When your dad asks you to go to the movies with him because his original date — your mom — is sick and can’t go, confirm the movie you are seeing before you commit. In 1980, we didn’t have the internet, so I was depending on his mature, grown-up ability to decipher what would be bad and/or good for a 13 year old girl to see. Actually let me rephrase. A daughter and father to see. Together. According to today’s standards, The Blue Lagoon isn’t bad. In fact, it is pretty “G” rated compared to what modern movie production companies consider to be low threat to a kid’s psyche.
I recall that there were loin cloths, nude shots, sex scenes and the moment a teenage girl gets her period for the first time. Oh, I forgot. She also gives birth. Remember, she was about the age I was at the time. To make matters worse, the two main characters were cousins. To rephrase what I’m sure my 13 year old brain was saying to itself, “totally gross.”
I was red with embarrassment. The only thing I wanted to do was get on my hands and knees and make myself disappear under the seat in front of me. Honestly, I don’t think I could look my dad in the eye for a week.
I recently caught part of that movie on some cable show. It’s filled with plenty of cheese, but not much else. The “sex” scenes weren’t too revealing and Brooke’s hair was glued to her boobs during the entire film. But through the eyes of a prepubescent 13 year old girl, it may as well have been porn. Porn that was watched with her dad. Totally gross. I’m sure “Herbie Goes Bananas” was playing in the theater next door. That probably would have been a better choice. Surely, Herbie’s headlights were a little less intimidating.
Remember my post on January 22nd about how I gained a bale of hay? Well guess what? I’ve started to lose some of that bale of hay. How do I know? Let me count the ways:
I can actually get my wedding bands off without the use of motor oil.
When I sit, people don’t rush up to me asking when the bakery opens.
I now only have enough chins to share with 1 other person instead of 4. Sorry people. I am a registered organ donor, not a body part donor.
I can fit a kitten in my bra, WITH my boobs in it.
On the subject of bras…they now ride up on me. Even on the tightest setting. That poses a real problem at My Retail Job.
I no longer need a shoe horn to get into my jeans.
When I walk across the floor, objects don’t fall off the dresser.
I haven’t been mistaken for a Chicago Bears Linebacker from behind in quite some time now.
There is a dot of light coming through between the upper part of my thighs. Enough to light the head of a pin. But light just the same.
My arms stop waving about 3 seconds sooner than before.
It would seem that I have lost the size of a bowling ball that is used by an average adult male. I don’t know. I think that’s pretty cool. And that bowling ball is staying where it belongs…in the lane, the alley, the gutter. Wherever. Just not on me. I’m good with that. I’m happy with that. So happy, I could go bowling.
And I thought, “holy crap, no kidding.” I can’t even begin to imagine it. I probably would have spent more time in the principal’s office, rehab or even been shipped off to Military School had my parents known the half of it.
Being a teenager 30 years ago is pretty much the same as being a teenager now. The difference is we didn’t get caught (as often). We had ways of intercepting the dreaded phone call from the school secretary claiming we didn’t show up for Math Class. If we told a “friend” a secret, it took more than 3 minutes to circulate our school and the surrounding towns. And hiding bad grades? Damn, I was an expert at that. I would have been screwed if my mom and dad had access to a “Parent Portal.”
Kids today can’t do anything fun without going to great lengths to keep it hidden. I could, as well as most anyone, pretty much write a book on all the mishaps of my teen years. And I may. But for now, here are just a few:
Doing donuts on Lake Mahopac in January in a friend’s car. With NO seatbelt. Not that a seatbelt will save you as your car breaks through and you sink to the bottom of an icy abyss.
Driving an abandoned vehicle in a field. With shards of glass flying in my face from the remains of a smashed out windshield.
Driving to the edge of a cliff to see how close we could get without going over. (By now you get that I enjoyed doing crazy car crap. My insides are creeping out just thinking about it.)
Drinking beer at the A&P until midnight when my parents thought their sweet girl was at the movies with Heidi. If Facebook existed, I’m pretty sure one of the friends I hung out with would have tagged me. Completely blowing my cover.
Cutting class. Well, there most likely would have been some kind of page dedicated just for “Mo’s Skipped Classes.” And what I did while cutting class? It would have gone viral for sure.
The time I threw Mickey Dee’s BBQ sauce in the face of an ex pretty much stayed in the Mickey Dee’s. Or else peeps would still be talking about it, right?
The vomit I spewed onto my boyfriend’s driveway got hosed away into the grass and that is where it stayed. Not on some cell phone camera for the class of 1986 and beyond to see for their viewing pleasure.
If I knew half the shit I did would be out in cyberspace, I may think twice. Or not. I just thank god I wasn’t bred in this generation. The half-brain I possessed would not have had the ability to filter out the good from the bad. Unfortunately, only part of me has grown up. Every day, I have to put forward a real effort to not do or say anything stupid. I wish filters were as readily available as Youtube. The world would be a better place, wouldn’t it?
It was a beautiful morning in the summer of 1988. I was driving to work. My music was blasting (I’m guessing that may be part of the reason why I now have permanent ringing in my ears). The windows were down. All was good with the world. Until I tried to merge onto I-287 and was met with an 18-wheeler. Literally.
Ok, so it wasn’t my fault. Right? I mean, I had my blinker on. So what if I was driving a little 2-door Honda CRX. It was red. The guy should have seen me and moved out of the way. He didn’t. He hit me instead. Then decided to try and make a get-away. Yeah, right. Nice try buddy.
So, I did what every 100-pound 20 year old young woman should do. I got out of my car. In the middle of the lane. In rush hour traffic on a major highway. And I stood there with my hand up, screaming obscenities. Picture Superman trying to stop traffic with his super powers. Well, without the obscenities. Except I didn’t have any super powers. I was cute. Sometimes that worked for me. But not this time. The trucker looked at me like I had 2 heads. I know he thought I was nuts. In retrospect, I was.
This was in the day before everyone had a “car phone.” My future sister-in-law saw me standing there looking like a lunatic. She was 2 lanes over and couldn’t get to me. Like I said, it was during major rush hour traffic. Outside of a city. And she’s not an idiot. When she got to work she called my future DH.
I was a damsel in distress. Except I was gone by the time future DH got there. Remember those SOS trucks that used to drive up and down the highways looking to help stranded drivers? One of those guys stopped and basically told me to move along. As for the truck driver, he did NOT think I was very cute. Not at all. I don’t know how it ends. I can’t remember. No one was hurt or arrested so all must have gone well. My car even survived.
So, you know when I complain after working at My Retail Job for 7.5 hours on my feet the entire time and feeling like I got hit by a Mack truck? I literally know the feeling. Because I was hit by one. How many people can say that?
Like every other normal red-blooded American, I have my pet peeves. Some I feel more strongly about than others, but they are all there. In their hairy glory. Tell me if you can relate to any of these. By the way, they are in no particular order. They are random, just like me.
If I can’t see your bumper but can see your nose hair, you are following too closely. Especially when you are a 16 year old kid who is driving on MY street. Particularly when I am forced to scream out the window “Are you F***ing kidding me?” as you are trying to pass. With my child and two other children in the car. Classic “Mother of the Year” moment. I am proud. Sorry dad. It just kinda came out.
40 something year old mothers who scream obscenities and don’t act their age.
People who text and drive. Sure, I’ll share my lane with you. No problem. I didn’t need my life anyway.
The same telemarketer who insists on calling and calling and calling. Newsflash: There’s this thing called Caller I.D. It’s been around for a really long time. If I wanted to talk to you, I’d pick up the phone. I promise.
People who have an entire, really LOUD conversation on their cell phone in a public place. I do not care to hear that you’re meeting Apple for a drink (don’t you also hate it when celebrities name their children really stupid names? No, I did not hear Gwyneth on her cell phone. I just wanted to get that peeve in there without making another bullet. That was swift of me, wasn’t it?). Just for the record, I have talked on the phone in a public place, but it’s quietly and quickly. But that’s acceptable. I just made up my own rule. But that’s okay because it’s my pet peeve.
The invitation for dinner is at 7:30 not 8. Learn how to tell time or get a new watch.
This one goes out to DH. Sorry, honey. Love you, but stop throwing away the expired milk. It’s only been bad for a day. Or two. I mean, come on babe. It doesn’t even have green fuzz yet.
I feel so strongly about this one, that I believe I actually wrote a blog on it. Incorrect grammar. It’s, its, their, they’re, there, to, too. I could go on and on. And I see it EVERY SINGLE DAY on Facebook. If you notice that I am no longer your “friend,” then you’ll understand why. You are in my mental jail for “Grammar Delinquents.”
Line cutters. I carry Mace in my bag and I’m not afraid to use it. Okay, I don’t. I just always wanted to say that. Just don’t cut me and pretend you didn’t see me. Or I may kick your ass. Okay, I won’t. Just don’t cut me. Or else. I may give you dirty looks behind your back.
“Curb Your Dog” doesn’t mean to crap your dog on the curb and leave it there. Really. Look it up. The outdoors is for everyone to enjoy. It is not a toilet, so don’t treat it that way. It would be great fun to dump craploads of dog shit on their lawns, wouldn’t it? Do I sound bitter?
I know you do not have all day listening to me rant about my grievances so I will stop here. Just don’t cut me in line. You just don’t know what I’m capable of. If looks could kill.
I know it’s not Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I’m either late or early, however you want to look at it. But I want to tell you a little story. About 2 weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch watching television with DH. It was late. I was probably recuperating from a long shift from My Retail Job. My right hand was resting on my left breast. I’m not one to particularly feel myself up. It just kinda was resting there. And I felt a lump. A huge freaking lump. Practically sticking out of my skin.
About 2 months ago, I had a mammo AND a follow-up ultrasound. I get the ultrasound every year because my boobies are cystic. Our lovely insurance doesn’t pay for it. But it’s peace of mind for me. I know she’s pretty far removed, but my mother’s grandmother had breast cancer and would have died of it if a major heart attack hadn’t gotten to her first.
Anyway, I actually didn’t freak. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes. I knew it couldn’t be cancer because I just had the girls squished, pulled and molested by not one, but two strangers. And cancer just doesn’t grow that fast. Does it?
I waited about a week and a half before I made my GYN appointment. I didn’t want to seem like an alarmist. I was hoping it would go away. Well, it wasn’t going away. But I was completely obsessed with feeling it. Every.Single.Moment. I knew in my gut that it was nothing. I was just obsessed with the damn thing. Like a pimple-on-the-end-of-my-nose kind of obsessed.
The good doc said it was a cyst. So he prepped a nice big needle, numbed the area and stuck it in. Nothing. He did it again. Nothing. Completely empty needle thingy. He seemed pretty surprised. Then wrote a script for yet another ultrasound. Joy. I left his office battered, bruised and maybe a tad bit nervous. But just a tad. I’m pretty sure my blood pressure didn’t change or anything. It was just the hypochondriac in me.
I went for my ultrasound 2 days ago. It’s a cyst. In fact, you can see it on my last sonogram from April. It was teeny tiny. Then grew. And grew. I think the thing is on steroids. They said it would probably just go away. My question is do I have to grow another boob to house this thing before it decides to move along? And, when will it go away? My bra only holds a “D”. I may have a problem.
So, check your lady bumps girls. It’s important. I’m lucky. Some are not. I have friends who have/had breast cancer. I am not one to give myself a breast exam because I am completely squeamish about those things. But now I will make it a habit. Get to know those babies. And any lump or bump that wasn’t there before and/or feels weird, call your doc. Just to be sure. Chances are it’s nothing. But at least you’ll spend less time being obsessed. And save the breast exam for once a month instead of every second like I did. Total time waster, trust me on that one.
I told you in my post the other day that I took a job in retail. I applied for, and landed a job in a local store whose hours are ridiculously long. Why I didn’t apply for something like a wholesale store, is beyond me. I am 46. Working until close to midnight should be a thing of the past. Maybe eventually, I will start to feel young. Could this turn out to be a Fountain of Youth? Possibly.
Here are some reasons how I know I may be too old for My Retail Job:
Some of my co-workers and even some of my up-line could possibly be my children.
When I wake up the day after a late shift, I would swear a Mack truck got a bit off track, drove through the wall of my bedroom and ran directly over my body. I’m sure I didn’t actually hear it coming because I was in an over-worked-induced coma.
I can’t seem to keep up after a co-worker who is about a foot and a half shorter than I am no matter how fast I walk and/or run.
I have difficulty hoisting myself up to reach the top shelf by standing on the bottom shelf. I’m pretty sure I’m breaking some kind of code during the attempt anyway. Hope the Retail Police don’t get me.
It took me 2 weeks to memorize my 8 digit employee number. Because I suffer from short term memory loss. Because I am old.
I can’t remember which locker I put my pocketbook in half the time. Last week, I had to work my code on about a dozen of them before I finally found it. No, not embarrassing at all.
The thought of me having to carry around a walkie-talkie and possibly speak into it makes me want my mommy. Then, well, I need to grow up. Maybe my fountain is starting to work?
I couldn’t figure out what that thing is on my nightstand that was making a heinous sound and waking me up. After I realized it was my alarm clock, I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. Even though I’ve had it for 17 years. Again, over-worked-induced coma.
When I sneezed last week, I peed my pants. I peed my pants at work. Not an easy feat to try and cover up. I know this can and does happen anywhere and anytime, but I had to get a Pee story in here somehow.
Even though I feel like I am past my peak for holding this position at this retail establishment, I am enjoying it. Really. And The Fountain of Youth theory? What’s the matter? It COULD happen.
I have been looking for a position that utilizes my skills as an administrative assistant for a long time. The problem is, there doesn’t seem to be anything available. I was starting to feel a little self-conscious. Is it my age? My lack of work experience these past few years as I was home raising my child? Or the fact that most admin positions I applied for required at least an Associates Degree?
My parents always said my nonchalant attitude about school would bite me in the ass. I can still hear their voices — “You really should try to do better in school, you’ll be sorry one day.” “You are wrong and I don’t care” was my generic response. I was having way too much fun cutting class, getting into trouble and well, having fun. Who needs an education? It turns out I needed an education.
I feel like I am limited to what I can do because of my lack of education. (Unlike Paul simon, my lack of education is hurting me some. Too bad I can’t sing or take good pictures.) Hence, I have spent the last 15 years shoving the education thing down the kids throat. I made a game of it. Up until her first day of pre-school I made her believe it was The Most Fun Ever. Going to school to learn was going to be better than playing a game of Cherry-O’s. Me, the girl who bragged if she got anything higher than a “D” on a test, was telling her 4 year old that school is better than a ride at Disney World.
And she actually believed me. She takes school pretty seriously. As for me, I know it’s not too late. My bestie — mid-forty something — just graduated from Nursing School. I am in awe of her. She is my hero. But I shall live vicariously through her. Because even though I may preach it, I do not want to practice it. For me, I have missed the boat. For me, school is not a ride at Disney World.
So, I found a job. It is not an admin job. I’ve kinda given up on that for now. I’m doing something I haven’t done in close to 30 years. And it’s called Retail. Stay tuned and I’ll tell you more about it. Just so you know, that’s why I haven’t been blogging. Because I’m exhausted. So go to school kids. You will need that education. I get the feeling you will need it for everything. And I mean everything.