I am sixteen, going on seventeen
By Me | April 6, 2008
So, tell me if this ever happens to you.
Every now and then, I forget how old I am.
That’s not quite as insane as it may sound. Well, at least, I hope not … but, then, that’s why I’m asking you about it. Always operating under the assumption that you are possibly more sane than I am.
Anyway, for about two weeks after my birthday, I find myself telling myself at random moments, “I am N years old,” where N is equal to my current age at the moment — as contrasted to my former age, which was my current age a week or so before the aforementioned episode of talking to myself.
Maybe I am insane.
Yes, it’s sad but true. Right after I have a birthday, I am constantly in danger of forgetting that I’ve had a birthday and the age I’m used to being, after a year of being that age, is no longer the age I am.
Interestingly, this is not a problem I had when I was, say, thirteen.
I don’t think that’s a function of creeping senility, either.
When you’re twelve and you turn thirteen, you have spent a lot of time up until your birthday reminding yourself that you are about to turn thirteen. That’s because you’re a kid and you’re excited about the notion of getting older — especially one of the biggies, like thirteen, when you ‘officially’ enter the magical land of teendom.
In fact, when you’re that age, you have to exert a certain amount of control over yourself to keep yourself from telling people that you’re 13 for at least the last month before your birthday.
By the time you get to be my age, such excitement no longer applies.
It’s sad and bewildering but, for some reason, I am not exactly excited anymore about getting older. Oh well … that’s another change that you kiddies have to look forward to.
Topics: Stuff | 3 Comments »
I hear you knockin’
By Me | April 3, 2008
(Happy birthday to me, I live in a tree, the bark’s my backscratcher and I’m a veggie!)
Every now and then, I think I’m going to run out of song titles and/or lyrics with which to entitle my blog posts.
Hasn’t happened yet. How many years have I been doing this? (of course, it helps that I sometimes go for months without posting but still … )
By popular demand, I have reinstalled email notification of new blog posts, so that my undying fans will always know when there is newly posted silliness in the life and times of moi.
If you happen to be one of just a few people I arbitrarily added to this list, but who had never been on it before … well, it’s tempting to just say suck up and deal with it, but I won’t. I added you because I thought you might be interested in keeping up with me and mine. If, on the other hand, you just want to rid your email inbox of something else you didn’t ask for, you can always unsubscribe.
So, this post is something in the nature of a test. If everything is working like it should be, you should get an email telling you about it momentarily.
We will not return control of your inbox to you. Please return your stewardess to her original, upright position. We hope you enjoyed the flight and thank you for flying DIM Airways.
(AND I wound up having to upgrade my installation of WP to use this plugin, which I needed to do anyway, so … thanks for complaining, Gina! Okay, that’s enough geekness for one day.)
Topics: Stuff | 3 Comments »
Twist and shout
By Me | March 24, 2008
It’s a part of the nature of being a parent that you complain a lot.
Of course, my kids complain a lot, too. I think they think it makes them sound like a grown-up … and what does that tell you?
Here’s my complaint of the moment: I realize that the mechanics involved in working a toilet roll, such that you actually put a new roll of TP in place of the skeletal remains of the one you just finished, is beyond my kids.
I find that they are also too mechanically challenged to be able to work a twist-tie.
We have finally persuaded them than stale bread tastes worse than not-stale bread, so they will (usually) attempt to close the bread bag. It’s just that they don’t tend to use a twist-tie to do it.
It also means that, depending on how little I feel like imitating Martha Stewart this week, my kitchen might at any time be littered with unknown numbers of twist-tie corpses.
That’s normal, too. They’ll leave empty boxes in the cabinets and empty wrappers of all sorts on the cabinets and almost-but-not-quite empty containers in the fridge (“I didn’t eat the last of it! I left some — there!”), because they all seem to be afraid of or allergic to throwing things into the trash.
They can, however, sometimes be counted on to throw things near the trash.
I love my kids, I really do.
But, all things considered, I suspect that the cats love them even more.
Topics: Nature's Psyche Lab (aka Family) | No Comments »
Glory days pass me by …
By Me | March 6, 2008
Once upon a time, I had perky little boobies that were perky and … um … little.
They nestled happily under my clothing, asking nothing. They didn’t come into play very much when I was in femme fatale mode because, being perky and little, they were not designed to appeal to the male libido. For that, I relied on the legs — even though I rarely (ever?) met a self-avowed leg man.
Parenthetically, I don’t think there is any such thing. I have come to the conclusion that all men are fundamentally boob men; some of them are simply more willing to work with what they can get than others.
In any event, my perky little boobs seemed perfectly satisfied with the situation. They were quite willing to converse quietly with each other inside my blouses and tee shirts, waiting for their day in the spotlight.
That did not happen until after I started having children. At that point, they became significantly less little but they remained (temporarily) perky — although their perk was directly proportional to the amount of time that had elapsed since the last time I fed the kid.
Fast forward four kids and a quarter of a century and the boobs are no longer either little or perky (although I’m told by my childless friends that children have nothing to do with it; gravity is the enemy). They are not depressed exactly, simply tired.
But it’s a good tired. It’s the tired of a pair of boobs that take satisfaction in a job well done. Sort of the way you feel after a particularly good workout.
I guess, when the rest of me goes into retirement, I can hope to feel the same way about my life’s work.
But it’s kind of sad, the thought that one’s boobs have retired. I suppose, if I had the money and the inclination, I could put them under the knife and bring them forcibly out of retirement. But that would be cruel, as if the good work they have already done is somehow not enough.
They may not be little and perky anymore, but they are still cheerful. And, if they still don’t attract much attention, that bothers me a lot less now than it did when I was in my twenties.
That’s one nice thing about getting older. You get to stop worrying about stuff like that.
Topics: Stuff | 1 Comment »