It’s DB’s BD!

It’s birthday week around here.  Time to do an assessment of the old girl.

No, it isn’t MY birthday–it would be much too depressing to count wrinkles on my own birthday. Today is Dearly Beloved’s natal day and I must say, the man should be proud of the way he’s holding up.  Several years ago he had a major health problem that aged him prematurely– almost killed him–before he sought a doctor for his symptoms.  (Don’t get me started on that!)   Now that it’s under control, it’s like living with Benjamin Button.  No kidding.

A few weeks ago, one of the neighbor widows told him he looked like Brad Pitt.

We don’t need that kind of talk around here.  He is not a modest man; he often reminds me  that he’s suave and debonair. . . only he pronounces them swave and deboner, so I’ll think he’s not serious.  His other reminder, that he would like to be known as The Studmeister?  He’s serious.

Since my birthday isn’t until January,  I always enjoy the three-month period after his when I am his much younger wife–TWO years younger than he.  Then the calendar rolls over and so do I.   But for the next 90+ days,  no matter what I see in the mirror, I’m two years younger than DB,  so I MUST be simply having an “off day.”

DB stayed at the beach house-not-on-the-beach while I was in Atlanta last week and I’ve got to say, the man came back lookin’ good.   He’s much more health conscious than I am–meaning he exercises and is careful about what he eats.   The weather was perfect for him to spend hours  walking shirtless on the beach, and as a result he is tanned and–dare I say it–buff.

So I looked in the mirror this morning and before I even focused, I realized I need to ramp up my equipment a notch.  It’s time to trade the magnifying mirror in for a lighted magnifying mirror.   That’s harsh.  I’m not obsessing over every wrinkle, but if I have chin hairs long enough to French braid,  I need to know.

Even without a lighted mirror, I can see that my latest new wrinkle is worsening. It’s a crease that looks like a scar and runs from my upper lip and disappears somewhere in the big cheek crease beside my right nostril.  I think it is caused by the way I sleep–on my right side–so that I can spoon with the Birthday Boy, but most folks would doubtless guess “hard smoker for half a century” or “knife fight in Kentucky roadhouse.”  (wrong on both counts, thank you very much!)

I may be at the crossroad where the outward signs of aging take a back burner to the physical stuff; some days I feel downright creaky.  For the most part, I temper concerns about my growing crop of brown spots by mentally categorizing them as “freckles.”   The starbursts at the corners of my eyes are “laugh lines” instead of crows’ feet.

Yet, there are realities that I simply accept:

The only way I’ll have a perky bustline again is to don an industrial strength bra while standing on my head.

Mine will probably always be a harvest moon.

My stomach has a ruffle.

Dryness is everywhere—head to toe.  I don’t know why I don’t need heel lifts, so much dead skin has gone into the PED EGG doodad.   I can write my name on my legs with my fingernail.  I have the heartbreak of psoriasis.  My hair gulps conditioner.  It’s amazing how much of me requires lubrication.

Dearly Beloved, on the other hand, throws on a little sunscreen and that’s it.  (More proof that God is, indeed, a man.)

Hey,  I’m not going to worry about any of that for now.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEARLY BELOVED! I’m two years younger than you.


birthday legs 008

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Hindsight Can Be the Pitt(s)

My friend Cray was feeling guilty recently about getting rid of some furniture her mother had passed on to her and wanted to know how I  handled such  problems.    Rule No. 1:  Try to foist it off on your children to prevent any later blowback.   Like this:   

Oh, Offspring O’ Mine. . . remember your great -grandmother’s  wardrobe, that behemoth heavy enough to crack black walnuts if it toppled on them?    First one to show up with a U-Haul gets it.

Let me tell you a story. . . .

Today I read an article in the New York Times about an  e-mail fad where people write 25 Random Things about themselves.  My friend Jincey sent hers  to me recently.   Some of her revelations were unknown, a couple were surprising, and some I might have guessed anyway.

List 25 things about myself that might interest  even my closest friends?  Can’t do it.    I could do 25 Things You Won’t Give A Rip To Know About Me, but  why bother?   I can, however, give you one:

I have seen Brad Pitt’s pecker. 

Oh, I don’t mean live and in person from the angle that Angelina Jolie has seen it (I probably don’t need to clarify that now that I think about it, do I? ) or even like his mother has seen it.   I did not diaper his dimpled bottom.  I mean that  I have seen photographs of it. 

Remember years ago when he was dating Gwyneth Paltrow and a paparazzi  took pictures of them with a telescopic lens and sold them to one of the rag magazines?  Don’t feel bad; I didn’t pay much attention myself.   My mother, however, did.  The magazine published the photos but Pitt took them to court, won his case,  and the publisher was  forced to pay a fine and re-call all the magazines.

Except, at least, for the two on my mother’s coffee table.  

For my granddaughters,  she said.

Said granddaughters  (who as I mentioned on a previous blog  did not especially like to talk sex with their grandmother, even though she delighted in the subject)  demurred and would not even touch the magazines.  

“YOU take them,”  they told me.

A couple of years later I was cleaning,  getting rid of stuff in preparation for yet another move  and came upon them on my closet shelf.  Except for possibly. . . no, definitely. . . being eyed  by my mother,  they had never been opened.  I remedied that.

Not one to peek and tell, I  will say only that the boy had nothing to be ashamed of.  Gwyneth was a little puny thing , but Brad. . . ?   He looked like such a happy fella.    She has since bared her skinny little body  in films but I don’t know whether Brad has chosen to dangle his dillywagger publicly or not. 

Okay, here is where the story takes a disastrous turn.  Right along with the pairs of too-picked pantyhose and the shoes that gave me blisters, I tossed them.    Yep, somewhere in a landfill. . . !

 At the time I felt downright noble.  After all, I was not only saving this young man from exploitation, but possibly sparing my daughters the embarrassment of being arrested for trying to hawk illegal materials.    A motherly gesture on my part, I thought.

“Well, there goes my sons’  college education fund, ” my daughter snapped when I confessed.

In hindsight, I do feel bad about tossing them.  After all, my daughter-in-law might not have been so prudish and since she wasn’t around then, she never  had a opportunity to put in a bid.    I hope she never finds out.

I should have just stowed them in the wardrobe.