The Day It Was

Mondays; what a lot of crap they take, but oh how they deserve it. On Monday, when I ride the train to work, all of Twitter is abuzz with whining, groaning, and "the week-end was too short" posts. But tell me honestly, have you ever had a good Monday unless it was a National holiday or you won the quick pick in Powerball? Me either, and I tried to think of one really hard. (It obviously goes without saying that vacation Mondays don't count. That first vacay Monday, leading to a week of nothing is bliss) Monday is just a frustrating day. Back to work, back to school, back to reality. Places that no one wants to be. But hey, I made it through, made it home and now it's almost over. Laters.

I'm Like Fine Wine, Baby

My husband has been saying the phrase, “middle-aged” a lot, as in, referring to himself, as in, lumping me in his “old” category, as our birthdays are only months apart. This is uncomfortable to me and I don’t really think I even need to explain why. Saying you are old is like having a rash on your butt; it really sucks, but you can’t scratch it because admitting to it would just be weird. You can’t really do anything about getting old except accept it and do it gracefully. Or so I’ve heard.

With my usual savoir faire, I plan to just skip it all and deny, deny, deny. Take my dad for instance, he accepted it. He wears long, black dress-socks with shorts and sandals, the epitome of senior citizen, and he is totally fine with it. In fact, we even have pictures of it and he never looks one bit embarrassed. He also does a lot of crossword puzzles too, but I will let that slide.

The quandary for me is this; all the older people I know never feel old, so how do you know when you are? How do you know when to start wearing fanny packs and lace up Naturalizer shoes? How does one discern just when the peak moment is to dye ones hair blue? Is there a section in department stores filled with *shudder* elastic waisted pants with garish designs and zip up crinkly jackets? Does bright, blue eye shadow and pink-frosted lipstick just show up at your door one day or do you have to make a special trip for it? What about open-toed orthopedic sandals worn with brown pantyhose, how will I know the time and place for such snazzy footwear? How about doilies, lap blankets, and towels to cover my car upholstery? How do I get that stuff? I can tell the middle age road towards being old is fraught with decisions, none of which I know the answer to, but I do assume that the key word is “comfort.” I imagined myself as an old lady still rocking long blonde locks and wearing my stilettos to Bingo, but that is a little creepy so I may have to change the game plan.

I had a serious discussion with K a few weeks ago about which road I should take towards old age, the “nip/tuck” or the “au natural.” He was no help so I had to figure it out on my own. I think my current solution is to “nip” the parts that are visible to the rest of humanity and “tuck” the other offenders into good foundation garments with plenty of wire support. But mark my words, I will never wear sandals with black socks or flamingo print Bermuda shorts or sun visors with permed hair fluffing over the top. And I will stick to that as firmly as my pledge to never own a minivan. Laters.

Ooh, La La

Girl's Weekend was fabulous. We wined and dined and the velvet rope in the nightclubs was lifted just for us. We shoe-shopped kid-free and care-free and came home loaded down with packages. Our dinners were delish and our desserts to die for and our waiters ever attentive. We slept two in a double bed and I stayed straight and true on my side, careful not to drool, snore or try to sneak a midnight cuddle on my unsuspecting sister-in-law. How embarrassing would that have been? Some of our taxi drivers were crabby and some were nice; they were all maniacs, but we always made it to our destination. Some trips were faster than others though, I mean, whoa! We tipped lavishly, as though we had money to burn and as we trod the City streets in our Chanel sunglasses from Chinatown, Starbucks in hand, I couldn't help but feel a little Carrie-ish. Oh, the memories, the midnight run to Times Square where we took pictures with all the tourists, they asked us to, we looked to divine to resist, the fancy hair, the spiked shoes, the feathers and silk on dresses, what a time we had. What a weekend. Laters.

My Baby Girl

I went to my daughter’s parent teacher conference this morning. Besides being a creative genius with a 5th grade level reading and writing ability (she is in 2nd) and getting 66 out of 68 right on her, “per the teacher” very hard math placement testing, she is a kind, sweet ray of sunshine. As we reviewed her work, I couldn’t help but notice her liberal sprinkling of smiley faces above her answers and sweet notes to her teacher. Almost everything she turns in is personalized. I love that she never thinks twice about reaching out and spreading joy. I just want to express how amazing I think she is; one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I have ever met. Gosh, I love her. Laters.

BooHooHoo

I thought, I won't blog today cause if I do, it would look something like this:
Drrrrooool, drooooll :( :( drool :( :( :(
As you can see, that stuff gets old pretty quick. When I got home, K told me that I should go straight to bed but then I was mad at him cause he immediately pegged how tired I was and I was like, "Bed? Who, me? I'm not even tired." He just looked at me. So I went to bed.
In bed, I played solitare on my iPhone and refreshed Facebook every five seconds to see if anyone else had a more exciting life than me. The answer to that question is yes. Then that got old and I texted K to see what he was doing and he was all manly- like,"I'm watching baseball." And I was like, "oh, ok, yea baseball!" all sarcastic. Then he was like "sigh, sigh."
So I blogged. Laters.