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10:21 p.m. - 2011-06-20
Make a wish!

Today is Mick's birthday. He's 52 and has been quite the grump-a-saurus about it too. Of course I haven't been helping much, what with reminding him that Eisenhower was President when he was born and that he's older than the current President and how weird it is that he (Mick, not Obama) is walking around on 52 year old feet. (Seriously, think on it, what do you use every day that's over 50 years old? Not much I'll bet.) Also getting in my ya-yas about how from today until next January 21st he's officially FOUR years older than I am and how I don't get mail from AARP…

I kid. I rarely ever give Mick the business about his age. And I am very glad it's his birthday even if he's not. Besides, my 50th birthday is exactly 1 year, 6 months and one day from today, so this hardly makes me a teenybopper and I should think hard before slinging around the age mocking, capice?

I have a bunch of crap to do tomorrow so MIL and I did the gym today.

*Note to self: NEVER wear a skinny-t to the gym again.

Amazing. Even attached to my baggy bod and gym-head (hair scraped off my face with a circular comb, no make-up, scowl) there was a perv who became completely unhinged by the boobage. My workout clothes usually flap on me like sails. My MC Hammer fleece pants and one of Mick's t-shirts are the norm. Today I grabbed some yoga pants and a plain white skinny-t off the top of the clean laundry pile, didn't feel like rooting around for the usual stuff. WRONG! Bad, bad idea. I thought I was going to have to go over and smack this guy. What the hell, dude? Were you bottle-fed as an infant? Back off with the leer already.

I had forgotten how unpleasant the leering could be. When I was younger (and men were unconstrained by today's more respectful standard and could be big assholes) it was a constant. The disgusting lechery. The groping eyes. This morning's shove down Memory Lane ticked me off. There was always a dark side to being Barbie and I so didn't need to be reminded about it, especially at the goddamn gym.

You know what else kills me? They're not even fabulous tits, they're just big. Okay, they're BIG, but see above about pushing 50. Gravity demands its due. The bigger they are the more downward pull. Trust me, my hooters are slaves to Newton and his &*%# Law. My rack hasn't been drool-worthy since I weaned Wolf and the whole business went south. So again, dude, I gotta ask, why turn me and my boobs into your private masturbatory floor show? You got a windsock fetish?

Asshole.

In other age-related news…Wolf's getting pimples. This is upsetting. I have a phobia about bad skin. Especially on my offspring. All that shrieking and Pavlovian conditioning by my mother. Chicken pox, zits, scratching bug bites brought my mother to full raging harpy status. "It'll leave a scar!!!!" The message sank in deep and scary. Which, in this case, isn't such a bad thing. Zits are preventable and treatable. No excuse for the pizza face. To me helping Wolf keep his skin clear is like any other maintenance parents do on their kids, not some sick-o vanity trip of mine. We have our kids barbered and straighten their teeth and fix sticky-out ears and have moles removed, lots of tinkering and tweaking our kids' physical selves. Any parent who says they don't try to help their kids socially by fixing stuff that's going to be a distraction or handicap is fudging the truth. I'd no sooner let Wolf walk around with filthy zit-spattered skin than I would let him go around with rotten teeth.

So I am going to war on Wolf's acne and the battle will be swift, brutal and effective. His cooperation is mandatory, btw, I'm not putting up with any nonsense from Wolf the stinky sloth. Dammit I gave him good skin and his slobbish ways are unacceptable. My child is going to clean up his act and clear up his skin or he won't have any skin left to get zits on, I'll flay the hide right off his bod. Don't think this will be necessary though. Tonight at dinner I asked him what he was looking forward to most about going back to district school and he said, "Girls!" Not the shorter bus ride, not the larger campus with all the latest equipment and technology, not joining drama and chorus, just girls. My emphasizing girls like guys with nice skin and clean hair will be plenty of incentive to keep Wolf on the 'a clean face is a kissable face' path to a zit-free life.

He's not kidding about the girls thing either. We went out for a celebratory ice cream after dinner and after swallowing his sundae whole like an anaconda, my boy aka: Mr Smooove, sloped off and picked a table far away from us but quite close to the two young women on the other side of the picnic grove. I'm guessing they were about 17. Very cute. And very out of my kid's league. Didn't deter Pepe le Sage though. He made it quite clear he was available, you know, in case the two older girls sharing some ice cream and a nice conversation were suddenly overwhelmed by the need to lay smoochy kisses on some goofy gawk of a 14 year old guy.

Hey, it could happen. *snerk*

Let's see. To work backward we have zits, tits, and Mick's old feet. By dinnertime he'd given over the grump about his birthday, he kind of had to, I was as relentless with being happy about his birthday as I'm going to be about Wolf's hygiene. I left my guy no choice but to shake off his birthday blues and join the party. Which he did, graciously. Had a terrific dinner. Took back roads to the ice cream stand, gads it's pretty around here. So green. The guys had their treat. I was way too full. I'd just eaten a steak the size of a sneaker. We meandered the long way home on other back roads and saw the coolest barn conversion ever. Turned the silo into a stone-walled turret! It's still a barn, but they gussied it up with half-timber and slates and added a bunch of millwork and made it a fabulous medieval/arts and crafts luxury barn. Why did I not know about this place before?

Nicest of all was seeing Mick look so content. He really did enjoy his birthday.


Signing off, ~ LA the Birthday Boy's Best Girl


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