I know I’ve addressed this particular issue before. Addressed or whined, bitched, moaned, cried, raged, screeched…pick your adjective or provide your own. As many of you now already know, I work for a retirement community. The average age here is 85. Wearing makeup or doing my hair would be a waste of time, unless I knew ahead of time that the hotties at our local fire department would be making an appearance. Otherwise, why bother, I’m surrounded by the nearly blind and the partially deaf. The sweet lady that wears her wig askew, or the kind gentlemen that sometimes forgets to change his depends are hardly the sort to care if my grey hairs are showing or my eyebrows need to be plucked.
More than a few of these residents (at least the Protestant ones), also know my husband. He comes every few weeks and does some preachin’ in the Tuesday Protestant service. No, he is not a preacher (mostly because I would be a horrible preacher’s wife I think, but he never says this…to my face). He has a “regular” job, the one that pays our bills. He enjoys public speaking and he’s very good at it, extremely eloquent and very smart. He has this amazing knack of remembering things he’s read and being able to work them into what he’s talking about. On the other hand, I can’t remember what I wrote in my last paragraph, like 5 seconds ago. My residents LOVE him. Seriously, the adoration is enough to make you throw up in your mouth a little. But enough about him, this is my pity party, and he’s not on the guest list!
I am minding my own business, going about my day, when one of my husband’s adoring fans approaches me. The conversation went something like this:
Adoring fan: We sure enjoyed your husband the other day.
Me: Aww, thanks I’ll be sure and pass that along.
Adoring fan: I can’t believe ya’ll have 3 teenage girls. Well, mostly I can’t believe your husband has an 18-year-old daughter, he’s so youthful looking. Do you find that to be true?
Me: (in my head) I really wouldn’t know, my cataracts are pretty thick and the wrinkles on my forehead obstruct my view.
Me: (out loud) sigh. No, can’t say I’d noticed that particular quality.
Adoring fan: I guess maybe you might not see it like we do. He’s just so youthful and sincere. Sure glad you let him visit now and again.
Me: (in my head) LET HIM? Yeah, occasionally I release him from my trollish dungeon and let his beauty and lightness of being shine down on the world. But most of the time, I keep that shit locked up because I don’t want everyone to see the ancient troll I really am when standing next to such exquisite perfection. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? How were you married for 100 years and not understand that what you are saying to me is insulting! Dude, my “youthful” husband has wrinkles and frown lines and ants could tunnel in those forehead creases! I have no wrinkles! I get told all the time by other parents that I look like the babysitter, not the mom! But if being “youthful” is an acronym for short, then yeah he’s discovered the freakin’ fountain of youth! Now, you made me attack my husband in my head and rip apart his faults. He’s probably got a nose bleed right now and has no clue why! Just go away!
Me: <flashed a smile> (Although it was probably more feral than charming) I’ll be sure and tell him you said so.
Adoring fan: My wife was older than me by 6 months.
Me: (in my head) MY HUSBAND IS IS ALMOST 4 YEARS OLDER THAN ME! (I am now mentally snatching his walker and beating him over the head with it).
Me: (out loud) Good for her, that little cougarette, but my husband is actually older than me. By SEVERAl years. (on a side tangent, calling his wife a cougarette is sadly not the most inappropriate thing I’ve uttered to a resident. I think my personal best would be a tie between suggesting that a resident’s black eye came from an altercation with her much younger cabana boy or that another resident should use the dollar bills I gave her at “the club”…)
Adoring fan: Ok, well I guess I’ll let you get back to work.
Me: (out loud) Ok, nice talking to you (in my head) let’s not do it again soon.
Not only do I have to suffer the indignity of knowing that people think I am playing Mrs. Robinson to my husband’s Benjamin Braddock, but I get to cap off my day riding home in the “pedo-van” (I can’t wait to see what google searches ping that phrase). Keep in mind, that we consider the mini-van our “good” car. We play this fun game when we travel together as a family called “guess what will fall off the car next while driving down the highway”. Catchy, right? The winner gets to the keep the object in question, unless we need it for the car to run. I think this game will catch on. Don’t worry, I’ve got visuals. I don’t want anything to think I’m exaggerating.
That is the little pad that covers the break pedal, it fell off the other day. I’m assuming it’s cosmetic only???? You can also see how my fat ass has rubbed the leather off the seat. Sexy. I noticed it on the floor when I pushed the emergency brake down (which I am loathe to do because sometimes when you “pop” the brake, the handle comes off). I never used the emergency brake when parking in front of my house until the police showed up on our doorstep one day to inform us that The Mini had rolled down the street and into the neighbor’s lawn. Yeah…our neighbor’s hate us.
That little red light popped on after my husband left the sunroof open and it rained inside the car. I’m pretty sure it means I’m going to die by giant wrecking ball, so I avoid construction sites.
Here is a pic of our lovely bumper that’s being held on by zip ties. Is that a piece of styrofoam sticking out? I think that’s new. Do all cars have bumpers made out of styrofoam? The black marks were there before The Mini rear-ended someone. I got those running into our fence…a couple of times.
The side doors don’t open from the inside. I love standing outside waiting for the kids to get out, knowing that they can’t. That game NEVER gets old. Although, since it’s like 100 million degrees, I can’t play that game very long or people threaten to call child services.
On the plus side, the car is really good for my diet. Since the driver’s side window doesn’t roll down, I can’t freqent drive-thru’s, and the air-conditioning still works!
I should get my extremely younger looking husband to bring me to work, “Driving Ms. Daisy” style.
It’s all about the silver lining.