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July 28, 2014

Growing Up Too Fast

“BZZZZZZZZZZZ,” went my alarm clock at 3am yesterday morning, followed up by the alarm on my iPhone. Because when you have to wake up at 3am, you take all the backup you can get. Why did my alarm go off at 3am? Because The Kid was flying the coop. Spreading her wings. Leaving for a mission trip with her senior youth group for a full week. Off to South Dakota to help build some houses for the poor. This chick will be wielding a hammer, planing some wood, caulking windows perhaps. All for the good of humanity.

It will be a great experience. But this is the first time she will be this far away from home for this long without me. Well, last year she flew down south to visit my parents, but she was with family. That was different.

Sure, there are chaperones going. One being the pastor of our church who is totally cool and just loves the kids. Still. I won’t be there to remind her about stuff. You know, to put on sunscreen, drink plenty of water, wear a hat, eat her vegetables.

I won’t be there. Period. I am relinquishing control. I knew this day was coming, but I’m just not ready. What happened to my little baby? The baby who depended on me for everything?

I guess DH and I did good. She’s off for a week to do great work in a place that she’s never been. She’s going to see how people live who don’t have everything, or even anything. This will be a humbling experience for her. We are so proud. It’s pretty brave of her, going somewhere so foreign without us.

So, as DH and I are standing there saying goodbye, hugging her for dear life, I start to cry. I hear her say, “gawd mom” as I’m squeezing the life out of her. My baby is growing up. In exactly 2 years from right now, we will be getting her prepared for college. I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

So, should I turn her room into a spa or a mom cave? Ooh, I’ve always wanted my own luxurious bathroom. Decisions, decisions.

July 15, 2014

Who Are You?

Have you ever sat and wondered about yourself? Like, who you are? Who you really are? For the most part, we are good people. Well, except for the murderers, the rapists, the child molesters, the drug dealers. But most of us are good. Even as good people, we have flaws. We’re all a bit judgemental. We’re all a little jealous. We’re all a little mean at times. And we women? Damn, we can be downright catty. But that’s another story, for another time.

There is this chick I knew, who seemed to have alienated a lot of her friends. I remember hearing her talk about how horrible people were to her. She complained about her co-workers, family members, friends, teachers. At first, I felt for this poor woman. Because she seemed so cool and fun otherwise. “How can people be so mean to her? She’s pretty awesome,” I used to think. I actually really, really liked her. But the complaining never ended. It seemed that she was always the victim. Everyone was always out to get her. And then she alienated my family. It took a long time, but I finally saw that it wasn’t everybody else. It was her. I saw it, a lot of other people saw it. She did not. And unfortunately, continues to not see it.

Here’s my question: When is it in a person’s life that we wake up and say, “gee, maybe it’s me?” For some, it does happen. For others, they will always remain the victim and never see the error of their ways. And that’s sad. It seems like a downright waste of time. To go through life being a victim, being angry, holding grudges. Not to mention all the bad energy you expel. It can’t be good for the environment.

About a year ago, I sat down and asked myself a question. Why would someone not like me? Typically, I don’t really care if someone likes me or not. I mean, if I’m a good person and mean well, right? I am aware that I’m a little obnoxious and completely inappropriate. I’m loud. Sometimes I leave my filter at home. But that is me. If someone doesn’t like it, that’s fine. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I get that.

But I can be hurtful. Maybe not so much on purpose. Maybe sometimes yes, on purpose, if I’m being honest here. For example, I’ve given my opinion when my opinion wasn’t asked for. I realize my mistakes. I’ve corrected them. I try to keep the filter closely attached to my trap. I am accountable for my actions. Sure, I’m still loud, obnoxious and inappropriate. That’s just me. But I really do try to pay attention to how I come off when I feel the need to judge someone else. Because no one has a right to judge. Unless you are perfect. And there is no such thing. My parents always told me so. And I believe them.

I’m just saying, take the time to reevaluate yourself. Have you been unkind? Have you said something not so nice to someone or about someone? Are you feeling like a victim all the time? Step back and take a look at yourself instead of everyone else around you. I understand that sometimes, these feelings may be legitimate. But sometimes, they are not. If it’s a pattern, you may very well be the problem.

We all make mistakes. But please, for the good of all mankind, can you just call yourself out on it? Be accountable? I try. And I’m a better person because of it. Hey, I slip up. But I reel myself back in. Being human can suck. But let’s just try to be as real as possible. The world would be a much better place.

July 13, 2014

Dropping the Funky Bomb

Jesus cursed. Not the same kind though, huh? — I guess this isn’t exactly the same thing…

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My potty mouth has reached epic proportions. Seriously. I’m ashamed. But not. So what that my head has turned into a toilet? Do you know how convenient that can be?

Lately, I’ve been dropping the funky bomb as often as I drop my iPhone. Which is all the time. DH has told me he doesn’t like it. So I try to keep it clean while on the home front. I try.

But when I’m alone in the car? Or with friends? Or talking to myself? Geez. It’s like I’m on a game show called “The Wheel of Funk.” And I’m winning by a landslide.

Sure, when I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, it kinda ticked me off. Or the old lady who thought I wasn’t stopping at the stop sign so she flipped me the bird…that was a three effer. This past winter was particularly bad. Every time I bounced my car off of a snow bank, the F’s were flying. Lordy be.

I was out to lunch with a friend a few months ago. This friend is a curser. Like, she’s an F bomb dropper big time. But it seemed the roles were reversed that day. Because she was being so…angelic. And me? I was letting it fly baby. I was feeling kind of bad about it. Kind of.

I apologized to her. Then started wondering out loud if it was a sin. I was raised Irish Catholic and although I don’t practice that particular religion any longer, the Catholic guilt will forever be with me.

Because I am me, I never know what my thought process will be. But I started wondering to my friend about cursing and the really good people of the world. Did Mother Teresa do it? How about Gandhi?

And what about Jesus? I mean he was a carpenter, right? Surely, he smashed a finger or two with a hammer. What do you think uttered from his mouth upon inflicting accidental pain upon himself? “Oh, camel poop.” Yeah, no. I’m not buying it. I’ve hit my finger with a hammer before. Camel poop just wouldn’t cut it. I love Jesus, and I would still love him in spite of it. But it is possible, right?

So, I’ve decided I’m going to write to the Pope about this. He seems liberal. Wish me luck. Can you imagine? I would be able to take cursing off my sin list. How liberating. One down. 499 more to go.

July 2, 2014

Driving In Cars With Teenagers

The Kid recently received her driver’s permit. Actually, she got it exactly 14 days, 12 hours, 27 minutes and 32 seconds ago. But who’s counting. Besides the fact that I am completely freaked out that she is 16 already, I am completely freaked out that she is driving. And I am really completely freaked out that she is driving and that I am in the car.

DH took her out first. To the parking lot of the local movie theater. It’s the perfect place — large, open and empty. The operative words being large, open and empty. I was kind of bummed that I wasn’t there for her first time behind the wheel. But then I had an opportunity to take her myself. I promise you, it was a treat.

After doing the parking lot a few times, she said to me, “mom, I think I’m ready for the roads. You know, the real roads.” Yes. She claimed she was ready for the real roads. The real roads with stop signs, yellow lines, curbs, people and cars. And because I can be easily persuaded and she’s got the gift of negotiation, I caved and took her driving on the real roads.

Besides the fact that she got honked at, drove (just a little) onto someone’s front lawn, barely missed about 12 mailboxes, had a bit of pedal confusion issues (no, honey, that pedal on the right is not the blinker), stopped so hard at stop signs that I have whiplash, nearly drove through our garage door, gave me about 50 more unwanted gray hairs and knuckles that have taken on a permanent white hue, all is fine.

After much thought (2.3 milliseconds), I have decided that this is a job for DH. And I am not to take her out again until I feel confident enough to be able to close my eyes. Because that’s how I shall only be the passenger in a car that is being manned by The Kid for a while. With my eyes closed. I will keep you posted. That is, if I’m alive.

July 1, 2014

This Isn’t Sedona But I’ll Take It

I woke up this morning at 6:30. My mind screamed, “NO NO NO NO NO, you will NOT wake up at 6:30 on vacation. You just drove without any help pretty much non-stop for 12 hours in a car yesterday and you deserve to sleep a little more.” So, that’s what I did. Somehow I eased my brain into another slumber and slept blissfully until 10am.

Ahhhh. Much better. So, now I lie here in my little retreat deciding what I should do next. “Your little retreat,” you ask? Let me tell you a bit about my little retreat. It’s funny, but it’s been here all along.

Every summer since The Kid was a baby, my parents, The Kid and I would drive down south to visit my brothers. Then a few years ago, the parents retired down here. So, now just The Kid and I come down. We leave DH at home because we typically like to stay longer than a week. Besides, he’d be bored.

Usually we fly. This time we drove. Don’t ask because I’m not really sure. Just so you know, that may be the last time I drive down. Although The Kid will have her license by next summer so I may have a helper. But with the way that’s going, I think I’d rather swim down the Atlantic with the sharks than let her take my life in her hands. But that’s a story for later so stay tuned.

When we got here last night, I extracted myself from the vehicle. It took me a while to loosen up. My knee was throbbing. My head was spinning. And I was one stiff wind short of falling over. Then my dear mother said to me, “how would you like to sleep in the RV for the week? You know, have your own little space to escape to to write, do whatever you want?”

The RV is pretty cool. The parents use it to travel around the country. It has slide-outs to make it larger, a full bathroom, a kitchen, 2 flat screen televisions, a bedroom, a dining room, a couch, running water, air conditioning and heat if needed. When not in use, they keep it in the yard all hooked up. They have been doing this for years.

Mom and dad live in an adorable 2 bedroom Cape style house when they aren’t road tripping it. When we are visiting, they give up their master for me, The Kid gets the spare room and THEY go out to the RV. That’s the way it has always been. Always.

I was hesitant at first. I don’t know why. And then I remembered my good friend Rachel and her recent visit to a retreat. Her retreat was in Sedona and she went there to write her book. I was crazy mad with envy. I wanted a retreat too. And now, I have it. It’s been here under my nose all this time. This may not be Sedona but with a printout of some mountains, a little scotch tape and a fan to blow “mountain” air through my hair, I can change all that in a flash.

I woke up this morning to peace and quiet. No one was around to bother me. I love my family. I love DH and The Kid, my parents and my niece and nephew. But let’s face it, we all could use a break from time to time. You know, from the hubbub of everyday life. From working, cooking, grocery shopping, laundry, the taxi service, cleaning.

So here I am, writing my blog. Enjoying the mountain view (mostly in my head because I decided printing out some mountains was just not on my weekly bucket list). I’m taking an online writer’s course. I am also writing a book, for those of you who are unaware. A lot of it is in my brain, some is on paper. But by the end of my stay here, I’m hoping to have a little more on paper and less in my brain.

Now that I’m up and have showered in my own private bath on my retreat, I have to go. I have lots to do here. Sedona….err, the RV is calling.

June 10, 2014June 12, 2014

Boxed Wine Equals One Bad Ass

I love wine. I love wine so much that I drink at least a glass a day. Did you know that if you drink it in moderation, it’s good for your health? That’s why I really like it but it also makes me feel relaxed after a long day. There is nothing like that warm, calm feeling I get after that first sip. You know, kind of like that feeling you get during a massage but almost better. I said almost.

Wine can get expensive and I am cheap. If I could, I would buy my wine in a box all the time. I would sit that baby up on my countertop with its little spigot and just go and drink from the fountain whenever my heart desired. It’s there, it’s ready, it’s fully loaded with lots of liquid yummy-ness.

But I can’t. I’m about to say something that will make you say, “hey Mo, this is waaaay too much information” but that’s okay. Because we all know that I am all about sharing TMI, putting it all out there. When do I ever hold back? Anyway, I discovered that I was sensitive to the amazingly awesome invention of the boxed wine during my engagement party circa 1991.

Here’s how it went down: I drank a couple of glasses of it, I was having a great time. The future DH and I were at the front of the room opening our ten thousand gifts when the first “rumble, grumble, pop” hit me faster than a run-away freight train going down the Himalayas. I excused myself and ran — not walked — to the nearest restroom. What came out of me was obscene. And it didn’t stop. For a very long time. I had a horseshoe printed on my bottom from sitting for so long. I’m surprised it wasn’t followed up by a hemorrhoid. What was especially sad about this story is that when I finally exited the lavatory, most everyone had gone home. You could hear crickets. Seriously.

Yes, that is a pic of me on the left sitting on the toilet. My wonderful mother snuck her camera up over the stall. You know, just in case I forgot the turmoil of what was supposed to be a happy day. The future DH is feeding me some alcohol in the form of Imodium AD. Does Imodium even contain alcohol?

Was it a coincidence? Possibly, but I’m not 100% completely certain. So to test it, I had some boxed wine at Thanksgiving that year. Just half a glass. All I can say is that thank God none of the 20+ people in attendance were using the toilets in the house at that moment because it came on strong, hard and sudden. Although the planter in the hall would have worked just fine as a second choice. And I would not have had a problem using it. Not that I really would have had much of a choice.

As if there weren’t enough proof, I actually tried boxed wine one other time after that. I don’t remember the details exactly but I do remember the same effect. I’m guessing that there is some kind of preservative they put into boxed wine to make it last longer. I’m also going to take another guess and say that I don’t get along well with this preservative. Who knows. All I do know is that I can’t drink it. Not even a sip.

So, if I am coming to your house, please don’t serve me wine in a box. Unless you want to see a show. Or hear a show. Or have a sudden septic problem. Seriously. Don’t mess with me. It will backfire. Pardon the pun.

June 9, 2014August 9, 2014

Look At Me When You Text

There is this chick in my neighborhood who walks every single day. Up this humongous hill that I have walked up (even run up in the day I was able to…sniff, sniff), but not without losing a lung. She goes up and down over and over again. This chick is in pretty good shape. Walking up the hill of death would do that to you, I guess.

Anyway, we all know exercise can be rough. It kinda sucks. I do it because I really need my ass to stay as close to its original birthplace for as long as I can possibly keep it there and I also really hate the sound of my thighs rubbing together. It’s a necessity at my age.

I carry one thing with me on my walk: my iPhone. This is for a couple of reasons:

1) In the event I need to dial “911” in case some kook tries to steal me (because who wouldn’t want this, right?) or in case a coyote finds me delicious. Yes, I actually imagine myself in an emergency situation and wonder how I would dial my phone while being eaten alive by wildlife. In my brain, it doesn’t seem easy. I also wonder if I would be able to climb a tree to get away. This thought is followed up by another thought: would this animal be able to also climb said tree? Such a problem. Wait…why do I exercise again? Oh right, ass.

2) I cannot do an ounce of exercise without my beloved playlist playing through my earbuds. It just makes it that much less painful. But I do not text and walk. Okay, so that’s a lie. I did last week. Once. Because once was enough after I realized that I cannot walk, look down and text at the same time without veering off into the middle of the street. My walk quickly turned into a good game of “Chicken.”

So, anyway, my point was that this humongous-hill-exercising chick texts. She does. No, I do not stalk her. I know this because every time I go out in my car and see her walking, she is looking down and texting on her phone. EVERY FREAKING TIME, I KID YOU NOT. Now, this woman is not real young. She looks to be at least in her fifties. Not that that makes much of a difference, but she should know better. Don’t text and drive should also be a motto for walkers. I don’t mean to judge her. Maybe I’m just jealous because it’s quite obvious that I cannot do the two at once. Maybe, also, I would like to know who she’s texting and what they are talking about. It’s got to be intriguing, right?

Yesterday, The Kid and I ran into DSW and we noticed a young girl texting and walking through the parking lot. I see this all the time. The Kid actually pointed it out. “Look mom, look at that girl texting while she is walking through the parking lot.” “Pfffssh, can you imagine?” I said to myself. “Kid, who are you kidding? Sometimes I feel like I need a chisel to get that little device out of your hands.” Right. Whatever.

I am in my late forties, okay? I was brought up in an era where if we needed to get a message to someone, we had to use smoke signals. No, no, just kidding. But we did have two options: a pay phone, or a phone that was attached to the wall in the kitchen with a 30 foot long curly cord that would reach down the hall and into the bathroom so that you could have privacy. That’s it.

So, what happened to me? Today, I find myself behaving like some of these kids. The family could be sitting around watching HGTV and there I am. Texting someone, checking Facebook or my junk email (because I only get junk email, can someone send me something legit? Please?). DH often asks me what I’m doing and if I can put my phone down please? I sometimes even get a headache from it. It’s so stupid.

This post has gone a bit off kilter here (what else is new?). I’m trying to say that we are missing so much around us. I know this isn’t new. I’ve seen the Facebook status’ and memes and videos about it. Everything that is going on around us is being missed because we can’t get our heads out of our phones. It’s a problem. For some, it’s worse than others. I know the friends who don’t do it. Those are the ones who you text and it takes them 13 days to get back to you. (Gawd, don’t they just annoy you??? I mean, who do they think they? Having a life?)

So, I stand (or sit) here and declare that I am going to put my phone away. I don’t want to miss anything else. Especially what house they picked on House Hunters. If you text me and I don’t get back to you right away, that’s why. But if I do get back to you right away? Well, it’s because I just happened to have my phone on the table next to me by accident.

January 10, 2014

The Case of the Ninja Children

I have a friend who has 7 children. SEVEN. It’s not like I never heard of that before. My dad is one of 7. His parents are from Irish Catholic descent. They did not believe in birth control. This is the 21st century. I didn’t think people still did things like this. I freak out when a woman I meet tells me she has 3 children. Seven? Holy Hell.

Anyway, my friend had to go out of town. I helped to sit some of her children. With another friend. Because that shit cannot be done alone. I don’t care if your name is Mary-Freaking-Poppins. For the record, I adore her kids. They are awesome. Full of personality and life. Amazing. Did I get baby fever (or toddler fever)? Almost. But then I realized that if I still had a uterus, it most likely would have jumped right out of my body. I’m seriously not sure I could do that all over again. Actually, I’m AM sure I couldn’t do that all over again.

This friend of seven has a blog. I have spoken about her before (www.not-your-average-mom.com). She’s funny. She’s real. She says it like it is. She doesn’t hold any punches. When her kids get into something (which is quite often), she documents it. Shares it with the world. There are haters out there. People who say shit like, “you should be watching your kids more closely.” Blah, blah, blah. I do not judge her. I am a mother of one. And I remember when The Kid was a young child, sometimes crap would happen. You could have your back turned for 3.5 seconds, and crap just happens. It just does. I don’t care who you think you are. It happens to all of us. The best of us. Even the haters.

It happened to us yesterday. Her living room is divided in half by a sectional. Behind the sectional is a play area. With a rectangular kid’s table. Her youngest child seemed to want to go back behind the couch and take a nap under this table. My friend and I checked on her. She was out cold. A few minutes later her brother decided to join her. He laid down next to her and seemed to be passed out as well. We checked on them. Even called out their names. Not a flinch. They were out like a couple of burnt out light bulbs.

We were sitting on the couch. Not 2 feet from them. 10 minutes passed and not a sound. Not a freaking sound. You could hear a pin drop. No rustling. No nothing. Do you understand? Not.A.Sound. They suddenly appear and this was our surprise:

That is nail polish, lipstick and Lord knows what else. The little girl had it all over her princess dress. Her older sister (not pictured) was a bit worried that the stains would never come out. I was absolutely amazed and although I have the utmost respect for my mother of 7 friend, the level of respect was raised by 2,000 decibels. If that is possible. These kids completely and utterly bamboozled us. They deserve an Oscar. It’s like they got together and spoke in their toddler speak or something. I can hear them now, “Show’s on mo-fo’s. Let’s blow their minds.”

We sat there completely dumbfounded. These children are Ninja’s. They are stealth. They are like nothing I have ever seen in my life. They have their craft down to a science. Seriously. That is some crazy crap. I hope they do some good with that someday. Because it is a gift. A real gift.

When I got home, I sat on the couch and fell into a deep sleep. A coma-like sleep. My daughter had to nudge me because I was snoring. At 4 in the afternoon. An 8 hour shift at My Retail Job doesn’t exhaust me as much as watching those beautiful children for 4 hours. Phew. With that being said, I would do it again in a heartbeat. Great experience. Good job, Friend of 7. Good job.

January 9, 2014

What’s In My Name and Other Stuff

My name is Maureen Catherine. My close friends call me “Mo.” My mother wanted my middle name to be spelled “Kathryn.” But that’s not how Catholics spelled it in those days. The woman at Town Hall told her so. Bully. My father wanted me to be “Dawn Marie.” I’m glad he didn’t get what he wanted. I do not look like a Dawn. And with the way I am with songs, every time someone said my name, Tanya Tucker would be popping up in there. Every time. I just know it. The other day at work someone yelled, “COME ON EILEEN!” Not good. Especially since that is probably one of my least favorite songs ever. Just so you know, it’s still rattling around in my brain. But I digress.

When I was a kid, I must have asked my mother what my name meant. Which is really weird for me. Because I was a simple child. I didn’t think much. Seriously. I’m not hating on myself. I just was not known for my thinking skills. I’ll give you an example: When asked on a test if I was Male or Female, I didn’t know the answer. I figured I had a 50/50 shot at getting it right so I guessed. Of course, I guessed incorrectly. Which happens to be the story of my life (you know, guess the wrong answer, get in the wrong line at the grocery store…). Unless I had grown a penis overnight, I was female (and still am, I swear). I was about 7 when I took that test. And that statement about me figuring I had a 50/50 shot? That’s not true. I just took a stab at it and failed. Accompanied by a mini anxiety attack. I can still see my 7-year-old self totally freaking out because I hadn’t the foggiest idea what the hell that meant.

Another time, while standing in line at the school cafeteria, a girl asked me what my nationality was. I looked oddly at her for a second and then I just turned around and completely ignored her. Yes. I ignored her. Just like that. Turned my back in the hopes that she would go away. It worked. I couldn’t even remember the word to ask my mom when I got home. But when it came up later in life, I had one of those “aha” moments Oprah is always talking about. Sorry to the girl who was probably trying to be my friend. I’m Irish. And for the record, you are a show-off.

little house on the prairie dress — I loved “Little House” so much that I asked for a prairie dress for my birthday. This beauty touched my toes. I’m sorry you can’t get the whole effect. You’re missing out.

Anyway, my mother, or someone, said my name meant “Mary.” I was thrilled at this news. I knew that Mary was Jesus’ mother. I also knew that Mary was my favorite character (other than Charles for reasons I do not need to explain) on Little House on the Prairie. When I went to school the next day, I wrote my new name on every single assignment. Because I figured if that’s what it meant, then I had a right. Besides it took less time and energy to write it out. My teacher was not empathetic. And gave me an “F” on all my assignments that day. That was the beginning and end of Mary. It turns out my name doesn’t mean Mary at all. It means “bitter.” Hmm.

I was born in New Jersey to an Army father and housewife mother. We moved all over the country and even lived in Germany for a few years. I never went to college, but attended a trade school where I honed my typing and shorthand skills. Skills that are falling by the wayside because I can’t find a damn job but that is a story for another time (or did I already write about that once or twice? Yes, I am Bitter. I’m allowed. That’s my name after all). I met DH when I was 19. We married when I was 25 and we settled in Connecticut. We have one child. My life is full of excitement and adventure. Have you seen that new show “Naked and Alone?” Yeah, well, I did something like that once. Except I was wearing clothes and I was in my backyard.

So, that’s it. Are you amazed? I know. Try to contain yourself. I’ve been trying to get TLC to do a reality TV show on me, but they refuse. I don’t understand. I could be a big money maker for them. Big. Their loss. They’ll be sorry when NBC comes knocking on my door. Until then, you can find me hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro. Just kidding. I’ll be on my couch. watching reruns of Friends. I’m so glad Ross and Rachel ended up together. Aren’t you?

January 5, 2014January 5, 2014

Why Being 40-Something is Awesome

So, maybe “awesome” is a strong word here. But being in my 40’s isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I was inspired to write about this subject by a post I saw the other day. The blogger wrote a list of 40 reasons why being 40-something is better than being 20-something. And it got me thinking about my own reasons why the 40’s are better than the 20’s. I couldn’t come up with 40 exactly, so 10 will have to do. Here’s what I think. Tread lightly.

You don’t need to bring your ID with you everywhere. Believe me. I don’t care how young you think you look. You will not get carded. Unless the bartender is trying for an extra tip. But for me, that doesn’t work. Because I know he is trying for an extra tip.
We are smarter. See number one.
When I was in my 20’s, I would beg, borrow and steal to get you to like me. Now? I don’t really give a damn, Scarlet. Unless your name is DH. Cuz I want him to like me. Otherwise I’d be divorced.
I would rather die than admit that I needed glasses to read. Today? You can find me at any given time with 3 pairs sitting on top of my head. It’s really quite cute. And oh so convenient.
People take you a little more seriously. And I can act like a dumb ass around young people and they can’t say anything because it would be totally disrespectful. It’s so much fun to see The Kid’s friends squirm or the young people at My Retail Job give me that “you’re so weird” look. I should be embarrassed. But I’m not.
I can, and have, answered the door in my robe and slippers and am surprisingly fine with it. Now the person at my door? That may be a different story. I see soap to the eyes in their near future.
When I was in my 20’s, you would never, ever catch me singing out loud in my car to myself. Ever. Now? Not only will I sing out loud and proud, but I may even roll down my windows for all to enjoy. Consider that my gift to you. You’re welcome.
As a 40-something year old woman, I am more confident, sure and wise. Honestly. You couldn’t pay me a million bucks to go back there. Well, actually. It would be really great if my ass still looked that good. Or was at least in the place it was intended to be. Because I am completely freaked out by what happened to it. I think I need a bra for my butt. A Butt Bra.
I have no problem with being accountable for my actions. Back then I would throw every Tom, Dick and Harry under the bus to save my ass. Oh wait. I thought I was supposed to be smarter?
I am so incredibly at ease with my partner. I will walk around naked in the light. Tell him what I think. Burp out loud. And poop with the bathroom door open. Ok, actually that last one is a lie. That’s just gross.

So, that’s about it. For Now. Maybe there will be a Part II because surely there are many, many more reasons why being 46 is better than being 26, right? Can you think of any? Let me know. Because it has got to be better than this. Maybe.