The Age Old Question

And not the questions that a certain friend of mine has taken to asking of late. Nothing about trees falling, where people park their cars, or even the great chicken egg dillema. None of those earth shaking, world crisis averting questions.


How old does she look?


Every woman reading just had a collective chill run up their spine and felt that tightening nausea in their stomachs. Why do people ask that question? Don't they know the traumatizing potential in that answer? And don't they realize the position they are putting the interrogated individual in? Strip them naked on the Grand Old Opry stage, hook them to a polygraph and shine a spotlight dead in their face why don't you? It might be more comfortable.


We went to dinner with some friends Saturday evening and Beloved, apparently unaware of the emotional peril contained in the question, asked the other female in the party that very question about me.


27. And the answer came back fast and very matter of factly.


Now as the mother of three under 6 and a woman who tries (sometimes very hard) to stay at least in the shadow of fitness, there were two directions my brain went with this.


Path A - Nice! All that yoga and swimming and walking and water have actually come to serve some purpose this summer. My scale may be in denial that I did any of it but perception is reality people.


Path B - Come on already! Haven't I earned my stripes? Do I really still look like someone fresh out of college? Don't I at least look like I could be the responsible parent of one or two? I have worked really hard for my thirty (mumble, mumble) years!


And it's not the first time THIS WEEK that I have been mistaken for someone much younger than my thirty somethings. Thursday I was purchasing some adult refreshments at the grocery store and of course my children were with me. The lady behind me in line was giving me a shady look when I presented my ID to the cashier. He cleared me and her countenance visibly relaxed with the return of my ID. It was odd but I wasn't going to make a big deal. The cashier remarked that I was only 2 years older than him and he thought I was actually younger than him. I didn't take offense because I know him and see him at the store regularly.


But then Snarky Eyes chimed in with "Really?! Those children are yours? I thought you were the babysitter!" Because every babysitter I've ever hired takes the children out to buy adult beverages. What?!


But back to the question. What if the friend at dinner had come back with 37? What if she had given me EXTRA credit for my years? How would I have felt then? Would I have been motivated to come home and do midnight pilates? Would I have been proud of my maturity?


And why do I even care? I am as young as I feel, right? But then if that's the case the popping in my ankles, knees and hips has me at 92 with one foot on a banana peel.


Maybe I'll stick with the 27 after all.

Apparenly I am a 74 Year Old Woman...

With a teenie bopper fetish.

Yes ladies and gentlemen I am about to blog about my spam. And no I'm not talking the canned meat but there WAS a great M*A*S*H on the other day that that involved Spam and it was pretty darn funny. I love Alan Alda. Oh and Harry Morgan - he's cute for a little old guy. Now where was I? Oh yes. Spam.

I think I have laughed harder at my inbox the last few weeks than at anything else. It started with Ethel DeWitt. Now I think I have only known one woman named Ethel and she was the most wonderful woman on the planet. I still have a blanket that she made for us that I regularly snuggle under with the kids. But let's keep in mind that as long as I knew her she was 70+ so when you send me an e-mail from "Ethel" I'm seeing a very old, very tiny woman who raised Indian popcorn. You know the multicolored decoartive ears of corn that you see in the fall? I strayed again didn't I? Sorry.

Here's where the laughter starts. The subject line on my email from Ethel was "I don't know if you got my first note." Of course I blip it as spam without a second thought. But then my college roommate calls and says, "Hey! I've been trying to e-mail you from work but I don't know if I have the right address." My roommate is temporarily working as a long term substitute teacher for a woman who is on maternity leave so I thought perhaps she was using this stranger's email to contact me. "Oh! You're Ethel!"

"I'm WHO?!" I told her the story and of course she burst into hysterical laughter and tears because, well, she's not Ethel. So we've been having a great time with this whole thing and I have taken on the alter ego of "Myrtle."

Now for the teenie bopper fetish. I don't know whose blog I visited last week that flagged me as a porn stalker but suddenly I am getting all kind of spam about "newly legal teens with wild animals" and "new young boobs for the shooting." (Can't wait to see the keywords this week!) So not only am I being mistaken for Maxine of greeting card fame but now Maxine is branching out from the psycho dog she always has with her.

And that brings us to today. The sender is "Carlo." The subject line reads, "This is Hazel and I've been trying to reach you." Seriously? Let me guess the first line reads "I have to send this to you from my 17 year old grandson's account because mine got hacked by a naked zebra who was partying with the newly legal chicks at a photoshoot I was doing."

I promise you that I don't make this stuff up. It really happens to me. Ok so maybe I do a little techincolor touch up with the commentary but I assure you that this really IS my life. Did I mention that next time I'm coming back as a dog?

But I refuse to do any naked canine photo shoots. Unless they're done tastefully.

I Think I'm the Worst "Girl" on the Planet!

I was scanning through my reader just now and saw several references that made me wonder about my girl-itude.

I am 31. That's right! I crossed the threshold without much ado and really couldn't have cared less (once I got used to the idea that I spent the second half of my 20's preggers). So as I watch some of the women bloggers around me protesting turning 30 and buying anti aging creams and microderm abrasion kits I wonder if I missed something.

Then there's the whole makeup and nail polish thing. I just don't do it. Never really have! I was burnt by stage makeup during the dress rehersal for our senior class play and ever since really just figured the Good Lord made me this way. He must have thought it was allright. Nail polish is a complete waste on me. My nails are the splitting and flaking kind so no sooner to I start to try to grow them out then one goes to pieces and the whole cause is lost. And I certainly can't see the point of buying fake nails only to replace them a few weeks later. Good for you those who can and do. It's just not my bag.

On to hair. I get mine cut and styled every 3 years. Period. I always ask for a cut that can grow out and I'm always up front with the stylist that unless they plan to be in the same chair in 3 years they will probably won't see me ever again. Color. The closest I ever came to going pro color was my college roommate. We got pretty efficient after about the 6th try.

And that's just appearance! I loathe shopping. I avoid the phone when possible. And I have only dated (counting them up now) 8 guys in my life (unless you count the mini crushes in junior high where I "went with" a guy for a day - that MAY bump me to 12). I am married to #8 and quite honestly should anything ever happen to him I highly doubt that I would ever reenter the dating scene or remarry. I have 0 interest in celebrities, their hair or their babies. REality shows annoy me - forget that! TV in general tends to annoy me. And my books have to be thriller or classics - ok so maybe that qualifies me a little.

I'm just saying. If the above are standards of gilriness - I just failed with flaming colors!