poorly written

it's just possible
my horrible penmanship
caused the recession.



My husband just spent forty-five minutes on the phone explaining to Jim at the West Coast Wells Fargo Call Center that the check they just cashed for two hundred and fifty dollars was in fact a check for two dollars and fifty cents. (Well, I lost my water bottle; it was hot, and all I had in my yoga bag was my checkbook.)


They figured it all out, but the Big Kahuna reports that at one point while they were looking at the online .pdf of the check, Jim said "Sir, I got my supervisor right here, and we both agree this is the most illegible instrument we've ever seen."

Kahuna just texted me the image. They were right. My handwriting sucks.

I'm not allowed to write any more checks.

iPain

you got an iPad.
Good for you! Now put it down
and get back to work.

Of a Certain Age

"Of a Certain Age"
Nothing says it better than
A pair of duck lips.

Gather 'round, girls. Boys, you come too. Mama wants to talk to you.

Actually, what I have in mind is more of an intervention. Because I'm worried about you. About all of us, really. There's something very personal we have to discuss before things get any further out of hand.

No, don't try to hide that Peet's cup behind your back. I'm not about to deliver a lecture about the dangers of consuming too much caffeine. And don't worry about your diet, either, because Mama would be last one to point fingers in that direction. The secret of your daily visits to Crushcakes is safe with me.

But you ... yes, you with the big sunglasses you've been refusing to take off ever since you "went to San Diego for a wedding" ... of a friend none of us has ever heard of before ... You stop trying to sneak away and sit yourself down right next to me.

And don't look so smug, Mr. Former-Wearer-of-Baseball-Hats-At-All-Times. Your hair plugs may have grown in a little since you proudly started showing us your fuzzy new dome, but you're still a victim and you still need to hear this:

We're not fooling anyone.

I'll say it again, because the feigned looks of innocent surprise peeking through the otherwise blank expanse of your collective Botox-brows indicates a certain degree of denial is still at work here:

We ...are...not...fooling...anyone.

In fact, not only are we not fooling anyone, but we are making ourselves foolish. Those sunburned tourists in the socks and speedos that we make fun of at the beach? They are laughing at us. The slacker kids who hang out in front of de la Guerra Plaza asking for money snicker when we walk past not because they are stoned but because they can see very well what we are trying so pathetically to hide:

Our age.

Dammit, people, we are middle-aged. What in the name of Don Draper is wrong with that? When our parents were in their forties and fifties, they accepted the fact and still had fabulous cocktail parties and even (although it grossed us out when we were teenagers and forced to think about it on those occasions when things got a little loud) fabulous sex. With each other. Wrinkles, bald spots, laugh lines, and all.

Yet here we are, reaching the same confident, sexy stage of our lives and instead embracing that - "Hey! the kids can drive themselves to the movies; let's make martinis and go skinny-dipping while they're not home!" - we're trying desperately to recreate the physical attributes of a youth we should be proud to have moved past. A s if preternaturally smooth skin, inflato-lips, and strange-looking Rogaine hair will make us look younger and more appealing... instead of the opposite.

Don't make me say it. You know where this is heading.

The bizarre appearance of faux-youth is as much a part of our cultural consciousness as the combover, yet, just as that hairy practice inexplicably persists, here in good old SB altogether too many of us continue to believe that we may be the one exception to the national joke. We believe against all reason and even People Magazine that we may be the one person on the planet on whom cheap, artificial procedures don't look ... well ... cheap and artificial.

Now, please don't get me wrong. The purpose of this intervention is not to self-righteously unload on cosmetic surgery in general. If going to a licensed, qualified professional and shelling out the big bucks it takes to address a physical flaw or fault that really, really bugs you is going to make your life happier and more fulfilling, then by all means go for it. (Mama would do this in a heartbeat, if the joint spectres of a Santa Barbara mortgage and college tuitions didn't haunt her far more than her incipient jowls.)

But please, for the love of all that is right and beautiful about being "of a certain age," quit going out and injecting yourself full of weird stuff that just makes you look weird. The next time you are invited to a Botox Party, think of Kenny Rogers. If your facialist suggests you do something about those laugh lines, remember how cute Meg Ryan used to be. If someone with a syringe says she can "fix" your lips, sum up a mental image of Janice Dickinson, and run for the foothills.

If all else fails, think of Mickey Rourke.

Well, I guess that's it. Thanks for this time together. I think we've accomplished a lot today, and Mama's got a few other things she'd like to do before the kids get home from the Airport Drive-in.

Skinny-dipping, anyone?

New Party Game!

Oxy, Vi, Per, Hi!
add to dro, co, con or li;
tin, set, done or dine ...

Multitasking Mama

Tell me that YOU can
Wield crutches and the plunger
Both at the same time.

Public Bathroom Haiku

Hygiene Horror

Your failure to wash
Makes me see you and your hands
In a whole new light.

Note to the next stall over

Potty Etiquette
Suggests you end your cell call
Before you pee.

Disappointment Strikes

Disappointment strikes
Deep in the heart of she who
Finds the roll deplete.

Brain Freeze

Ow. Ow, ow owow.
So it's not on my diet.
Did I deserve that?