nice face wash and travel chisel to help remove the layers of spackle.

I should’ve ended the evening right there and gone home to console myself with Grey’s Anatomy re-runs.  Dr. McSteamy, with all his plastic surgery prowess, would make things okay.  Hell, as surreal as my day had been, he might have even reached through the screen to tell me how to fix the hot mess on my eyes.  But no, I headed to H&M where I tried to fit into clothes made for people as thin and boobless as a Barbie Styling Head. 

But the day and the week wasn’t a total wash.  I got home to find out our A/C was on the fritz and the make-up soon melted right off.  Thank heaven for global warming.

Leave a comment....

I’ve Gathered Moss

As I sit here drinking my beer — the beer that almost caused Mini-Meltdown II — I think, “I’m going to shamelessly appeal to my readers for support and butt-kissing.” I’ve got a big butt folks, so pucker up real good.  Your facial muscles have had sufficient preparation after all the long-necks you’ve thrown back this weekend.  So, if you want to skip reading this long post, just jump down to the comments and leave something like, “My, your hair looks great today!” or “Have you been working out?  Your ass looks great in those jeans!” Or just, “I’m behind you and your behind all the way!”

But first:  Mom’s divorce proceeding against Jackass I is coming up and he’s accelerated the intimidation and jackassedness.  He even went so far as to break into Mom’s house to take things that weren’t his. In his usual, caring-for-no-one-other-than-himself modus operandi, he left the broken door wide open so the neighborhood thugs could do their own broken-window shopping.  Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but he just didn’t give a damn whether it did.  And yes, as the mascara streaked faces of Susan Lucci or Melissa Gilbert will attest in, oh, just about every Lifetime movie ever made, the police can’t and won’t do anything until he actually, physically harms her. 

And now, there is also the Jackass Spy — it would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic — who goes around impersonating Mom.  Yes, there is one family fruitcake who, perhaps because she believes Dad’s lies or — giving her credit for some semblance of intelligence — maybe because she just enjoys being malicious, actually goes around saying she is Mom trying to get info to use against her.  Jackass Spy, I know you are reading this and SHAME ON YOU!!  Oh, and Jackass Spy?  Remember that book you wrote a few years ago?  The one about integrity?  Yeah, um, maybe you should read it in between lying to people about your identity. 

So, readers, send all good thoughts Mom’s way this coming week.  She got a real kick out of your comments on my Cougar post and I know she’ll appreciate your support this week.

But what caused my meltdown, you ask?  (Okay, maybe you didn’t ask, but you got this far into this post.) No, it was not Jackass I or even the fact that my dickhead, may he rot in hell, piece of shit brother Jackass II is back in the picture causing the kind of mayhem you’d only expect from comic book villains.  I’m pretty sure Jackass II is out there destroying entire city blocks with breath fetid from devouring the souls of his own children.  That is, of course, when he’s not out biting the hands that feed him or turning his back on those who’ve helped him. 

So, was it lack of sleep that caused my meltdown?  Family drama?  School stress?  Dishes piled so high in the sink at home that God got worried and made Mr. Dingo and I speak different languages until we washed them? 

No.  It was vanity.  Pure, simple, beautiful, ever virtuous vanity. 

While helping Mom organize her home office I came upon my old modeling portfolio in one of her file cabinets — the one Jackass I didn’t ransack — and decided to take a leisurely trip down memory lane.  It turned out to be the Autobahn to Hell.

I remembered preparing for one photoshoot and worrying that I was too fat, too ugly, and too old.  And now, I would give anything to look like the girl in those photos.  Before I even knew what was happening I started bawling.  Great, big, heaving, snot-filled sobs.  Then I started laughing at how ridiculous it all was.  And then crying again. 

I had goals for this summer.  I wanted to fit into the sassy pink bikini I wore three years ago.  I wanted to wear the sundresses I bought last summer.  None of that has happened.  My skin doesn’t even fit.  I am a ten-pound sausage in a five-pound skin.  With a couple of eggs and, oh, what the hell, bring me some pancakes, too.  Although I’ve run a 10K, I’ve had a successful legal career, and I’m loving my new life in academia, at that moment on that floor, I just wanted to be pretty. 

Pretty like you’re pretty.  Pretty like all those people in People magazine are pretty.  I mean, it’s called People magazine.  Those are just people, people.  Regular, average people.  And they’re all drop-dead gorgeous.  You’re all people, too.  And you’re goddamn gorgeous, too.  Hey, I’ve seen your blogs!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the biggest hypocrite of all? 

I’m always telling my students to accept themselves and love themselves as they are.  Many of our class discussions are about cultural conditioning, prejudice, tolerance, and acceptance of ourselves and others.  When I am teaching, I truly believe the Deepak Chopra/Dr. Phil armchair psychology stuff I espouse.  But when I am teaching, I am not a pathetic puddle of tears because my size eight jeans no longer fit over my thighs without the assistance of our local EMT’s Jaws of Life.  When I am teaching, I feel more self-assured and whole than I ever did in my twenties.  Teaching also has a way of making me feel young.  Except for the occasional chill wind whipping through the generation gap.

Near the end of the last semester, while talking to one of my students about his final paper, he asked me an unexpected question.  He asked me if I’d ever heard of The Rolling Stones.  The.  Rolling.  Stones.  I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.  Did he think I was too old for The Rolling Stones?  Was Glenn Miller more my speed?  Or, hell, maybe he thought I sat around at one time waiting for Mozart’s latest opera to open?  Or did he think I was so unhip that I would have no idea who The Rolling Stones were?  No, that couldn’t be it.  I am most decidedly hip.  And hop, too.

Me:  Um, yes.  Duh!

Student:  Really?  Do you know the names of anyone in that band?

Me (okay, now the kid is just fucking with me and I’m going to have to give him a smack down):  Are you kidding me?

Student:  No, someone said that I looked like someone in the band and I was just wondering.

Me:  Who did he say you looked like?

Student:  Is there someone named Mack?

Me:  Mack?  No.  There’s a Mick as in Mick Jagger. 

Student:  No, I’m pretty sure it was — Is there someone with a last name McJagger?

Me:  No, the lead singer of the greatest rock and roll band in the world is named Mick Jagger.  Two names.  First.  Last.  Mick.  Jagger.  Are you serious?  You’ve never heard of Mick Jagger?

Student (still not convinced):  I think I’ve heard their stuff on a commercial or something.  Is there someone else?

Me:  Keith Richards? Charlie Watts?

Student:  No, I’m sure it was Mack something or other.

Me (incredulous):  Okay, you know what?  You’ve failed this course.  Off with thee now and don’t return until thou can namest all the members of The Rolling Stones and recite the unabridged history of Led Zepplin.

The fact that at least I know who The Rolling Stones are did not make me feel better as I sat on the floor in Mom’s office.  The tears, puffy nose, and wild frizzy hair reflecting back at me from the glass in the computer monitor was a far cry (and cry, and cry) from the fresh, skinny, young woman in the photos I held in my hands.  Those should have been size-four tears streaming from my face!  Maybe size two!  It’s been a long time.

Instead, I looked like one of the Honkey Tonk Women the Stones’ growl about.  I looked like a Beast of Burden.  I looked like Keith Richards on a bad, bad, bender.  Or just normally.  Or Mack something or other.  Actually, I looked like either one of them.  On a good day.

So, that was Mini-Meltdown I.  No, there was no epiphany.  No realization that I am wonderful just as I am.  Just the cold hard fact that should we avoid getting hit by frozen urine falling from airplanes on our way to work or dying from toys made of dog food from China, we’re all dying a little bit each day and sooner or later we all turn to ashes and dust — and some people’s ashes will be better looking than others.  And I’ll need a larger than average urn to fit my ash in it.

Mini-Meltdown II was less dramatic and, as this is already a long post, I’ll make it short.  I didn’t get carded buying beer this weekend.  I know, I know, I am weeeellll over the age limit for carding but I ALWAYS get carded.  This time though, the kid at the register gave me a cursory glance, a dismissive nod, and rang up my six pack with nary a raised eyebrow.  I was tempted to giggle like a teenager and throw a pack of condoms on the conveyor belt next to an issue of Teen People, but I didn’t.  I went home, popped open a beer to wash down my Geritol, and settled into my rocker for the Matlock July 4th Marathon weekend. 

Our country turned 232 years old this weekend.  And so did I.

Leave a comment....