To Have My Cake, And Date It Too

I am really starting to doubt myself.

I bought a short-term membership to a dating website. I put a decent picture of myself on there and a positive and realistic short writeup on who i am. I didn’t expect much. I mean, well, it is what it is. So i wasn’t expecting a thousand Prince Charmings waiting to message me. But i expected more than i got. With a couple of exceptions, i got recommended a bunch of the same basic profile:

Men who looked like Gandalf on crack, can’t put three words together lyrically, and swear they are only 40 years old.

The first time i joined an online dating service, i spent an inordinate amount of time filling out my profile and picking out just the right picture.  When i activated it, it took me a full week to get a single match. And i kid you not, that single match was a man who looked like an old tinker from a fairytale, who listed his job as “ghost hunter”… And who lived over 4,000 miles away on another continent.

It wasn’t the first blow to my ego. Nor the last. Online dating sites keep you humble.

I have met a couple very cool people via these websites. Friends that i might not have met otherwise. So it hasn’t all been for nothing. But on the whole, i have to believe that one of two things are true:

A) I am truly so incompatible that my choices will always have the visage and affect of well-chewed dog toys, or

B) People lie so much that no dating service will ever be reliable, so i either need to lie just as much or stop using them altogether.

And i had actually stopped using them. Then i guess my ego needed a smack upside the head, or i forgot about the lying.

And yes, i realize that people lie because they want to up their chances and make themselves look their best. We don’t want to admit our flaws and potentially hurt our chance at someone good. No one is ever going to post a profile that reads, “I’m generally a decent person. I am smart and funny. But i drink milk straight from the carton, and, typical of my engineering background, i often wear socks with my sandals.” It doesn’t paint the best picture. But to be honest, i’d be more inclined to go for that. At least it is real and probably true, and that scores points with me.

And in the name of all that is holy, random dating site members, if you are going to lie, at least make it plausible. If you look like Mel Brooks from last Tuesday, don’t say you just made Blazing Saddles. And conversely, don’t post pictures of you wearing your Don Johnson blazer because you look young in it. We know that blazer hasn’t seen the light of day in at least 25 years. And what the hell is it with you obviously shady-side-of-the-hill men saying you only want women 25-35? You looking for a date, or someone to adopt?

To be fair, i’m sure most women do the same thing. I’ve been told there are far too many of us posting Glamour Shot photos and posting our weight in kilograms instead of pounds. That isn’t cool either.

If, indeed, you are hoping to meet someone in person, it doesn’t make sense to lie about your appearance.

I am what i am. And i try to market myself that way. But perhaps the readers see it as, “If this is the best she can come up with, she must be really bad!” Or maybe they aren’t really looking for a date at all. Maybe they are looking for an escape from reality.

Now there’s an idea. A dating website that isn’t about real dating, but instead, one that is about fantasy dating. You can be whomever you want and have the kind of relationship you want… But only online. You never meet them, so you never know the truth. You never get to wake up to anyone for real, but you also don’t wake up to the mess they left in the bathroom. The idea does have merit. But i am thinking there are easier and cheaper ways to have that.

Anyway, i’m glad i only bought a short-term membership. Perhaps my ego needed a smack, but it doesn’t need more permanent scars. Rather than the online meat market, maybe i just need to get out more. Meet new people. Let serendipity have a chance. But the last three times i went out like that, i was receiving crass comments and photos before i ever left the venue.

Dude, if “I want to see those boobs” is the best line in your arsenal, you need to go back to 7th grade.

I really shouldn’t care about any of this. Truthfully, i have no reason to complain in my life. I have a great one. Awesome weedlings, a home, a job that i enjoy most of the time, good health, loving friends. Why do i need more?

I don’t.

So i’m just going to quit bitching and get on with life. Forcing a connection isn’t going to work, i have no control over what people post, and Liam Neeson isn’t on there anyway. (If i ever saw him on there, i’d assume it was a lie and go right past it!)  Maybe that’s why i join periodically – to remind myself that i don’t need this. I have plenty, and any icing on the cake is just that… Icing on the cake. And my cake is pretty damned good.

But a little frosting wouldn’t hurt every now and then.

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A Quiet Mother’s Day

It’s Mothers’ Day. I’m on the porch with my usual weekend repast of small-batch cheese, sweet baby peppers, and crackers. Beside my plate is a lovely glass of rosé from a bottle my oldest dropped off this morning. It is steamy today, but there is a light breeze that brings in the smell of honeysuckle on occasion. I adore the scent of honeysuckle! I am watching Siridog chase ants and skinks. And directly in the center of my vision is a bird’s nest with four exquisite and shiny blue eggs. I know there are women that like big gatherings, but this is my idea of celebration.

I do wish the weedlings were here. But my youngest is at work, my middle is away at college, and my oldest is a florist (You learn very quickly that the weeks of Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day, she will be working around the clock. No exaggeration.) All three of them try to show appreciation throughout the year, so this one day a year isn’t something i have to wait for. I am lucky. Rare is the time that i feel unappreciated by my weedlings.

Momma bird just swooped in. She stood on a branch for a while, looking around, as if to make sure she hadn’t been followed, and then hopped into the nest. Not to body shame the poor thing, but she looked like she was about to drop another couple of eggs. I will have to look later.

My own Ma has been gone a long time. But i like to think that she is here with me now, chilling on the porch. If not now, definitely later, when i bring my easel out here. We would talk about things we found beautiful, places we found interesting, and probably plan out our next trip to Atlanta: Ikea, the international market, the flower garden…. We would paint. Hers would be so much better than mine, but she would tell me it was beautiful anyway. We’d try to make tea from the herbs in my garden. We might not succeed, but we would enjoy the effort. What i wouldn’t give for an afternoon like that.

Two squirrels just ran in the yard, obviously playing a game of mating season tag. Siridog is going nuts because they are just out of reach and she wants to chase them so badly! Or maybe she wants to eat them. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.

I wonder about the momma bird, and the other mothers in the animal kingdom. Once their babies are grown, i know some of those children will come to visit their mom. I’m pretty sure orangutans do. Not sure about any others. But regardless, i wonder what they talk about. What is the orangutan equivalent of, “Can i do laundry?” or “Do you want to do brunch?” Does young adult orangutan show up at his ma’s nest and say, “It has been a crappy day. I need a banana. Do we have any bananas?” I wonder.

There is a bee in the yard that must have a broken wing.It is walking up and down the clover. Siridog keeps taking nips at it. I am certain she could catch it easily. But instead she pokes it with her nose, and then backs off like she got stung… Except that her tail is wagging. I think she is playing with it. How odd. Now she is barking at it. Back low to the ground, tail going back and forth so hard, i can’t imagine how she isn’t falling over. She appears to catch it in her teeth and then fling it. As soon as it starts moving where it lands, she goes over and starts the whole process again. She thinks it’s a toy! Poor Mr. Bumblebee. I’m sure he never figured it would end this way.

I wonder, when my weeds start having weedlings of their own, how many of my parenting choices will make their way into how my kids do it. I expect there are a lot of things they will NOT choose to do with their own kids. But i wonder what things they will. Will they ever sit back and think, “What would Ma have done?” And then actually do it? Will they ask advice of me? Or will they want to blaze their own path? I suppose we won’t know til the time comes.

Well, for now at least, “The time has come, ” The walrus said. Momma bird is off again. The squirrels are still playing and reminding me of that scene in The Sword and the Stone. And i’m pretty sure Mr Bumblebee is in Siridog’s belly. I hope you all had a wonderful day.

Now, i am off to paint with my Ma.

 

Dignity And Moth Wings

Ya God/Goddess/Universe… You’re really funny. Ha ha. You got me good.

As i have mentioned before, Chattanooga is the allergy capital of the country – or pretty damned close anyway. And this time of year it is off the charts, especially with tree (Oak) pollen, which apparently i am insanely allergic to. Every year at this time, my head fills up with enough snot to fill an Olympic pool, and then it begins doing daily sprints between my sinuses and my lungs. While it makes these laps, i am either sneezing uncontrollably, or coughing up everything north of my hips. It is very unpleasant.

Of course, because i am so old that, as my son once said, on the very first game show i ever saw, the prize was fire; my body has a hard time coping with the 300 mile per hour gust that is coming from my respiratory tract. (No, i’m not exaggerating. I actually looked it up. A cough can produce gusts up to 300 mph. A sneeze produces a wind up to 100 mph. I read it on the internet, so it must be true!)

Anyway, like i was saying… I’m old. And i’ve had 3 kids. So sneezing or coughing that hard, unless contorted into the bent over yoga pose that i affectionately call the “Mom Maneuver”, well…. All that force has to go somewhere. Especially if you are trying to hold in  said cough to avoid sounding like a duck who has smoked too many cigars, or are trying to kibosh the sneeze because you are in the middle of a parking lot with no tissue in sight. Your body has all this kinetic energy built up. If it doesn’t come out your mouth or nose…….

If you are lucky, you will only pee a little.

In the car driving home from the store yesterday, i wasn’t so lucky. I was in traffic when i felt that twinge that told me i was about to start a coughing jag that would scare a money-hungry Pulmonologist, so i pulled to the side as quickly as i could, but it hit me just as i stepped on the brake. The force! I exploded with a cough so hard that it made me shoot a fart that sounded like a cannon! That made me laugh – even tho i was still coughing – so then i couldn’t hold anything in. A good 15 minutes later, half my lung was in the pile of tissues, i had wet my pants, my tears had smeared my makeup so i looked like an old drag queen on a bender, i had snot on my shirt, and the car stunk of cheese toot.

If i had any dignity, it would have been lost.

But thankfully, i have very little dignity left, so i just wiped my face and drove home.

Since i have been plagued by this for a week, the coughing jags have gotten less frequent, and i was certain i was doing well enough to do my weekly girl maintenance last night before bed. Relaxing bath. Fancy schmancy face masque. Sugar scrub on the feet. Aaahhhh.

Then for the less enjoyable part. I had the wax in the warmer, the usual accoutrements laid out. All good and ready to go. Leg propped and body balanced like i’m in frigging Cirque du Soleil. After the third or fourth application, that lung tickle starts again.  I can feel that mucus engine racing and rumbling like a ’55 Thunderbird. I try to get one more swipe of wax on before it overtakes me….

Bad idea.

I try to bend over so i don’t pee (Because i already needed to before i started), but forgot that my leg was halfway up the wall, so i start to fall over. Toss the tongue depressor/applicator to grab something to keep me from hitting my head because OMG IF I KNOCK MYSELF OUT THE MEDICS WILL FIND ME LIKE THIS AND HOW THE HELL WILL I EXPLAIN IT AND THOSE PEOPLE KNOW ME!!!!!!!!!!! I reach out and grab whatever is beside me – I’m coughing and sneezing and tearing up too much to see it- and because my hand has wax on it, it sticks and jerks my arm back, and i end up on my back on the floor.

Holy hell.

I open my eyes. Over my head, the oversized popsicle stick that is the wax applicator is swinging far over my head where it apparently stuck to the light chain when i tossed it. Back and forth like a puttanesca pendulum. Poe would be pleased.

The fact that my hand is stuck to the toilet seat becomes a happy coincidence, as i would likely be unable to get up unassisted as i have only one leg on the floor, and the other is still up on the sink. I pull up with my hand and push up with my foot…. And make it about 6 inches before falling back on the floor.

My back and ass are stuck to the paper floor protector, and my foot was standing on it.

I wiggle myself til there is bare floor space to set my foot, and manage to stand. The paper is still stuck to my back and looks like giant moth wings. That makes me smile, so i leave them on while i rip off the last swipe of wax that caused my literal downfall and is now as hard as a Klingon Warrior.

There aren’t enough cusswords to describe that pain.

I smile one last time at the wings before trying to peel them off. Thank the heavens that i don’t have a hairy back! I managed to get most of it. (I thought i had all of it til i went to take off my nightclothes the next morning, and found them stuck to my left ass cheek by one last bit of wax.)  Then i started coughing again.

Well, shit. This sucks.

A hot toddy later, my cough subsided enough for me to sleep. The symptoms weren’t nearly as bad today, tho the pollen count climbs again later this week. I’m sure i still have plenty of coughing and sneezing in my future. But given the events yesterday, i’ll be lucky to make it out alive. And since i have no dignity left, i’ll only have indignity left to salvage.

I may have to make myself some more moth wings as a consolation prize.

Making It and Digging It

I spent the weekend on a creative bender. You know, like a regular bender, except without the barfing and with something to show for it other than a bad one night stand and unexplained car dent.

Yesterday i spent most of the day in my yard. I had about 2 1/2 square meters of jungle that i had yet to touch after almost 2 years in this house. There was a large shrub / small tree in the middle of it that i had hoped was a Rose of Sharon or something pretty like that. It turned out to be nothing more than some pitiful leaves on lame branches. Hardly decorative. More like the biological equivalent of a paper bag. So i cut it down.

Remember me saying that my tap dancing fitness routine didn’t prepare me for scraping and painting? Well, it didn’t prepare me for using a bow saw either.

After i got it down, i commenced to clearing out the weeds. We’re talking deep-rooted runner weeds growing for decades in the red clay. Old and rotted wood barriers sunk into the ground with rusty railroad nails. And vines that were dug into the brick of my porch with a grip that rivaled a man with compensating issues. This was no normal bit of garden variety weeding.

This was a green hell.

Two hours i spent clearing it. TWO HOURS for a space smaller than a pool table. That tells you how bad it was. But i got it done, dug two holes, and planted the climbing roses that have been sitting in my driveway for nearly two weeks. Between the dirt and the sun and the sight of the newly cleared area, i felt sore, but accomplished.

After cleaning myself up and making dinner, i went back to work on my sewing that i had started earlier in the week.  I finished up one dress and then took my fabric out to the porch to cut another design. Yes, i actually cut the pieces on my porch. It was too beautiful out to stay inside! A couple of my neighbors gave me an odd glance, but they’ll get used to my weird ways before long.

Sleep and breakfast and then back to the bender. Cleaned and repainted some plastic end tables for the porch. (I inherited them from the previous owner. Apparently, she not only liked her shrubbery boring, she liked beige plastic porch furniture. There is very little about me that is beige. Or boring. Those tables were bugging me with their blandness.) Got them dolled up apple red in between working on the dress i had cut out last night.

The dress is now done. My first time using a downloaded pattern. I won’t lie, it was a much bigger pain in the ass than a regular pattern. But the other dress i had made this week was a pattern i had drafted myself, and i wasn’t willing to trust myself with another so soon. I will say this, both dresses got positive reviews from my son – Remarkable because he isn’t one to give more than an offhand, “It’s ok, ” as a review of most everything that isn’t a computer game. So i guess i did good.

It’s getting towards the gloaming now. I’m chilling on my porch with my fabulously colorful tables while my new creations get their first washing as garments. I’m not quite over my bender, tho. I’ve got 2 more patterns to cut tonight. No doubt that i will keep on later than i should, and i’ll wake up tomorrow with a hangover. Granted, there will be no desperate prayers to the gods for my head to explode or stench of alcohol coming out of my pores, but it will be a hangover just the same. And just like any other bender, i will tell myself that i should exercise moderation more often, tho i know in my heart that i won’t. It may be weeks. It may be months. But some time in the future, i will once again be up to my ears in fabric or paint or dirt or all three, stiff and sore as hell because of the fun-but-not-quite-taxing-enough nature of my fitness plan.

Bless me, Father, for i have sinned. I got drunk on creativity.

And God/Goddess/Universe will smile pour me another.

Making the Rounds

I took today off from work because i had planned a barrage of routine medical appointments. I figured i might as well get them all over with at once.

Well, except for the oh-shit-do-i-really-have-to colonoscopy that was recommended. I’ll hold off on that until i need to lose 5 pounds fast.

My day started with my first routine physical in a couple of years. First stop: Height and weight.

The nurse asked me to hop on the scale. Because, you know, if she had just asked me my weight, i would have lied and made myself five pounds lighter. And apparently she knew this. Then she took my height. I have to say, i haven’t been this excited about growing 1/4 inch since before the Age of Disco.

I was forced to switch doctors for this exam, so this office and its staff had never met me. Had no knowledge of me whatsoever. It was good, in a way, because their opinions were gloriously unbiased. But on the other hand, because they had no knowledge of me, they didn’t know my norm.

“Ummm… That can’t be right. Let’s try the other arm.”

“Ummm… I still don’t believe it. Let’s try the first arm again.”

“I think something is wrong with the cuff. Let me try a different one.”

“I’m just gonna get someone else to try…”

I finally decided to speak up…. “You probably heard right. My heart rate runs low and my blood pressure runs high. But i feel wonky when it gets outside my usual range, and i feel fine now.”

She still got another one to take it. She shrugged when it only came up marginally lower and typed it into the record.

Next it was an ekg, which, as usual, takes five times as long to set up as it does to run.

“You sure you feel ok? Any fatigue or light-headedness? Your heart rate is rather low.”

“Yup. I’m good. I promise.”

“You must be in great shape. What do you do for exercise?”

“Ummm… A few sit-ups on my inversion table. And i just started learning to tap dance.”

This brought out a look of incredulity. Then, once she realized i was serious, she giggled. “You have blue hair, tattoos, and you are learning to tap dance. You are an interesting woman.”

Oh, if you only knew…

The doc comes in and starts putting her hands in places  that haven’t been felt up in far too long. It would be awkward and invasive except for the fact that  she is sweet and listening intently to my answers to her questions. This turned out to be pointless, since i realized at every point after that, that i had forgotten to give the staff half of the relevant information. Way to go, Ms Electronic Medical Record.

The rest of the day was a cavalcade of lab work, nurse questions, doctor pokes, and for the last thing, the recommended boob portraits. Because, you know, no woman’s physical is complete without squashing the shit out of her tits and taking a picture. (I wish they would send us snapshots on our phone. That way, when someone obnoxious asked for a nude pic, you could send him your mammogram as a passive-aggressive coup de grâce. It would be way more fun than just telling him to piss off.)

I survived it all.

And then i came home and tap danced.

At the end of the day, it is most likely my results will be as they usually are: Mostly healthy. And for that i am grateful. I can’t help getting older. And tho i don’t like it, it could be worse. What is worse than getting old? Getting old and decrepit. In spite of the aches and pains, the wrinkles and sags, and a blood pressure you’d expect from Ralph Kramden, i’ve got a ways to go before i get to the decrepit stage. My heart rate may be low, but my enthusiasm is high. It’s a good life. Even if i forget to tell them half of it.

 

From The Hair On Your Head To The Hair On Your Toes

So i’ve been reading a lot of articles on natural beauty. Part and parcel with the whole “Give up meat, use less plastic, be less fake” philosophy that has been growing on me. And it has me thinking… We women put a whole lot of money and effort into being “beautiful”, and even more so when we are trying to be “natural”, if for no other reason than “natural” products and services take more money and effort and to find.

I mean, i know there is a growing movement of women out there who don’t shave, wax, or pluck. I know plenty of women who don’t wear makeup. I know women who don’t care about their pores or their split ends or their scratchy heels. We are born with that hair on our legs, and our eyelids weren’t meant to be gold gilded. But most of us, when we talk about “natural beauty” are talking about doing the same beauty rituals we have always done, only with more earth-friendly products. Definitely better than mass-market beauty, and certainly better than the days of lead-based face powder and carcinogen-laden hair products. But still not really “natural”.

That being said, i can’t see myself going wholly “natural” regardless.

I DO care about the wrinkles over my lip and the lack of color in my cheeks as i get older. I DON’T like when my leg hair grows out and wiry spikes sprout halfway between my eyebrow and temple, like spearmint springing from the ground 3 feet from the rest of the herb garden. I DO like some opalescent sparkle on my face. And for the life of me, i can’t truthfully tell you why.

There is the age-old argument that we do it for men. But i will be honest here, even furless, accentuating my best body features, and spending time on makeup every morning, i still have no need for a social calendar. Dates come as rarely for me as oases spring up in the desert. So either the man theory isn’t true, or it just ain’t working.

Then there is the argument that we are brainwashed by the media. I grew up loving fashion magazines. I still do, tho i get a bit depressed at the lack of older women in them. And i take the photos with a grain of salt. We all know that these images are unrealistic; the models genetically gifted, and photo-shopped within an inch of their lives. I know that i can’t wear a dress to work that contains an actual, living fish. And no one wants to see my ass hanging out of my 3-inch rise dress slacks. But even still, i love the photography, the artistry, and the illusion of grandeur… Even if i will never master the Manolo-esque stiletto.

So maybe i do it because it is ingrained in me. Growing up, all the women in my life de-fuzzed, dyed their hair, and worked hard to look comely. Very few went without makeup, and even fewer let their grey hair or pit hair run wild. So it isn’t like i had a bunch of earthy-crunchy women setting the standard. I have to say, tho, that no one in my family ever barked at me for whatever macquillage i was sporting at any stage. When i took to wearing men’s clothes, or all black, or my combat boots with everything, my family accepted it. When my hair was short, blue, and combed into a perfect DA, my family made no more notice of it than they did when it was long and the black of my youth. Truth be told, my family has been supportive of nearly all of my appearance conventions – The lone exception being my decision, after 40, to let my white hair grow out. That caused all kinds of controversy.

Nothing having to do with me, i think; and everything to do with it making others feel old.

So why, then? Why do i do what i do to alter my appearance? Is it any of those things i mentioned? Is it all of those things i mentioned? I think it is at least partially the latter; and not just for me, but for all women. After all, it’s not like we see the bulk of men worrying about the sparseness of their eyelashes. Or giving themselves bunions and broken sesamoid bones so they can rock a slut shoe. Or paying money to have someone rub acid on their face, in hopes it will make them look 10 years younger. Hell, men score extra points just for wearing the right amount of cologne. So, obviously, there is a gender bias.

But even knowing that, i can’t imagine myself not going to at least some length of primping.  I can’t imagine being comfortable in public with a completely unadorned face unless forced. I can’t imagine going to the beach unshaved and not worrying i looked like i was smuggling rabbis under my arms. I can’t imagine going out on a (painfully) rare date and not putting in some effort…

Wait…

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s the act of putting in effort. Not necessarily what i do to make myself look “my best”, but the fact that i am willing to go to lengths. For my (phantom) date. For my coworkers. For myself. Proof that i care enough to do something. I do less now than i did when i was young: I no longer spend an hour on my makeup, and if a shoe isn’t comfortable, i won’t wear it. (Unless it’s for Liam Neeson. I’d wear them for Liam Neeson.) So i guess you can say that the amount of effort is relative. If you are male or female, young or old, city born or country raised, meeting a mere mortal or meeting Liam Neeson; the bar for acceptable effort moves.

I know that we as women should be content with the lot God/Goddess/Universe gave us. He didn’t make me to look like a model for a reason. Maybe because GGU knew that, as depressing as it is thinking no one is looking at you, it is far worse to think everyone is looking at you. Even if i get caught at the market with jacked up hair, the number of people who will find out is only marginally larger than the single digit number of people who will give a damn. If i had the level of objective beauty i pine after, my bad hair day would become the conversation piece for more blogs and websites than my ego could handle.

Thank you, Universe, for not making me a starlet.

So back to my original thoughts… Tho buying cosmetics that are made of beet juice and and free-range, wild-harvested sea grass is better for the environment than the chemical compounds marketed by the taste makers, i’m not sure it’s any better for our psyche. The implied message is still that we need this stuff to be “pretty enough”. And while it may be true that there are very few “natural beauties” in this world, each of us possesses our own “natural beauty”. Yes, we are all beautiful in our own way. Even unshaven and un-powdered and unadulterated. The Universe and the ones who love us see that beauty, and any adornment is unnecessary. Heaven only knows if we will all learn to see ourselves that same way, to love ourselves as we are and do the primping just for fun. (Tho i can’t imagine anyone waxing just for fun. That shit hurts!) And would it still be fun if it wasn’t considered more beautiful? I don’t know.

As for me, i know better than to think i’ll ever get to that point. I get more comfortable with myself with each passing year, but i doubt i will ever be satisfied. I will likely always strive to be more. Because, you know, there’s always that slim chance i could score a date.

I’m still holding out hope for Liam Neeson.

 

Next Week, It May Be Pink

So, i’m in Ulta killing time while my son shops for comic books. I notice they are having a great deal on some Urban Decay lip glitter, so i am trying the testers to find some colors for my oldest daughter who embodies that Urban Decay look. When i see one that i can’t find the tester for, i ask the salesperson. She points out one that would look good on me. So i explain that these are for my daughter… I am far too long in the tooth to be wearing that kind of statement lip color.

“But, ma’am…” She says, with a duh look on her face and a rather pronounced eye roll that you could almost hear, “You have purple hair.”

Ok, yes, i have purple hair. This week. It was blue last week. But that’s beside the point. My ultra-short funky-colored hair isn’t as noticeable as full-on silver glitter lips. Is it? I mean, wouldn’t that put it WAY over the top? I’d look like some sad woman trying to recapture her youth.

Right?

It’s a fine line between being a silver-age woman with independent and funky style à la Iris Apfel… And being a joke.

I’d prefer to be the former.

But truth be told, i am a bit of a joke. Case in point:

My son and i are watching his new favorite show, Designated Survivor. An ad comes on for some new drug, and as expected, at the end a bland male voice lists the common side effects: Fungal infections, false test results, elevated liver enzymes… And my son and i start adding on our own…

Excessive flatulence

Bad breath

Suspicious hoof growth

Elevated gas prices

Hermaphroditical tendencies (I swear he made that word up)

Lack of Christmas spirit

Inexplicable craving for hockey and cottage cheese

You can imagine the rest. We have so much fun with things like that, as nuts as that may seem. I know it is more expected to have a kind of Tom Hanks humor (Which we love, don’t get me wrong…), but in reality, my family is more Coen brothers and Eddie Izzard. Smart, dysfunctional, sometimes daft, sometimes sick. It’s the liquid in the glue that holds us together. Not surprising, i suppose, to anyone who reads me regularly. And probably adds credence to the purple hair and glitter gloss.

Or maybe not.

Maybe there is nothing that explains a 51 year old woman with purple hair. Glitter gloss or not. One who takes up tap dancing instead of joining a gym like normal people. One who, after raising three amazing weedlings, makes an effort to live life unapologetically. One who writes a blog saying a bunch of stuff that probably would better off if left in my head.

But then, the few of you who get it might not know you aren’t alone.

Besides, my head might explode from holding all this in.

And my weedlings, just like their Ma, aren’t the best at cleaning… I can’t leave them with that kind of mess.