Rhymes With Snorty...

In less than a week, I will be f...ffff...fffffffffffffff... I will be... forty. There, I said it... and to be honest, I'm kinda pissed. I’m not grooving with the “I’m every woman” or “more than a woman” or “older and wiser” or even the “sexy cougar” thing. All I feel is a lump in my throat and a pain in my neck from thinking I could still head-bang in an old timers mosh pit the other night. Just a tip: don’t do it. It hurts... and probably doesn’t look as cool as you might think it does when you’re doing it, especially if you’re any older than 21.

The only thing that might make me feel better is knowing... or hoping, that I’m not alone. For those of you who are just a step behind me, I’ve compiled a short list of tell tale signs that you are quickly approaching forty... or even scarier, turning into me.

• Your blog posts have been reduced to lists.
• You receive three whisks for Christmas. As if one wasn’t bad enough...
• You are happy to get a pimple… because it distracts from the new wrinkle on your forehead.
• You look like a fool for trying to prevent a hangover by drinking four bottles of water and three VitaCocos at a kick ass New Year’s Eve party… and are too bloated to get past even one shot of tequila when the party gets going.
• Dental floss is on the shopping list
• You forget what you said less than a minute ago.
• Your first experience with laughing gas results in blurting out to the dentist that you stepped in dog poop on the way there...and didn’t bother to change your shoes.
• You forget what you said less than a minute ago.
• Abstract art becomes more appealing... because you can get away with telling people you see something different, as opposed to not being able to see it at all...
• You get a groin injury resulting in the need for physical therapy... and not from doing anything super fantastic like snowboarding or trapezing. Nope... just your run of the mill “playing on a tire swing with your daughter" incident.
• The words “for crying out loud” escape your mouth, causing you to wonder if that was actually you or your mother speaking.
• You start folding your underwear.
• You can’t believe you were so worried about turning thirty.

Being Seven

Seven…my lucky number; and also, the number my Lucky happens to be. Sigh…yes, my little girl just turned seven, and I’m finding a direct correlation between her increasing interrogations and the length of my cocktail hours…

“Mommy … What does ‘EPT’ spell?”; “Why do boys AND girls have nibbles on their boobies? How come only moms have boobies? When can I have boobies?”; “When do people die? Why do people die? Does it hurt when you die? When they bury your body, what do they do with your head?”; “Can I have babies but not a husband when I grow up?”; “How come you wear a diaper once a month?”; “Will the earth ever end?”; “How does the tooth fairy carry the money around if she’s so small?”; “Why does Santa bring me toys that say ‘Made in China’ when he actually makes them in the North Pole?”

And this was just yesterday.

To be honest, I’m more comfortable answering questions about babies, bodies, and death than I am about Santa, the tooth fairy, and Easter Bunny. Bubb already knows we are the tooth fairy, and I have an inkling he suspects us of impersonating the other holiday celebrities as well. His little sister Lucky is still gung-ho, but as many other parents know, it gets expensive to keep up this charade… because as parents, we want them to believe as long as they can. It keeps them innocent… and I know I’ll pay the extra penny to keep that going another year.

Right now, Lucky thinks she’s doing us a favor by not having asked for big things for her birthday… because “if you wait till Christmas, everything is free!”

Oh that’s’ right… I forgot. Santa is bringing the presents, so that means mom and dad don’t have to buy them. We just “wish” for stuff.  So, just like last year, and the year before that… mom and dad will wish for tube socks and toiletries…

Haven’t they wondered why we wish for that? I’m waiting for the question “Mommy, how come you don’t wish for a yacht?”

The questions are getting more complicated, and I’m running out of answers. Pretty soon, the light will go on and they’ll know the real reason mommy said ‘no’ to building a Santa trap by the fireplace. The tables will turn… and they’ll get to a point where they know we are in denial of them growing up… and use that against us.

I did it myself when I was a kid. I mean really… I was thirteen, and still “believed” in Santa. I’m sure my parents loved it, but I can imagine that they had those conversations too where they thought, “What the hell is wrong with her? Is she that stupid? I’m kinda tired of doing the fake excitement over a pack of razors routine….”

…When in fact, I was that smart. Because I knew that once the gig was up, the loot train would come to an end.

Eventually, it happened… the year where we all knew what was going on, but nobody wanted to be the first to spit it out. So, like any happily dysfunctional family, we just ignored it and went about our business… oohing and aahhhhing, thanking the invisible Santa in the room with a dopey voice and wink of the eye, because no one wanted to admit out loud that his cover was blown. The gifts from then on were a little more practical, and not as ridiculously abundant… my early evening letters to Santa with cookies and milk were replaced with a late goodnight kiss; instead of waking up at five in the morning, I slept in till ten; and I learned to get excited over tube socks…

Me and Trader Jones

The kids are back in school… and finally, I enjoyed the first day in three months I’ve been able to go grocery shopping and actually pay attention to what the hell I was throwing in the cart. Trying to go grocery shopping with Lucky and Bubb is a farce. You’d think by ages six and nine I’d at least be able to buy ingredients that, when put together, actually make a meal.

But…they fight, they tattle, they chase… and I eventually get to the point where I simply shop by shape, color, and texture… making sure I at least have one circle, one triangle and one square item, a few different colors, and something squishy and something cold. Yes… based on just those criteria alone, it’s very possible to come home with a cake, a box of crackers, Kleenex, some Skittles, diapers, and a frozen cow tongue. Believe me, I know.

So today I went grocery shopping all by myself… and it was like I was hypersensitive to my surroundings… as if I had been bumbling around all summer encased in a swarm of bees, that all of a sudden disappeared… and now, peace. Wow. Look. Trader Joe’s has flowers? They have bread? They have… food? 

I noticed everything… because the kid blinders were off. I noticed that as soon as I walked into the store, a bus full of seniors from the local retirement home unloaded too. I could hear them all discussing what they plan to buy at “Trader Jones”.