Full Moon Musing

I celebrated another full moon tonight with an amazing group of women. We happened to land in the same ritzy neighborhood as last time, so we walked to the same bridge overlooking a busy city street to find the moon rising over the treetops, orange as a wheel of Wisconsin cheddar cheese. Before we left the house, one of the women, Mary*, suggested we moon the moon tonight. I'm not sure why. Maybe singing and howling didn't seem like enough. I said I'd do it. Somebody else said we'd be arrested by the bored and eager for anything at all to happen diligent and highly responsive Oakwood police. I, as the second youngest in the group, replied that pulling our pants up when we saw flashing lights and lying our asses off to the nice officers would probably cover said asses. Who would believe this group of nine women, with at least one member in her 80's, would pull their pants down and stick their butts out over a busy street in a neighborhood where none of the houses sell for under seven figures? Mooning sounded like a fine idea to me. I hadn't done it in decades.

So we walked to the bridge and sang some moon songs and howled, and then Mary laughed and said it was time to moon the moon. I started to unbutton my pants....but nobody else even reached for their waistbands. Several people just kept talking about something that had nothing to do with exhibitionism.

I said, "OK, let's do it. Pull 'em down." We looked at the traffic whizzing by under the bridge and at the headlights playing down the streets on either side, and then Mary claimed she was just kidding. I said, "Forget it. We came here to moon, so I'm going to moon....as soon as that car passes over the bridge." (I'm crazy, but I'm not insane. Don't believe what you've heard.)

So the car passed close by us and as soon as the tail lights cleared the bridge, I pulled down my capris and mooned the man in the moon....and the busy street below. For a moon to be a full moon you have to hold it for at least three seconds. I did. As I was buttoning up, Mary made a motion to my left and claimed she'd done it, but I know she didn't hold it long enough. I don't think her pants cleared her cheeks. I really don't. And I also don't think anybody in a car below the bridge saw my white middle-aged ass shining in the light of the full moon either. Nor did I get arrested, more's the pity. That would have made a much better story.

As I was leaving, the friend who shared her lovely house with us tonight was laughing about how her kids--all grown--treat her like she's too old to make decisions for herself....unless they want her to babysit. I don't think she's hit 60 yet, so she's hardly in automatic dementia range. As I was driving home, I tried to think whether my kids ever treat me that way, whether we ever suffered from role reversals. And I thought of several conversations where, yes, I could say they thought I needed their advice or even protection.

For example, my daughter interrogated me about expressed interest in somebody I'd been dating for several months. She wanted to meet him and I explained that he wouldn't want to meet my kids. It went something like this:
Daughter: I want to meet this guy you've been dating.
Me: He doesn't want to meet you.
Daughter: Why not? I want to meet him.
Me: I don't know. I'm just sure he wouldn't be comfortable meeting you. I guess it might imply....something.
Daughter: Has my brother met him?
Me: No.
Daughter: Does he hate kids?
Me: You're not really kids, but no, of course not. He has kids too.
Daughter: Have you met them?
Me: No, they don't live here.
Pitbull Daughter: Do you expect to meet them?
Me: No, I don't think he'd be comfortable....
Daughter: Hmmm. How long have you been dating this guy? 
Me: You know....a few months.
Daughter: What do your friends think of him?
Me: We don't really hang around with....you know. A few of them have met him a couple of times. But we know some of the same people....
Daughter: What are his friends like?
Me: Would you like to set up a hanging light bulb? Burn me with a cigarette? Waterboard?
Daughter: Just answer the question.
Me: I haven't met them.
Daughter: You haven't met his friends? Why?
Me: He doesn't want...I don't know....
Daughter:  You don't know?
Me: Stop it! He's a nice guy and I like him. Why do you care if he comes to Thanksgiving dinner? When we go out, we just go out together, OK?  Alone. I really like him.
Daughter:  No, not OK. What would you say if I'd been dating somebody for....how many months? Five? Six? and he refused to meet you? What would you say?
Me: Not the same.....but OK, your dad and I would probably put away our swords and poison-tipped arrows for a day and arrange a meeting with or without anybody's permission. But I'm not your daughter and you're not.....
Daughter: And I'm not dating, but you are. Someone you're seeing that much of should meet your kids and your friends.
Me: Not your decision.
Daughter: Are you having sex with this man? 
Me: (letting a long silence pass) You didn't really ask me that. 
Daughter: I thought so. You better think about this, Missy.
Me: I do. And you did make a valid point. Now let's talk about something else, huh? Like if Dean from Supernatural showed  up on the porch and needed help catching a monster, I get first dibs on taking him upstairs because you're pregnant and I'm not.... 
Daughter: We're not done with this conversation.
Me: You're not my mother.

Foam Night

Another conversation, this one with my son, after a night out at a club he and his friends frequent. It was foam night and I was feeling just a little crazy because of something upsetting and deal-breaking that had happened earlier in the night. The kids had been begging me to go out to the club with them on techno-goth night, so I grabbed my friend The Diplomat and we headed over there after we'd closed down the place where we'd been dancing. I think the kids thought it would be funny if  I danced on the pole or in the big hanging cage, but I had no intention....and then there was foam. Lots of foam. It was intoxicating....the foam was intoxicating. My son, his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, and another female friend were determined to show me such a good time I'd want to come back again and again, even though I'm pretty sure that, other than The Diplomat, I was the oldest person in the place by decades a few years....except for another attractive older man, a stranger, who danced into our little group after we went inside to boogie in the fog and the flashing lights. And here's how the conversation went with my son the next day.

Son: I don't have to ask if you had fun last night.
Me: I did. It was just what I needed. Crazy fun.
Son: Yeah, I noticed you attracted some attention.
Me: I didn't embarrass you, did I?
Son: Me? No, of course not. You can't embarrass me, remember? I just had to...you know, keep an eye on you.
Me: Keep an eye on me? When have you ever had to keep an eye on me, baby boy?
Son: When we were all dancing a strange guy came up and started dancing with you.
Me: Yes. Yes, he did. And he was pretty cute too, huh?
Son: I didn't notice.
Me: Wait.....is that why you stopped dancing and just stood off to the side with your arms crossed?
Son: Somebody had to keep an eye on things.
Me: I was dancing with the guy....dancing! I wasn't going to take him home and....
Son: ....No! No need to explain! I don't want to know what you were going to do with him.
Me: I wasn't going to do anything with him...yet. I was dancing with him. Or he was dancing with me. I was flattered and I kind of needed the ego boost.
Son: Yes, and not everybody who comes into that place is a nice guy.
Me: He seemed pretty nice to me. I mean, nice to dance with.
Son: Yes, and I was making sure he stayed nice.
Me: Oh my god. I can't believe you said that.
Son: If things had gotten ugly you would have thanked me.
Me: If things had gotten ugly I could have taken care of myself.
Son: Just sayin'.
Me:  Don't ever do that again.
Son: Can't promise that.
Me: You box blocked me.
Son: Don't want to hear it.

And finally, if you've read this far, you probably need another drink a conversation in the kitchen with my son's girlfriend and my daughter a couple of weeks ago as I was putting the finishing touches on my son's birthday dinner.

Son's Girlfriend: What happened with that guy the other night? The one you were dancing with at the Celtic festival? Did you leave with him?
Me: Which one?
Son's Girlfriend: The last one. Not the one in the hat. The one in the kilt who wasn't wearing a shirt. The one you were slow dancing with....
Daughter: Was he cute?
Me: He was adorable. Great guns. I would have really gone for him 30 years ago.
Daughter: (to Son's Girlfriend) Was he really all that? Or is she exaggerating?
Me: I'm right here.
Son's Girlfriend: Yeah, he really was gorgeous. So, did you tap that?
Me: Tap that? No! Of course not. He was a child. Did he even have on a wrist band?
Son's Girlfriend: He was drinking a beer. You didn't tap that? He was all over you!
Me: Yes, he was and don't you think that's weird? He grabbed my ass about a dozen times. I should have slapped him. A guy his age? He's your age. You're all children. And he was drinking a beer, but I ask again, did he have on a wristband?
Girlfriend: I didn't notice if he had on a wristband, but you should have taken him home with you. He wanted you.
Me: I'm not a pedophile! But he did call three times and he left the cutest message....
Daughter: You gave him your number?!? You never give out your number! Mommers!
Me: I know. I didn't mean to. He asked me to put my number in his phone and...he was very persistent... and I thought I transposed the last two digits but for some reason I put in the right number. It was definitely accidental. I didn't answer the phone when he called.
Son's Girlfriend:  Why not? You really should have tapped that. He was so hot.
Me: He was hot, and he was a baby. A hot little boy child. I can't think of any reason why he was even dancing with me. I think it might even be kind of embarrassing that I danced with him. Maybe he was a ho. 
Son's Girlfriend: A ho? Why would you think that? You were pretty hot that night too.
Daughter: Mom is a MILF.
Me: I hate that term. I'm not a MILF. That's disgusting. I'm just a mom. And I don't "tap" kids who are younger than my first-born. And I wouldn't tap a guy who thinks having his own apartment is enough to impress me. I told him my standards are higher than that....
Daughter: You didn't have to marry him. Just do him. Get your cookie and then you're done with him. Get your cookie first and send him on his way.
Son's Girlfriend: What did he say in the message?
Me: He said I should call him back and we should get together .... tonight if possible. And then he thought he'd hung up and I could hear him say in the background, "Oh shit. I really sounded like a dork."
Son's Girlfriend: Awww. That's so cute. Why didn't you call him back?
Me: You're kidding, right? I'm really not a pedophile and I don't need you children to focus so much on my sex life....or my lack of a sex life.
Daughter: Mom, next time some young stud goes after you, just do it. Don't overthink  it.
Me: I'm pretty sure he was a ho. Nothing else about it makes sense. I can't believe you want me to tap a ho.

So, I guess I have reached that age. That age where my children think I'm too old to take care of myself. That age where they think their advice overrides all my years of taking care of myself and them. But as I drove, I thought....hmmm. If I did get busted for mooning the moon and the traffic over Dorothy Lane, who would I call to bail me out? I guess it would be....one of my kids. Wow. That really puts things into perspective, doesn't it? I may have to see what I can do about making that happen the next time a full moon rolls across the sky.

*Name changed to protect the guilty.