There's a Hair in My Mole

I’m half way through my forties, and I plan to stay there.  As things have been going downhill, physically, since I hit forty, I figure there’s no sense in taking things beyond forty-five.  I matured from a near-sighted, flat-chested girl with pimples, to a near-sighted, flatter-chested woman with pimples.  While I was able to enjoy normal-sized breasts during my three pregnancies, the years in which my skin was supposed to clear up must have happened one night when I was sleeping sometime around my thirties.  I didn’t know that for every cup a pregnancy added to my bra size, it would later take away a cup and a half.

But it’s all good now. While for years I agonized between laser eye surgery and a boob job, I decided to forego all that and let my son, Miles, go to college instead.   In the meantime I’ve learned to love my double As because I’m not tripping over them in the cereal aisle, and I don’t have to worry about my husband rolling over on one of them when he’s sleeping.  Now that I need reading glasses, in addition to my contact lenses, to read a cocktail menu, it seems silly to bother with eye surgery.  Unless of course your talking about botox, the spa treatment du jour, although I do have friends who say they’ll go for the full-on face lift when the time comes.  Since I am pretty sure my other kids would be angry and insulted if I spent their college money on botox, when the time comes for me, I’m going to ditch my friends and start hanging out with the crowd at the retirement home, just to keep myself looking hot.

Thankfully I have a fantastic self-image and am concerned about sending the right message to my daughter and my nieces: It’s what’s on the INSIDE that counts!!  Right???  Sure, my daughter can prance around the house with her giant boobs and cleavage, rude as it is that she surpassed my bra size within an hour of developing, but I remind her frequently that nobody is young forever, and some day she will be struggling to keep little kids from running over her nipples with their Big Wheels.   After she reminds me that nobody born in the last 20 years has ever heard of a Big Wheel, she gets me back in kind by offering me her old bras as hand-me-downs that I’ll never fit into.  And yes, it’s true that I refuse to sit within 100 yards of her at the beach, but she knows not to take it personally, as I refuse to sit within 100 yards of anyone who looks more than five years younger than me.

Luckily, Maverick, my husband, loves me just the way I am. He can say so without snickering, so I have to believe him.  But a girl’s got to think about her future, and as the women on my side of the family live long into their nineties, I have to make plans for life after Maverick leaves this earth for the great, ice hockey rink in the sky.  I know that some women try to get back out there in the dating world, but swear to god I can’t imagine being them.  Men have gotten really weird since I got hitched and nowadays are into all sorts of crazy stuff that I won’t describe, not so much because I don’t want this blog to be x-rated, but because I’m not quite sure how to explain it all.  Suffice to say I would die of thirst on a date before I asked a man for a teabag.  Furthermore, by the time I’m an old broad I’ll have had enough of men altogether, and don’t think that I’ll be looking for a new one.

It’s likely, however, that I might desire a companion, and that’s why I’m considering becoming  what I like to call  a “late-in-life lesbian.”  My perfect lesbian mate is someone who can share my brassieres, who likes sing-a-longs, and knows her way around a cocktail shaker.  Oh, and who doesn’t mind not having sex.  Sure we can “date” but my version of lesbian 69 will be more like a 96….back to back, with sex organs as far away from each other as possible.  So after an extensive search among my heterosexual friends, I’m happy to announce that I have found my late-in-life lesbian partner, and we are committed to changing our lifestyles after our husbands kick the bucket.  I can’t tell you who she is because I don’t think she’s told her kids yet, and she’s a little nervous she’ll be edged out of the PTA.   Plus, I don’t want to make the rest of you flat-chested girls jealous.

Halloween sucks.  I rank it up there with root canal and the second grade violin concert, but the fact that it lasts a whole 24 hours, if not an entire weekend, puts it in a different category all together.  The residual effects, can last at least a week, depending upon how quickly I can lose the 5 pounds I slapped on.  The kids’ sugar high and my hangover are usually quicker to get over.

In my house, things start revving up right around the time summer vacation is ending.  We’ll be partaking in another one of my all-time favorite pastimes, “back-to-school shopping,” when one of my darlings will casually drop the question, “What should I be for Halloween?”  I blame myself, as I spent many an hour on the beach threatening capital punishment for anyone who even mentions Halloween before September 1st.  Clearly not the best laid plan, as there are few things as jarring as those words, when you are busy beating off other mothers and young children for the last jumbo-sized Book Sox.

If I am on the ball, and can pull a really good costume idea right out of my butt, I have saved myself weeks of torture, leaving ample time to concentrate on my candy purchases: my annual stash of Goldenberg’s Original Peanut Chews to remain hidden from my kids, and, or course a little something for the trick-or-treaters.

But I’m rarely on the ball and have spent oodles of time coming up with such unique costumes as “witch,” “beauty queen,” “baseball player,” and “Dracula.”  This year, I’m proud to say, I was on the ball, perhaps giddy with the notion that I was down to one kid to outfit, and quickly responded, “Why don’t you go as one of those idiots on that Jersey Shore show?”  As I was speaking to my 12 year old son who has recently illustrated a self-love of his developing physique, I was referring to the moronic male  MTV character with the six pack abs.  So I was only marginally surprised to hear his reply: “That’s a great idea, I’ll go as Snooki.”

I felt the jealous glares of all the other mothers, at the annual Halloween Parade, as my boy passed by in a skin-tight, strapless, sweet-heart neckline, leopard-print mini dress, complete with 32Cs, an enormous wig and Versace sunglasses.  His spray tan was luminous in the early autumn sunlight, and the boxer shorts peeking out at the hem were just the perfect touch.

When my kids were younger I usually took a sail with the Captain (Morgan) to ease me through the trauma and drama of three kids in costumes, the face makeup and the various accoutrements that require that special glue to adhere to their tender skin….And it’s a good thing, too, that my Max wanted those Frankenstein bolts glued to his scrawny neck or we never would have discovered the excitement of the ER on Halloween.  A latex allergy can certainly amp up your holiday!

It was during those years that I developed a strategy for getting the kids through their candy in the aftermath, that I am rather proud of, as it was quite successful for some time.

You might observe that many parents labor under the delusion that kids should partake in full, healthy meals on Halloween, as a combatant to the junk.  This is absurd.  Arguments are sure to ensue.  It’s a waste of food, the time it takes to prepare, and most of all, the ounce of sanity you have left after the whole epipen incident involving the mask that you knew was latex, but just couldn’t prove. What’s even more ridiculous is that these same parents spend the next month methodically doling out one piece of candy after dinner every night for the rest of the month, or longer.  These people are effectively prolonging the agony of the whole Halloween scenario, and isn’t that what we are trying to avoid???

My well devised strategy starts with setting up a false sense of security.  When you hand your kids the biggest sack you can find, encouraging them to get as much candy as possible, they will think you are on their side!  Ignore the puzzled looks of your five year old as you pull out that king sized pillow case that’s bigger than he is.  You know the truth, that that sack is going to become so cumbersome  that he will run out of steam before you can see the bottom of your glass.

The next part is easy: don’t bother to make dinner.  When they come in the door declaring how starving they are after dragging those heavy sacks around the neighborhood, tell them to dig in.  That’s right, eat up kids!!  Enjoy!!  This is when you might want to pour yourself another spiked cider before the ravages of their sugar high kick into gear.

Over the next day, keep your cooking to an absolute minimum, and your alcohol intake to a maximum, as you encourage a continuous gorging of candy.  If you need to drag the kids on your errand run, make sure they bring their sacks along.  By now you might be wearing thin, but trust me, you are almost through it.  You should be buoyed by the notion that your kids think you are the bomb. Their friends are already on round four of arguments over why they are only allowed to eat their candy after dinner.

By the next morning, if your kids aren’t in the hospital having their stomach’s pumped, expect to find them in the full swing of the plan, setting in front of their morning shows, sacks in their laps, their rapidly rotting teeth gnawing away on a sickeningly sweet scented Laffy Taffy.  But the party is over!!  They will react with shock as you rip the sacks out of their grubby hands and the Taffy from their braces.  You likely “forgot” to tell them that the goal was to eat as much as possible in 24 hours, the remains destined for lunch boxes, large quantities at a time, of course!  Truth be told, they’ll be too strung out to fight you over it, and you’ve successfully passed the problem along to their teachers.

Happy Halloween!

Last night I went out with one of my closest, employed, friends.  Nothing like catching up with a friend whose life is pretty much a 180 from yours, to make you feel like a loser.  Ironically, I sought her out for advice and guidance:  I have been feeling like I am at a crossroads, of sorts, in my life.  So far the last 20 odd years have been basically husband, kids, house.  No complaints there, seriously, I mean I am living a blessed life and I wouldn’t change a thing.  I was lucky enough to be able to stay at home and raise my kids, dabbling in writing here and there (which, if I recall, was supposed to be the point of getting a degree in journalism…to “dabble” in it), with smatterings of PTA and volunteer work…Oh, and there was my brief flirtation with small town politics.  Thank god that didn’t work out.  But with my second child almost out the door to college, and the third one on the brink of high school, I took a look at myself and wondered what would become of me now?  The dream of packing a couple of suitcases and jumping on plane with my husband to travel the world didn’t seem as realistic as I had once thought.  What with that pesky college tuition and all standing in our way.  Plus I would really miss my dog.

So I made the mistake of spending an entire morning, one on which I could have, should have, been catching up television, cruising around on monster.com.   I was rewarded with conclusion that, despite all the “life experiences” and “wisdom”  I’ve managed to accumulate, I am just about on par with a recent college grad.  Minus, of course, the computing skills, and experience with social networking.  (Although I did love that movie, I have to say I agree with Betty White, Facebook looks like a big waste of time.)  Furthermore, if monster.com could lay eyes on me, clearly they would see lots of other minuses, like the roll of fat that hangs over the top of my jeans and the slight loosening of the skin on my neck, and, most disturbingly, what I noticed as I was getting my gray touched up, something I believe are called JOWLS.  Not at all attractive.  So on the off chance that anyone would ever hire me, not only would I require a salary commensurate with my tax bracket, I’d also need a fair amount of dough to keep maintaining my aging body, as I figure I’d be competing with actual college grads.

I came to the further conclusion that I’d probably have a “boss.”  This thought left me feeling about as enthusiastic as going for a pap smear.  Especially because it is likely that any “boss” was going to be someone I could have given birth to, and I would have no idea if his mother raised him to be respectful to adults.  There is one thing I cannot tolerate, and that’s snotty nosed kids, especially ones that make more money than me, and ones with killer bods that sit near me on the beach.  I hate that.  Almost as much as I hate brides.  And babies.  And anything that’s heart-shaped, or has heart shapes on it.  Unless it’s a heart shaped box of dark chocolate caramels with sea salt…no jellies or creams or cherries.  Yuck.  But I digress.

Back to my friend.  Let’s call her Francesca.  That’s not her real name, but she always wanted to be Francesca, and agreed to let me call her that for the sake of this blog.  It’s got a certain mysterious, romantic, exciting allure to it, she says, plus it’s much easier to spell and pronounce, in case anyone wants to read this stuff aloud over cocktails.

So I reached out to Francesca to set me straight on exactly how I should proceed on my quest to reenter world of the working woman. She has become very successful in her fabulous job that takes her to glamorous, exciting places and she loves it.  I didn’t come right out and ask her to hire me, the moment never seemed quite right, even after we requested the bartender take his coat off and reopen the bar to make us another drink.  Francesca knows me so well and gave me great advice.  Then she really took control of the situation, and put me on a strict plan of action that should have me gainfully employed in my dream job within 4 months, which I think is pretty damn exciting, whether I have to lie on my resume about receiving that awesome award last year or not.

However the most fun part of last night was that in between teaching me how to lie my way through an interview, Francesca was regaling me with tales of her latest sexual escapades, since her divorce became final.  There’s a new man in her life and we’ll call him 39.  That’s what she calls him.  I keep calling him 36 by mistake, but maybe now that I’ve written it down it will be easier for me to remember.

Anyway,  it was all so fascinating because besides the fantastic sex she’s having with 39, she’s taken to walking around the house, nude, in between romps!  I just think that says SO much about confidence and self worth, and I know I will have truly “arrived” when I feel comfortable enough to do that.  It wasn’t really her idea, I mean she says that she never made a habit of walking around the house nude before.  Well, really, that could have been awkward for her sons and their friends.  But since they’ve gone off to college, and haven’t yet surprised her with a pop-in visit, she’s becoming rather comfortable, it seems.  Like I said, it wasn’t her idea, but the first time she asked 39 to get out of bed and change a lightbulb, he did it in the nude.  And I suppose once he got up on the chair and  had his junk at eye level, she must have figured what the hell?  Plus it’s not like women our age have a plethora of sexy loungewear, so what could she have thrown on?  I know for a fact that my flannel monkey pajamas cannot be a turn-on for my husband.  If on the off chance they ARE, I have discovered that layering a couple of tee shirts underneath and throwing on a pair of big fuzzy Santa socks with jingle bells pretty much seals the deal.  There’s no way in hell he’s going to put the moves on me with the lights on.

I am, however, going to keep my eyes out for some sexy loungewear for Francesca because I am sincerely worried that she is going to hurt herself walking around like that.  It was probably a close call with the lightbulb…she mentioned something about the filament and a butter knife…I’m not an electrician so I kind of tuned her out during that part of the story….but I can imagine that the dishwasher would be a NASTY place for your labia to end up getting caught.  Or what if she suddenly felt the urge to vacuum the drapes, or offer her little dog a biscuit?  Ouch.