Woman of a Certain Age

A certain birthday is creeping up on me. No…actually, it’s about to punch me in the face. It’s cocked and loaded and ready to shoot but I’m cool with it. Really, I am.

Last week I was killing time by perusing Ebay and Etsy for vintage clothes when I stumbled upon this:

Not me. Not. At. All.

I had that dress. I wore it in the early 90’s when I still wasn’t legally allowed to be in bars but went anyway. In fact, I rocked that dress back when Kurt Cobain was still breathing and astonishing the world with his rebuttal to 80’s hairbands. I wore the hell out of that tight little number and sang …can’t find a better man! at the top of my lungs while I drove into the city to hit CBGB’s. I smoked skinny little Capri cigarettes when I drank because those weren’t like smoking a real cigarrette…therefore, by technicality, I was not a smoker. I loved Eddie Vedder and imagined that, in a perfect world, we’d meet and get married and I’d be his cool wife who wore tight little black dresses and lovingly mopped the sweat from his forehead after particularly grueling sets.

I wore that dress with cowboy boots and black high heels and drank shots out of test tubes. I might have worn it while dancing on the bar at a place called Roxeanne’s with my best friends, Debbie and Corinne. I probably puked on it. Either way, my ass hadn’t fallen yet and my boobs were still perky. My hair was long and cut like Brenda Walsh’s and I exuded a major Don’t-Even-Bother-Talking-To-Me-Fella kind of vibe.

I was dork.

Last night, Dave and I were driving home from our date night when Guns n’ Roses came on the radio. There we were, two cool, aging hotties hurtling down I-95 with Paradise City and Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door blaring from the Saab’s speakers. Momentarily, we felt cool. The songs of our youth filled my ears and made me young again. I mean really young. I felt good and happy and…then the stupid DJ went and called those songs classics. CLASSICS, I say!

My dress is vintage and my music is classic. Bitch is gettin’ old…

What I Did This Weekend…

I defended my stance on the dirt pile after being called a “douche” for blogging about it on Friday. Fantastic vocabulary, Dave…all that law schoolin’ really paid off, huh? Just kidding, I’m totally cool with the 10th anniversary dirt pile. So cool in fact, that when the second pile was delivered yesterday morning,  I silently watched with delight while casting the hairy eyeball upon my unsuspecting husband.

He’s so romantical and stuff. Okay, I’ll fess us…he wants to build a flagstone wall so I can plant a pretty garden on the bald, weedy hill.

As the dirt pile (also filled with refuse) was dumped from the busted dump truck, I sat in the front seat of my sexy grey minivan. That’s right. I like to spend Saturday mornings with a cup of java and some Amor All wipes, scrubbing gobs of rotting banana and dog snot from its interior. I originally walked onto the porch with my cup o’ Joe intending to soak up the morning sunshine on a wicker chair. I don’t know, maybe it was Kate’s incessant shrieking or something that caused me to enter the minivan and start scrubbing. I was still in my pajamas… No, that’s not entirely true… I was wearing pajama bottoms and a bathrobe.

20 minutes into Scrub Fest and locked inside while the exterior was hosed down, I got hot. Really hot. So I took off the bathrobe and commenced Topless Scrub Fest 2011. But no one noticed because the doors where all closed. Dave finally peeked into a window and I saw his eyes widen with surprise. Somehow I don’t think that a 40 year old woman with bed head and coffee breath really fulfilled any naked car wash fantasies. Thankfully, the dirt delivery person arrived before Topless Scrub Fest began.

Then we went to Toys R Us. Again. 

Next, we purposely dragged the kids into this huge Goodwill in South Portland because they dragged us through Toys R Us. Smart, aren’t we? Tit for tat, man.

We scored a vintage oil painting (trés shabby chic) for $1.99. I’d show you a picture, but I’m too lazy and two cocktails into my evening and stuff. (No wonder no one tunes in to No. 7 anymore, huh?)

Vintage Californian Artist Oil Painting Period Frame

Not our $1.99 Goodwill oil painting, but you get the picture.

Today, we hired a new babysitter, drove to Old Port and inhaled a pile of sushi. Then, guess where we went? We went to Toys R Us. AGAIN.

It’s Gwen’s birthday tomorrow. So yesterday’s Toys R Us mission was held to uncover what the kid wanted. You know… since we totally forgot that she was turning 5. I guess we could have told her that the second dirt pile was hers, but I didn’t have the heart. From experience, I can attest to the fact that getting dirt for a momentous occasion sucks.

Anywho… we nabbed the last pink daisy covered Razor scooter, some Hello Kitty shades and a creepy puppy dog that wags its tail. The best part of our Toys R Us date was the discovery of some stuffed guinea pigs that simply must repeat whatever you say. Hecho in China. We taught the whole shelf to say, “Wazzzzzup, douchebag?”

I Say Chatimals Talking Guinea Pig

Then we left.
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The Horror!

My boob fell off today. Well, to be completely honest, it was my nipple and it only seemed that way if you happen to be a 2 1/2 year old named Kate. 

For some weird reason, the two of us seem doomed to experience boobie horrors together and always smack in the middle of Toys R Us… unless you count that time at the beginning of the summer where she pulled my bikini top off at the beach. Anyway, the last time I braved an excursion to Toys R Us with Kate was in the spring. While we were waiting in line to check out, the cash register ran out of tape and Kate decided that while waiting, she should multi-task and fondle my right boob. In our defense, it did cause that rather slow cashier-person to speed things up a little so I let it slide.

Our latest boob horror began last Thursday morning when something possessed my body and caused me to enter TJ Maxx. It’s a place I don’t normally enjoy, but for some reason, last Thursday I thought it was a fantastic idea…for about 15 minutes. I found a new booby trap that isn’t meant for a 12 year old girl just beginning to bud. I know, that’s exciting news right? I also bought a little box containing silicone nipple concealers. You know, those things that look like raw chicken cutlets, only tinier. Nipple sized flesh-colored pasties..because technically, I do not require a bra. Ever. They cost me $3.99.

Kate happened to be in the closet this morning while I artfully arranged my new skin colored pasties. When I turned to face her, she was intrigued then confused and ultimately, screamed at my right boob before running into the bathroom to escape. From the other room I heard her freaked out little voice, “Oh…your boobie Mommy?”

Later, Joe and Gwen begged me to drive them over to Toys R Us so they could cash in their birthday loot. Gift cards in hand, we spent an unbelievably painful amount of time wandering the aisles, searching for the elusive $25 toy of their dreams. I was becoming coated with a slick sheen of sweat as I pushed the cart, lifted the toddler, bent and stretched to retrieve toys for inspection and rejection. I had completely forgotten about my pasties.

In the Barbie aisle, I was forced to stand on my tippy-toes and stretch my right arm up to the top of the shelf to grab a gaudy Fairy Barbie. As my fingertips grazed the box, pushing it just out of my reach, I swore under my breath. Then, using the bottom shelf as a step, I lunged for the box and simultaneously heard a light THWACK on the tile beneath me.

I cluelessly stepped back onto the floor and passed the Fairy Barbie to Gwen.

“What is that thing?” I turned to see Joe squinting at something on the floor and wearing a look of utter disgust.

Gwen shrieked, “It’s mom’s boob! MOM! Your boob fell off!”

“That’s not her boob, Gwen…what is that thing anyway?” He cautiously inched closer to get a good look.

Kate pushed her way through the crowd and crouched down to inspect it. She poked it with her finger and, when she determined that it wasn’t alive, she picked it up. She straightened her little body to its full 2′ 8″ length and waved the pastie in the air. “Here, Mamma…your boobie.”

Silicone Nipple Concealers? FAIL.

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Tune in Tokyo!

I know, you’re asking yourself, now why in the world is she posting a lame clip from a truly lame 80’s movie? Well, because today, in an effort to fill the day with fun activities, I jumped into a deep jacuzzi tub with the girls. Or shall I say, my two daughters and I jumped into the tub and Kate discovered my girls?

This toddler seems to show a lot more interest in human anatomy than the other two did. I spent the better part of bath-time being felt up, tweaked, twisted and pinched by a grabby two-year old. As she performed a dual boobie twist, I was reminded of the line, “Tune in Tokyo.”

It all started when I turned the jets on and the bubbles accumulated. Suddenly, Kate became enthralled with a new game called Find the Nipples.

To begin with, I’m not all that modest. I don’t feel the need to cover my girl parts when the kids come crashing into the bathroom. In my past, I had no problems with topless beaches when visiting another country. However, I draw the line at letting a kid use my boobs as another disposable play thing.

A few months ago, I left the television in the kitchen on for background noise. Normally, as soon as The View comes on, I run to turn the channel. I can’t stand the cackling noises that come from that group of women as they vehemently argue about things like Charlie Sheen’s parenting skills or Chris Brown’s violent behavior. Yet, about twice a year, I find myself sucked in to their weird conversations, like the time Elizabeth Hasselbeck described peeing in a diaper while stuck in traffic.

On one particular show this winter, that bunch of cackling hens clucked about bath time with their children. Barbara piped in and explained how, when her daughter was little, they “bonded” during their communal baths. I thought, huh…I do that, but I never looked at it as a bonding opportunity. More like, I’d love to take a Jacuzzi tub but the minute I run the water, the kids come running as if candy is dripping from the faucet. I say if you can’t beat them, let them hop in.

Gwen never showed any real fascination with my boobs beyond complimenting me on their size. Apparently, in Gwen’s mind, my boobs are GINORMOUS, which is funny because I can buy training bras in the kid’s section at Target or, in the alternative, skip the bra altogether. Gwen never grabbed a boob.

Kate digs boobs. Kate likes to play Radio Operator with my boobs. She’ll stop at nothing to locate boobs. Nothing can dissuade her from her bizarre infatuation and, wearing a look of intense determination; she forages through the bubbles until she finds them, and then squeals with delight, as if she has uncovered the lost ark of the Covenant.

So on this lovely Thursday morning, I endured precisely 15 minutes of Tune in Tokyo before I finally called it quits. I left Kate and Gwen to enjoy what was to have been my warm, relaxing bubble-filled Jacuzzi tub. Within minutes, I heard Gwen yell, “Kate! Stop pinching my boobies!”

I couldn’t help but wonder how Barbara Walters handled getting felt up by her daughter.

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