How I Know

You-are-never-too-old-to-set-another-goal-or-to-dream-a-new-dream
…Unless you want to work in retail

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:

  1. Some of my co-workers and even some of my up-line could possibly be my children.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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.
  5. It took me 2 weeks to memorize my 8 digit employee number.  Because I suffer from short term memory loss.  Because I am old.
  6. 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.
  7. 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?
  8. 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.
  9. 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.

Car Phones, Tape Recorders & Card Catalogs

Motorolabagbig
My first “cell” phone looked something like this

When the kid starts complaining about something that makes her life difficult, I have to bite my tongue.  I have to refrain from acting like my mother and not bore her with the angst I dealt with as a teen.  So I’ll bore you instead.  Tell me if you can relate.  I know you can.

  • Me:  One bathroom for 5 people.  Her:  Three bathrooms for 3 people.  That means there is a toilet for each ass.  No schedules.  No waiting.  Life should be good based just on this alone.
  • Our song download consisted of a tape recorder, a radio, a quiet room and a lot of time.
  • We only had 3 remote controls in my house.  They were called Mo, Ed and Mark.  On the up side, we never ran out of batteries.
  • Our DVR/TiVo was whoever you were watching TV with.  “What’d they say?” has been replaced by “Rewind that.”
  • My first car phone was the size of a small suitcase, weighed as much as a toddler and did nothing but make and receive phone calls.  It was called a car phone because that’s where it stayed.  In the car.  I was major cool.  Really.  I was.
  • Funk & Wagnalls and the Card Catalog were our “go to” guys for information.
  • People smoked in restaurants.  But at least we got our choice of the “smoking” or “non-smoking” section.  It was super fun when the “non-smoking” section started at the booth right behind you.
  • When we got sick of Pac-man, there was always Pong.
  • If I wanted to go anywhere, I relied on public transportation, an ex-boyfriend with a car, or hitchhiking.  I could have walked, but that method was used in the generation before me.
  • We took a typing class, with real typewriters complete with carbon paper.  Mrs. Darling would smack the back of our hands with a wooden ruler if we so much as peeked at our fingers.  The “Hunt & Peck” method?  There would have been a lot of blood spilled.
  • We sat for hours in class learning how to write in cursive.  Apparently that was a friggin’ waste of time.
  • I got to babysit 2, 3 and sometimes even 4 kids at once.  And all for a dollar an hour.  At least it was easy to do the math.
  • There was no iTunes.  What I did have was $6 of my babysitting money that only took 2 days to earn and this thing called A Record Store where they sold albums made of vinyl.

And the next time you are bored?  Go catch some fireflies.  Or better yet, make a crank call.  Oh wait.  I forgot.  You don’t know how to use a phone.

 

Medieval Torture?

Inflict torture on our bodies.  That’s what we women do.  All in the name of Beauty.  Yesterday, as I was sitting in The Threader’s chair, with tears running down my face, little hairs itching my nose and a strong urge to punch the threading broad in the face and take her stupid floss and shove it where the sun don’t shine, I started wondering why we do these things to ourselves.  After I was finished tormenting myself, I walked around looking like I tried to set fire to my face:

photo droopy

(There I go looking like Droopy again.  It’s uncanny, isn’t it?)

Then I got to thinking of all the other things we do for beauty.

Bikini Wax.  I did that.  Once.  About 16 years ago.  On the floor of the living room of my best friend’s apartment.  With 2 towels.  One in my mouth to prevent someone from calling the cops.  And one underneath me so when I bled to death, at least her carpet would be saved.  In retrospect, I probably should have gone to a professional.  It was likely equivalent to asking a butcher to cut my hair (sorry P, I know you tried).  And you women who go full-out and do that brazilian wax number?  If I wore a hat, I’d tip it to you.  You are some brave chicks.  There isn’t enough Holy Water in Jerusalem to get me to do that EVER.

Hair Coloring.  All those chemicals that get rubbed into our scalps.  I won’t highlight my hair but once or twice a year because I’m afraid of developing a brain tumor.  My stylist thinks I’m nuts.  But I remember when Jackie O died.  Everyone kept saying it was because she colored her hair too many times.  That totally freaked me out.  I’d rather walk around looking like Lillian Munster.

Fake Nails.  We ingest more chemicals during that process.  That shit seems so toxic to me.  Yes, I used to go get fake nails put on back before I was married.  But now I’m scared to death of all that.  I’m good with my nubs.  Besides, I can’t really hurt anyone, particularly The Threader, with what I have rockin’ at the end of my phalanges.

Botox, boob jobs, nips, tucks.  It’s endless.  All for what?  So we can look good, of course.  People don’t want to look at our hairy faces, sagging foreheads or breasts that wobble to and fro’.  What’s wrong with embracing our natural beauty?  Apparently, this chick doesn’t agree.  She looks much better now, don’t you think?

Jocelyn-Wildenstein-“Cat-Woman”-Before-After-Plastic-Surgery
Her “before” picture is to the right, believe it or not.  She sure was ugly once.

Droopy Drawers (not to be confused with Droopy the Dog)

I have been wanting to vent about this subject for a while now, waiting for the opportunity to present itself.  Well, the opportunity has come in the form of one Justin Bieber and his skivvies.  He honored us with the presence of his Fruit Of The Loom in this week’s “People” magazine:

photo
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Exhibit B

If you look at “Exhibit A” you will notice he is practically naked.  I can’t comprehend why he even bothered.  In “Exhibit B” it just looks like his pants are loaded up.  Although I’m sure his mother will say he has been potty trained for at least 16 years.

You cannot possibly tell me that this doesn’t annoy him just a tad.  I’ll tell you when I wear my low-rise jeans (I know, low-rise+muffin top+middle age=NO — I’m sorry, I have no excuse), I am driven to drink because I am continuously yanking those dang things up.  Almost to the point where my fingers bleed.

And it’s just not celebrities.  I see it all the time, everywhere.  Please do us all a favor.  Keep your ass inside your pants or inside the privacy of your own home.  I really don’t need to look at it.  Once I saw a boy whose pants were so low, it was indecent.  I almost called the police.  Seriously.

Now, all you young girls out there, you cannot possibly tell me that this look is hot.  I know I’m mid-fortysomething and you probably could really care less about my opinion but I was a teenage girl once.  And I can promise you that look would have completely sent me running to the nearest convent if that was my only choice.

The first time I saw it, I was stunned.  I sat staring trying to figure it out.  It’s as if they are defying gravity or something.  But then I see that they tighten their belt right below their boot-ay.  Ouch.  Aren’t there other unmentionables right around that frontal area?  Geez, I sure hope they don’t want any babies one day because they’ll probably kill all their swimmers by means of strangulation or asphyxiation.

I can see the future headline now:  “The human race is in danger of becoming extinct because of over zealous boys and their belts.”  Joy.

Do Your Eyes Hang Low? Do They Wobble To and Fro?

Yesterday the sun came out for the first time in what seemed like ages.  It was really, really nice. The sun was shining brightly into my bathroom window.  There was lots of sunshiny awesomeness.

Once upon a time, lots of sunshiny awesomeness may have been good for putting on makeup.  But now, it just reminds us of how old we are getting.  Remember those vanity mirrors we all got for Christmas when we were adolescents?  There was a setting on it for “daylight.”  I loved that daylight setting.  When I was 14.

I proceeded to apply my makeup in the usual way.  In a very bright room.  Not the dark room I have been accustomed to all winter.  I always thought I did my makeup in a natural way.  This is basically what I looked like, minus the red nose:

bozo

I looked closely at my eyelids. Or what’s left of them. It’s hard to tell where my lid ends and my cheeks start.  And with eye shadow applied it was even more pronounced.  They have more folds than a baby’s thigh.  But not as cute.  Or as sweet.  Or as darling.  When did that happen?  I see quite the resemblance between Droopy the Dog and me.

droopy
Droopy the Dog
photo
Me

I felt obligated to title those photos, in case you weren’t sure.

My eyeshadow doesn’t even look like eyeshadow.  It just looks like a bad paint job on a couple of sandbags.

Oh, well.  It is what it is.  I’m really not into cosmetic surgery but for survival, I may need a lid lift.  Any day now those babies will be hanging down so low, I may be blinded.  Then I will embrace my maturity and perhaps age gracefully.  Maybe.

Holy Heel

In my previous life, I was a heel wearer.  A pretty high high-heel wearer.  I could wear those suckers all day at work.  I could run down the hall to the copy machine or to catch a train.  I probably could have even worked out in them.  With no problems.  These days, my footwear of choice are either something resembling that of a senior citizen’s orthopedic or hush puppies.

Last year, DH and I went into NYC with friends of ours.  You cannot go into NYC looking like a shlump.  So, I went to TJ Maxx and bought myself the cutest high heels that I could find in my size.  And that I thought I could manage.

photo

My gorgeous niece, who happens to be an amazing and talented hair dresser wears shoes that are about 3 inches taller than this all day at work.  So I know she would just roll her eyes at me and say that these are nothing.  To her and many other 20-somethings they ARE nothing. To me, it’s like wearing a torture device that resembles that of a nail bed sticking into the balls of my feet.

We drove into the city.  I wore them starting from home and all through dinner.  At this point, I want to cry.  I am already a wobbling, limping idiot.  But I didn’t want to take them off for fear of not being able to get them on again.  When we were at dinner, I sat there with my legs crossed tightly because I was afraid to walk to the bathroom which happened to be upstairs.  When I finally realized I had to give in or REALLY embarrass myself, I stared at that staircase in fear.  As if I were going to be walking to my execution.  And when I just could not possibly hold it any longer, I looked like a drunk three-toed sloth.  Might I add, we were in a really trendy, pishy-poshy eating establishment whose clientele was young enough to be my children.  And I looked like a complete ass.

After we finished dinner, we decided to walk to the comedy club.  Why I agreed is beyond me.  I should have hailed a cab.  I was so desperate to NOT walk, that I would have thrown myself in front of one just to stop the pain.

Since then, I have tried to wear them on a night out again.  But the thought creates such anxiety I need a Xanax.  So I settle on my orthopedics.  What can I say?  I rock those orthos.  And my feet have thanked me time and time again.

No Grocery Left Behind

donkey
My alter ego

Damn! My chicken and ground beef never made it into my cart. The nice boy at the store who bagged my groceries didn’t put it in.  I didn’t notice until I got home.  Ugh.  Now I have to go back.  Unfortunately, the store I shopped at is down the street from the kid’s dance studio which is over 20 minutes away from my home.  I guess it doesn’t have to be a major problem.  The next time she has dance, I figured I would stop by and pick it up, which was Tuesday — the night before I wanted to make the meal with the beef.  Perfect.

On the way to dance Tuesday night, I drove right by that ever-lovin’ store, not once but twice.  It never occurred to me to stop in to collect my meats.   What a shocker.

Wednesday morning, as I was getting prepared to get my crockpot meal together, I opened the freezer to extract my pound of ground beef.  I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t laying right on top.  It should be since I only went grocery shopping 3 days ago.  So, I proceed to search deeper.  It took me about 30 seconds before I remembered where it was. Crap!  Poop!  SHIT!!!!  I really didn’t have time for this.  It was going to be a crazy afternoon.

I stood up from the freezer with a dazed look on my face.  I felt like I was hit with a stun gun.  Wait.  What happened?  I thought I was going to be passing that store on Tuesday.  Then I remembered that I DID pass that store on Tuesday because Tuesday was yesterday.  Awesome.  I’m an ass.

I know I already have one foot in the looney bin.  But can’t I blame this whole thing on the store bagger guy?  Yes, I think I will.  I don’t think I’ll add this to the list of reasons why I should be committed.  Oh and I hope my family doesn’t mind Chinese again.

If You Ask a Mouse for a Paper Towel, She’ll Get a Sex Scene

if-you-give-a-mouse-a-cookie-top

Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels.  I say it over and over again in my head so I don’t forget why I’m going into the pantry.  By the time I reach the pantry, I’ve stopped saying it because I suddenly remember that I really enjoyed last week’s Grey’s Anatomy episode.  Boy, that Cristina and Owen are so sexy together.  I’m really digging their “non-married” relationship.  It’s HOT.  Mmmm.

Wait.  What was I doing???  Oh yeah, I was getting….oh damn.  Now I have to backtrack, go to the exact spot I was standing in, and pray that it comes back to me.  Let’s see….I was washing the dishes that my dishwashing allergic family left in the sink.  I was going to dry them.  Oh, right….

Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels.  Gee, I’m really looking forward to getting my hair cut tomorrow.  I can’t do a damn thing with it.  What time is my appointment again?

Hyster-ical

When the kid was about 2, my monthly visitor Flo, started getting a bit too heavy for my taste.  I could get graphic, but I will spare you the bloody details.

It only took about 10 years for my OB to realize that my fibroid was the “first I’ve ever seen in my 30 year career.”  It had faster growth than Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids.

These were my choices:  medication that would catapult me into early menopause (having bamboo shoots rammed under my nail beds seemed more appealing) or a hysterectomy.  The good doctor thought I should think it through, talk to the hubby.  Yeah right.  My hubby isn’t the one with the tumor the size of Mount Vesuvius, which by the way,  oozed less than I did.  I immediately replied with a “let’s rip ‘er out.”  No thought necessary.

I think I was most surprised by everyone’s reaction.  I thought for sure they’d all be as happy as I was.  I felt like I did when I first learned of my pregnancy.  I couldn’t wait to share the news.  DH thought I should get a second opinion and some thought I would be hurled into a depression.

Well, the second opinion?  Thanks, honey, but if you’ve removed one uterus, you’ve removed them all.  This isn’t brain surgery.  And depression?  I had one person send me a link to a Dr. Oz show on just this thing.  Give me a break.  I was more depressed when they stopped airing “Thirty Something.”

So, I had a Bon Voyage party for my period and on April 7, 2010 my tumor and lady parts were removed and deposited into the nearest dump.  I kid you not — I was the happiest I have been EVER!  As far as all the incidentals I still had: I wrapped them up in a pretty bow and gave them to my daughter as a gift.  She didn’t appreciate it.  Ingrate.