So a while back, I turned 30...that's right 30...shut up, I said it was a while back. And I was all like, "Waah waah waah, I'm 30 and I have no husband and no kids and tick, tick, tick, woe is ME!" I know, I'm gagging too.
This is where a time machine would come in so handy so you could go back and slap the living crap out of your earlier self just to make your current self feel better in the present moment. It would be very satisfying.
First of all, a few weeks after that 30th birthday, my soon-to-be fiance took me to Cancun. Oh poor friggin me! And I have plenty of pictures from that trip, I was so smokin' hot the photos make me want to do myself. I'll bet even the dolphins we swam with were turned on, although they supposedly always make those noises. I think I had a different bikini for every day of the trip, and I rocked them all. Didn't think so at the time, but I was an idiot and now I know better.
Do we really need a "second of all"? No, but I'd hate to end this post here and deprive you all of knowing about "the thing" that happened to me the other day which made me want to run away and join the circus, but has the potential to be ever so humourous in the retelling. So you know you're going to hear about it and laugh at my expense and make the whole disgusting business worth something at least.
I was in my car, in the preschool parking lot, a few minutes early to pick up my little guy. Suddenly remembered that I forgot to put on lipstick. Without artificial lip color, I literally have no mouth. I'm pretty sure I lost a good 10 lbs once when Revlon discontinued my favorite Colorstay shade and I was at a loss for what to do about it.
Anyway, dug the lipstick out, glanced up into the visor mirror to apply and...wait a minute...what's this now? Oh, just a stray hair from somewhere...although from the size, how'd it get all the way up here from down...wait a minute, WHAT? Jesus H. Christ, it's attached. To my Madonna mole.
I remember when I saw the movie The Sixth Sense in the theater, no one had ruined the climax for me, and when it was revealed what was really happening to Bruce Willis, the whole goddamn thing had been so artfully done that I felt all the blood drain from my head and I was certain that if I hadn't been seated I would have dropped to the floor in a swoon.
Ok, well that was NOTHING compared to what happened to me in the car when I realized "the thing" was attached.
So I'm growing a beard, it is officially the beginning of the end.
Welcome to your four hundred and eighty somethingth month, Trace. Can't wait until tomorrow, good golly, maybe I'll need a pessary. And don't feel bad if you don't know what the hell that is, I only know because I was raised by a geriatric nurse who took care of mostly women with extremely ancient vaginas and uteruses (vaginae and uteri?) and loved to talk shop at the dinner table. How we all did NOT end up permanently rail thin is beyond me. So on that note, do yourself a favor and don't Google it right after a heavy meal.
But if you find out where to get one cheap, email me the details just in case. Tick tick tick.
1 comment:
I was all proud of myself for knowing what a pessary was without looking it up, but I was thinking of a peccary, which, as it turns out, is not even close to what you were talking about. If you don't know what a peccary is, let's just say it's not something that should be inserted into any of your orifices.
Mike S.
P. S. Fun Fact: A group of peccaries is called a "squadron"!
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