I’m still insanely attracted to my husband. I still want the magic to happen.  It just doesn’t happen as often as it once did. That’s normal. That’s life with lots of little kids. But I worry.  He’s a guy. He isn’t all touched out like I am from kids hanging on me all day long.  Does his eye wander? Of course it does.  He’s a guy.  Does he act on it?  Is he like the jerks on those online confession sites, messing around with other women because he’s not getting enough at home?

I found Matt having a snack in the kitchen.  I said to him, “Oh cheese. It’s a nice choice.” Then I stopped myself and said, “Oh lordy.  Cheese, it’s a nice choice?  Did I really just say that?  I wouldn’t blame you for cheating on me.  Cheese.  It’s a nice choice. I’m hot.”

Matt gave me his typical one eyebrow arch look that he gives when he thinks what you’re saying is really stupid.  “I have no interest in getting involved with anyone else.  It’s too much trouble.  I don’t have the energy.  Those kids wear me out.”  Then he paused to think, “Can I cheat on the kids?”

I laughed. “You mean, sneak around to spend time with someone else’s kids?”

“No!  Go over to someone’s house where they don’t have kids and spend time sitting there in silence.  Or watching a movie uninterrupted.  Or spending time in their garage woodworking. That’s my idea of cheating.”

That does sound like a great idea.  I want to cheat on my kids!  In a fancy hotel room!  With room service!  And a deep bathtub!  And a big TV that I can watch from bed and flip the channels to what I want to watch without anyone complaining!  And I only want to wear the fluffy white bathrobe all day long. Don’t even say the word laundry. I will not cook for anyone.  I won’t even leave my bed to eat.  And I don’t want to wipe anyone’s butt.  Not even my own!  Muah hah hah hahhhhh.

Ok maybe that’s going a bit too far.

Matt’s good choice of cheese for a snack ended too soon as the screams of silbling rivalry erupted from the other room.  He sighed and went to break it up while saying, “No, seriously.  I have no interest in cheating on you.  But can I cheat on them? No really.  Can I?”

I was a child in the 70s and on Valentine’s Day we’d give those mass produced paper valentines out to all the kids in the class. You know the ones that came 10 to a perforated sheet? Perhaps a Disney character or two. Pooh Bear rubbing his plump tummy while saying, “I love you, Hunny!” I remember racing home from school and pouring over those little valentines, marveling at the colors and designs and the supposed sentimentality behind each one.

In today’s world, like all things in today’s world, simple is no longer valued. Oh no. Those perforated little cards are tucked into cellophane bags dotted with sparkling hearts. The bags are filled with candy, the candy is hidden underneath stickers, and the bags are topped with light up twirly Sponge Bob pens for the boys, Hannah Montanna (sigh…) for the girls.

I made construction paper heart shaped valentines for the kids in Boo’s class this year with a personal message for each child from Boo. I was the only mother who kicked it old skool and felt really stupid when Boo brought home bags of candy and little trinkets from her classmates.

That’s when I saw one last card in Boo’s valentine bag. It was made of red card stock, carefully lined with pink paper. The front was covered in a puffy googley tiger that said, “You’re puuuur-fect, Valentine!”

It was from her teacher. Her teacher had also gone the route of the simple home made card. Inside the card she had pasted a special valentine’s quote she had printed up on the computer. It’s a quote made famous by author Joanna Fuchs.

“Whenever I may go
You’re in my thoughts and in my heart.
Wherever I may go:
On Valentine’s Day
I’ll like to say
I care more than you know.”

And the quote was attributed to,
“-Joanna Fucks”

You see? Simple IS better.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends.

The other day I had these 22 year old KIDS in my house. So young. So unaware of how disappointing life can be.

There was a moment when I used the words awesome, rad, and bummed out a little too close together and I noticed a look of amusement on their faces.  My 80s were showing!  And they were looking at me like, “Damn, she talks like an old person!” I know that look.  It’s the same look I gave my mother when she said words like fanny and tookus and cat’s pajamas.

I love old fashioned words. I use them all the time, much to my husband’s amusement.  The other day I described the place we were going as being catty corner to the grocery store.  My husband answered with, “23 Skidoo!”

Today I caught myself thinking, “It’s icy. I better be careful not to fall on my fanny.”  And I laughed because I know Matt would have something smart ass to say about that. Pun intended.

I’ve been using the word tookus a lot lately, too. Miss Boo and I were in the restroom at the mall and she handed me her barrette and asked quite loudly, “Mom, could you put my tookus in your purse?”   Usually she calls my girdle a tookus.  We went to Target so I could try on more body shapers (GIRDLES!) when Boo said, “Mom are you going to try on your tookus? I don’t want to wait while you try on those tookuses!”

Of course, the only other people who would laugh would be other 80 year old ladies like myself.

Matt: I fixed the blinds in Boo’s room.  They work, but they’re persnickety.

Me: Persnickety?  And you make fun of how I talk?

Matt: I wanted to use a word you’d understand.

Me: Gee, thanks!

Matt: 23 Skidooooooooo!!!

The palindrome birthday strikes again. 80 gets closer every year.

This blog post was inspired by a story I told tonight.

I’ve never shared this story with you.

I’ve never shared this story with anyone. Because it used to be embarrassing. But honey, I’m a blogger. What is embarrassing at this point? Seriously. What’s a little humiliation amongst hundreds of strangers?

This happened yars and yars ago, back during my club days. Not the thin and gorgeous club days. The Chub Club days. The days when I squeezed my poundage into bursting at the seams clothing and hoped I could keep it sucked in long enough for the beer buzz to kick in.

My friends and I had gone to a gay bar because we wanted to get hit on by gorgeous men who had no interest in us. I can’t explain it any further than that. You either get it, or you don’t. And in this case, we didn’t, because we didn’t want it and neither did they. Sometimes a girl just needs that kind of a night to feel appreciated in this world.

I was leaning oh so fashionably against the bar when a drunk man stumbled onto me and then started apologizing profusely. “Oh sweetie, I’m sooooo soooo sorry! Did I hurt you? Did I knock your drink over? I’ll buy you a new one. What are you drinking?” Then he stopped and did a double take. “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! You are beautiful. YOU are gorgeous! SO SO gorgeous!!!”

He motioned for his lady friend to come closer. “Come here. Come look at her. Isn’t she GORGEOUS?” His lady friend gave a bitchy toss to her skinny little head and shrugged. “I guess.”

“NO!” He stomped his foot. Then both feet. “Honey! You are fierce! You. Are. FIERCE!”

Skinny Lady Friend began moving him away. He turned backwards to yell at me as she drug him away, “You stay strong now! You stay beautiful! Always stay beautiful!!!”

I turned proudly to my friends who were also leaning fashionably against the bar next to me and looked terribly amused. “Look!” I said pointing to the duo as they exited. “Did you see that? Did you see him tell me how beautiful I was? He was GUSHING over how beautiful he thought I was!”

My friend looked bored. “Yeah. That’s because he thinks you’re a drag queen.”

“He also said I was- What?”

“Yeah. He thinks you’re a man dressed as a woman.”

“No. No! No he does not. He knows I’m a woman.”

“No. No! No he does not. He thinks you’re a man. A drag queen.”

And with that, more friends came in to join us and the subject drunkenly changed to boots or purses or drugs or whatever it is 20 something year old straight women talk about in gay bars.

The subject of that drunken gay man thinking I was a drag queen was never brought up again. Until now. ACK! Why am I telling you this story?

Because it’s always made me wonder. Did he really think I was a drag queen?

You know what? At least he thought I was a beautiful drag queen!

And that’s my some gay drunk guy thought I was a drag queen story.

I  thought I was pretty damn sexy tonight when my husband came home from work and said hello right to my chest.

“Well hello yourself,” I said, sauntering across the kitchen.

His eyes locked with mine. “You had pizza for lunch.”

“Huh?”

“And the babies are sick.”

“What?”

He pointed to my chest. “I can always tell what kind of day you had by the stains on your shirt.”

I’m one sexy beast. Proven further when I later headed out to the grocery store in typical stay- at- home- mom- after- a -long- day -with- two- sick- babies- and -a -whiny- four- year- old- attire. Black baggy sweats, baggy black Tshirt.  Smeared with baby snot. I’ve got your sexy goth girl you dated during your drunken club days right here, buddy.

I was pushing the cart around, looking for low low bargains when I noticed a man in the same aisle checking out my boo-tay.

Checking out MY booty?

Ok, what’s wrong with this picture? The only one who stares at my ass these days is my four year old because she’s about that tall and is easily confused.

The man then approached me, pointed at my tush, and said, “Fantastic!”

I took two steps away from him. “Yeah, where’s the hidden camera?”

“No,” he pointed at my rear end, “ honey, your butt is fantastic!” Then he made jazz hands.

“Ohhhh… Oh wait. No, no, I’m not actually a drag queen.”

“No no no.” He pointed again at my butt. “Sweetie, there’s a Disney Princess sticker on your pants that SAYS fantastic. I think it’s Cinderella but her head’s torn off.”

“What?” I twisted at the waist to get a better look. And yep! There it was. A ginormous headless Cinderella with the words FANTASTIC splayed across my hiney. Compliments of the butt-high four year old.

The kind stranger gave me a concerned look. “You probably want to remove that.”

“No,” I told him, “ Let’s leave it. That’s as fantastic as my ass is ever gonna get.”

I have to tell you what I saw today.

I was on my way to an appointment with Dental King, dentist to the stars. Or those of us who are stars in our own minds.

I wanted to make sure my teeth were ok for China. I’m paranoid. If anyone is going to break a tooth in China, it’s gonna be me. I’m a grinder. I need to find a new nervous habit. Grinding your teeth is a verrrrry expensive habit.

Dental King’s office is in a swanky part of town. The only time I go to that part of town is when I see Dental King. Because, again, I’m a star not in reality, but only in my own mind.

I just happened to notice the lawn guys working on one of the mega mansions in the area. It was like someone from Central Casting dropped off these dudes for a movie shoot. They were the lawn boys that dreams are made of. Tall, bronzed, zero body fat, extremely good looking and young. Not illegal young. Just turned 21 and want to get drunk with you young. But you’re buying.

Stupid rich people. Even their lawn boys are better than ours.

My lawn guy? I’m afraid he’s going to drop over from a heart attack when he mows our lawn. He’s neither young, nor is he in shape, and not at all considered, “a hottie.”

Lesson learned. Money can buy you everything. Including lawn boys that look like movie stars.

So then I’m trying to keep my eyes back on the road and concentrate on driving when I saw another crazy sight. Another sight straight out of Central Casting.

She was standing at the bottom of the highway exit of this swank area, which made her look completely out of place. People don’t hang around highway off ramps. Not in this city and certainly not in that area of town. She had long, fried out blonde hair. Pink sparkle barely there tube top. White hot pants which were more like white bikini bottoms. Pink luggage (but not like MY pink luggage. Hooker pink luggage. There is a difference!) And so drunk or stoned she was wobbling this way and that on her … wait for it….. plastic see thru stripper shoes!

I was in heaven. I live for these blog worthy sightings!