We went to the State Fair with my mother-in-law yesterday. It was about a million degrees out and Bad Mommy neglected to put sunscreen on the tiny people. We saw a lumberjack contest and a guy rassel an alligator, both of which proved to be entertaining to the five-year-old-boy crowd. The kids also got to HOLD a small alligator so Sucker Daddy could pay a bunch of money for a polaroid. It was well worth it, and hopefully fulfills our Lifetime Quota of Alligator Interaction.
The minute Little found out Jim’s mom was coming with us, she said, “I like Grandma! She has whiskers!” which necessitated a stern talk about not commenting on people’s bodies. Happily, there was no more talk about whiskers; but apparently I should have included Grandma in the discussion, because she said some very loud and very politically incorrect things about the kiddie-ride attendants.
While we were standing near the kiddie-ride attendants.
At one point I hissed at her to lower her voice. What is it about getting old that makes the filter disappear? Do they not realize they are saying innappropriate things, or do they just not give a crap anymore? She also brought us a bunch of newspaper clippings that she had been saving, which is what MY grandmother used to do. Yet another sign I am old, when my mother-in-law starts acting like my 85 year old grandmother. Obviously it’s a sign SHE is old, but when these other people age, they’re dragging me right along with them. Lately I feel like there’s an ominous subtext to my life. Like the universe is cackling at me, “you’re OLD, bitch! Get used to it!”
I’m going to be 40 next year, people. It’s a freight train named The Pity Party, and it’s coming right at me.
I keep telling Jim he needs to start saving up to get me a boob job and a pool boy, but I don’t think he’s taking me seriously.