I feel like I haven't talked to you since I wore short pants, which was yesterday when I had on cropped trousers. I've heard men don't like cropped pants, that they want us to just pick a length already. To which I say, Dear Men: Fuck off.
Among the 6,000 things mom and I did was go to the Farmers Market. Did you know that term gets no apostrophe? It's because the farmers don't OWN the market. Much like Childrens Hospital. I used to think that was wrong but it turns out it isn't. The point is, flowers. We got flowers. At the Farmers no apostrophe Market.
Then we also moved the chair from the corner it was in and moved it near the TV. Okay, sure, anyone sitting there can't WATCH TV, but how many times do you have people over and watch TV? ...Really? That's sad. The whole idea was to have a "conversation area." Conversation areas are very big with my mother. She also said, "Do you think maybe you have too many pets?" I have no idea what she means.
Too many pets lead to cankles.
I'd just like to mention my mother is married to a doctor. She could afford to spring for the luxurious Claritin. Wal-itin. Does this kill me? I pointed out to her that her own mother used to get Oil of Allure rather than that similarly luxurious Oil of Olay that we all know costs a fortune, and that the apple does not fall far.
My mother pointed out that I never have any money.
Last week, Ned went to the antique store and got a rocker and a straight-back chair for our front porch. They were both adorable, and uncomfortable as shit. Whatever that means. The point is, my mother and I got cushions for them this weekend. Behold.
On Sunday morning, my mother was enamored with the New York Times, so I went shopping for awhile. I loved this dress, but it's too short for someone pushing 50. Are you still "pushing" 50 if you will in fact BE 50 in less than two months?
I ran into my coworker Molly when I was shopping, so we shopped together for awhile, just like real girls. You know what you don't hear a lot of me talking about? Is shopping with "the girls." Or drinking wine with "the girls." Having dinner with my girls! Can't beat it! Love my ladies!
Blech. Do you know what annoys me more than just about anything in the universe other than when people don't know when it's "everyday" or "every day"? Girls. Grown women referring to their friends as "girls," the whole giggling girly mentality, the every chick talking at once thing. It gives me hives. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into, did not like women. She had one or two friends who were women and she didn't really hang out with them. Have I mentioned I'm turning into her?
Still. I like Molly, and we had fun. Molly isn't the kind of woman who'd let you call her a girl, and she certainly wouldn't buy you a stuffed animal to tell you what a "so fun time" she had with you afterward. Why am I such a giant bitch?
As I said in my last post, I ran into people everywhere my mother and I went this weekend, which was nice. I saw my coworker Ian's wife, who is another non-girl type I really like. She's from a foreign country, and has charisma and she told me I was beautiful when I saw her. We did not hug.
No, I DON'T know what foreign country. You know how I am with geography. Somewhere below us.
Jo had copies of her book for sale, as well. "Yes, I'm STILL trying to sell my book," she said. I made everyone pose with a copy. Won't you purchase your own copy of When I Married My Mother, by Jo Maeder?
See what a good friend, linking to her website and all? I sure hope we hug soon, or she sends a balloon-o-gram.
Of course, it all went straight to my cankles.