I never run out of Nivea body wash because I think it makes me smell like Julia Roberts. She hops out of the shower after a hard day of perpetrating random acts of Julianess like naming her kids Hazel and Phinnaeus or emailing George Clooney hilarious jokes about Matt Damon's old man hair, and I know in my heart she smells like exotic Hawaiian flowers, new car, and homemade mac & cheese.
The light in the ceiling fan in my bedroom has been burnt out for months because Wal-Mart scientists determined the only thing that should be harder to get to than milk is light bulbs and no way I'm walking that far into that God awful store. When they put the 75 watters next to the Diet Dr. Pepper, I'll finally know for sure whether I have a 3rd dog no one told me about that lives beside my bed and only barks when I've had Mexican food.
My son clearly believes he can catch menopause because he only comes near me when it's a true matter of life and death, like if he needs clean underwear or wants to remind me how adept he is at rolling his eyes. He is in a "relationship" now and so during the brief moments I am allowed face to face conversation with him, he sees it as an opportunity to explain to me what a consummate female is like. Sort of an exercise in compare and contrast, I think.
"I asked her the other day what she was doing and she gave me the most perfect answer anyone has ever given. She said she was baking cookies and listening to the draft." Naturally I suggested she should put a rolled towel in front of the door, which is when he did the whole eye-rolling exhibition. He's really quite accomplished.
My Doo and I date just about every night online like a couple of Dateline's iced-tea drinking sex offenders. He lives a few hours away and we both are CEOs of Fortune Negative 500 companies, so Gmail chat is to us what Pizza Hut was to me and my first seriousboyfriend - who incidentally I saw a photo of recently and sweet lord did I dodge a bullet because he looks like a piece of fruit left out in the sun - for thirty years. I simply do not understand where his teeth went.
Anyway I don't mind the long distance thing most of the time because I like cyber-dating the Doo. We listen to music together, discuss the potentially weird Jerry Springer possibility that we were separated at birth, and stay up as late as we want 'cause nobody is the boss of us.
My bank account is six figures - if one of those figures is the dollar sign, one is the decimal, and two are zeros.
I try to travel somewhere just about every month. Thankfully the Doo likes to travel as much as I do. Better yet, we travel well together - him with his one small travel bag and me with my steamer trunk and fourteen sizes of suitcases in graduating dimensions. It's not that I over-pack clothes, but I will admit I'm always worried I may not have packed enough shoes or make-up.
I'm convinced I can draw attention away from my old-lady-body by wearing fabulous shoes and false eyelashes so long that a delightful breeze is created every time I blink. If the length of my lashes continues to grow in direct proportion to my advancing age, by the time I"m seventy-two I will have the ability to effectively cool a 10,000 square foot nursing home every time I flirt with an orderly.
And I believe we can all agree that's exactly what I'll be doing. Who else would an obsessive-compulsive old lady end up with, but an "orderly"? Der.
(Find newer posts on my website www.SherBailey.com.)