Archive for February 2010
I’m the oldest
at the M & Ms’ school.
While my closet contains ‘fashions’ from the likes of trendsetters Briggs, Sag Harbor, Alfred Dunner and Lee (the ONLY brand that successfully and moderately-comfortably accommodates my fat ass and cooling-tower thighs), the hot mamas’ closets hold skimpy little items from Forever21 and Hot Topic.
MILF material, I am not!
is more like it.
Though I have never had an ensemble that could be considered ‘in style’ at the moment (or in that DECADE), I do have a sense of my own style — we’ll call it ‘eclectic‘ as there is no fitting English term. At my age and body-fat ratio, I lean toward my my ‘fat jeans’ (straight-leg with adjustable waistband, thank you), and a big, hidey-all, knee-length sweater (all from the thrift store — $4.00 TOTAL). I’d rather have the ankle-length knit frock, but my chunky boots’d get all tangled up in it as I was kickin’ my own arse for lettin’ it grow the size o’ the tri-state area.
However, I must admit that
even if I were a ‘younger mommy’,
The Viv would have no fashion sense,
my fashion sense
boils down to the fact that
I just don’t give a shit.
(a BENEFIT of old age)
I’m not afraid to grow old —
or to LOOK old.
Hell, I’m 40!
I SHOULD look like I’m 40!
WRINKLES and GROWING OLD
worry me NOT.
In fact, I like to call my ‘frown lines‘ the
I earned it.
having my stylist
just to be done with it.
I’m seriously looking forward
to a salt’n’pepa do.
I may lament the fact that the ‘younger mommies’ shop the cool stores, but truth to tell, even if I WERE young, I still wouldn’t nance around in low-rise flares, baring my midriff, showin’ off my taut skin and perky ta-tas. It’s pretty damn cute on OTHER young gals, but for The Viv, even had she dressed that way at 21, she would’a looked like nuttin’ but mutton dressed as lamb.
I DO feel sorry for the M & Ms, though. The ‘younger mommies’ have so much energy. SassyMama just doesn’t have the git-up-‘n-go that she had back when she was ‘supposed‘ to have popped out the pups.
VIM + VIGOR ≠ VIV
My poor kids. SassyMama simply cannot sit for hours in the bleachers without having crushed-up and snorted some DOANS; she cannot proffer more than 3 entries in round after eye-crossin’ round o’ the ‘Hey, Mommy, Guess What Word I’m Thinking About’ game without entertaining sado-masochistic fantasies; she needs to wear her $1 magnifiers ON TOP OF her regular glasses in order to to untie the knots in shoelaces, and she’s too CHICKENSHIT to do a spin while ice skating for fear of breakin’ a hip.
The ‘younger mommies‘ can pretty much do everything they want to with their kids — and not need to sleep with the heating pad for the next week.
The M & Ms
may have been
but age really
On a recent Uni-Mart piss-quest, upon closing the door to the vile lavatory, the store’s manager looked at my M & Ms and me, clearly sizing us up. The Dingus had just bought a bottled water, so I felt we had adequately ‘paid’ to purge. I was about to explain this to the middle-aged, middle-eastern man when he motioned for me to move in the direction of the front register. He strode up one aisle while the M & Ms and SassyMama took the one beside him. At a break in the food-barriers, somewhere near the chips — on my side — (probably those little tree air fresheners and girls-with-big-tiddies lighters on his), he looks over at me, nods at the M & Ms — and says,
Then, he held out a basket of individually-wrapped hardtack candies to my GRAND children and me (you know the ones: root beer barrels, butterscotches, Werther’s Originals, etc., — EVERY one of the ilk MY grandmother always carried in her pocketbook) and gestured for us to take one.
The Viv passed.
I come from a line of women who ‘save’ things.
God forbid an empty milk carton get thrown in the trash!
It must be WASHED OUT, not just rinsed, and all four pinched corners must be opened up to make the carton’s ‘mouth’ large enough to accomodate any manner of vegetable waste: apple, potato and cucumber peelings, especially.
For a reason I can no longer recall, my mother would save and wash these plastic bottles that held Daily’s OJ. I think she saved them for my grandma who would then fill them with iced tea.
I remember thinking those bottles were pretty cool because the 1/2 gallon jug curved into two finger ‘rings’ on either side of the neck, making carrying a breeze.
Unfortunately for me,
those convenient little rings
made for an excellent grip
on the world’s most bizarre
weapon in the history of child abuse!
We were going to my grandmother’s house one weekend, so we loaded up the family truckster, a VW Rabbit (70’s gas crunch), with all the crap my mother ‘saved’ for her mother. Now, that Rabbit was small, so with my folks, my brother and me, there was very little room for much else. Somewhow, my mother managed to stuff in along with us three trash bags of various empty cartons and Daily’s bottles. Thank God Grandma lived just across town!
We needed to stop and get milk and bread and ‘good creamery butter’ for Grandma. Dad, as he was the only one not buried beneath mounds of cardboard and plastic, was the one who went inside the supermarket. Mom, my brother and I sat in the parking lot, holding our worthless loot.
Don’t recall what set me off, but I started gettin’ lippy with my mother (another trait of our lineage). I may have been only 10 or 11, but I could sling the sass with the best o’ them!
Because my mom was in the passenger seat directly in front of me, because she was a ‘lefty’ and because we were swimming in refuse, my mom could not comfortably and easily wind up for a good sock to my mouth. She only could make a pathetic, little 1/4 turn in her seat to shoot me her
A glutton for punishment, the knowledge that she was pretty much immobilized fed the fire that flew from my tongue.
When my mother’s face got so red I thought I’d actually set her afire, she frantically FELT about her (never breaking the DEATH GLARE) for something with which to beat my sassy ass.
Finally, her fingers found paydirt;
her eyes widened in enlightenment.
Still twisted in that cock-eyed 1/4 turn, my mother hoisted her right arm. Wielding that empty Daily’s jug held fast in her clenched fist (Damn! Those little rings are handy!), with every sinew and tendon visible in her forearm, my mother morphed into some warped version of Lady Liberty.
The stream of smartass cracks spewing
from my mouth suddenly ceased.
I could only stare at those goddam
convenient finger rings.
Was THIS how I was to meet my end?
Bludgeoned by a fuckin’
Daily’s Orange Juice jug?!
I SWEAR TO GOD I HEARD
THE PSYCHO-SHOWER-SCENE MUSIC.
A sickly squeak from high in my throat escaped; my mother’s CUE to commence the pummeling.
I ducked and buried my face in the plastic bag o’ jugs as my mother landed blow after blow on the back of my noggin. She was actually GRUNTING.
She landed about six blows when I realized, ‘this noggin-knockin’s not hurtin’ — AT ALL!’
the utter ABSURDITY,
of it all hit me harder
than my jug-packin’-mama,
and I burst out laughing.
Naturally, my guffaws made
my mother bring down some more HEAT.
I couldn’t help it;
the whole scene was GONZO!
I sat up, tears streaming down my face, laughing so I could hardly breathe. My mom managed a couple more half-hearted hits, and then, she too burst out laughing!
For the record, my brother (three years my junior), may have been a blind, deaf mute; he just sat there with saucer-eyes (probably takin’ notes, the little fucker).
Mom and I were still laughing and crying when my dad got back in the tin-can car. He had to get back out to pick up some of the Daily’s jugs that had spilled out.
“What the HELL happened in HERE?” he asked.
Mom and I burst out laughin’ again.
To this day, I duck when I see jugs of OJ.
I live for reading my horoscope.
It’s UNCANNY how often it’s
RIGHT ON THE MONEY!
The Viv’s Horoscope Today:
You’re good, somebody should name a street after you.
Maybe they will in the future.
Looks like they already DID:
*click on image!