Sunday snippets

Number 1

My daughter Elvira, talking about a recent blog post: One of those was about me, wasn't it? Which one was it? I know one of them had to be about me.

Me: I said right in the post they probably weren't about anybody who would be reading it, didn't I?

Elvira: Yeah, whatever. Which one is about me? It's number 1, isn't it? That one's for me.

Me: No, not really. But how about 10 and 11? 10 and 11 can be about you.

Elvira: Yes, but number 1 seems like it fits me better.

Me: OK. Number 1 can be about you if you want. The truth is I wrote one to you, and then I deleted it.

Elvira: Why would you delete mine? Was it bad?

Me: I deleted it because 10 and 11 can be about you. I didn't want to write you an anonymous comment about ..... something.

Elvira: Oh my god. I know what you wrote about.

Me: I don't think it does any good to guess ....

Elvira: You wrote about my eyebrows, didn't you? You were going to send me an anonymous message about my eyebrows.

Me: Your eyebrows? No, I .... why would I write about your eyebrows?

Elvira: I know that's it. What else could it be? It has to be about my eyebrows.

Me: I'm dumbfounded that you think I would blog about your eyebrows.

Elvira: You're always saying I over-pluck them and the other day you said they looked like plastic because I've been drawing them on with a Sharpie. That has to be what you wrote about.

Me: Yeah, OK. You're right. I wrote about your eyebrows and then decided it was too personal and passive aggressive to say something like that on my blog.

Elvira: I knew it.

Number 2

Elvira, picking up a white card from my dresser: What's this?

Me: What's what?

Elvira: This card ...  Oh my god! Mommers! What the hell is this?

Me, finally looking: Oh, that. It fell out of my bra last night when I was getting undressed after the wrap party for that horror short I produced, Medicine. I still haven't figured out why I didn't feel it in there before I ....

Elvira: Mommers! Even for you this is kind of shocking. How did this get into your bra?

Me: Well, we were playing Cards Against Humanity ....

Elvira: What kind of game is that? Is that a sex game? Were you at an orgy?

Me: It's a card game. Look on the other side. We were playing Cards Aga ...

Elvira, turning the card over: Oh, I see. Nevermind. I don't think I want to know.

Me: It wasn't anything like you .....

Elvira: Nope. Doesn't matter. Next subject. Can I borrow this lipstick?

Me: I need to return that card to its owner.

Elvira: I said I don't want to know. I'm taking this lipstick.

Number 3

Elvira's beloved, Rock Dad, agree to play lead guitar with Joe and another bass player and me at church a couple of weeks ago for a big service. He shows up at my house for practice with a sweet red Gibson SG. (My dream guitar.)

Me: Where did you get that SG? Is that for me?

Rock Dad: No, this is mine. I got it for me.

Me: If I can't afford an SG, you certainly can't. You borrowed it from the store, didn't you? (He works part-time in a guitar store.)

Rock Dad: No, really, it's mine. I bought it from a junkie down in the Oregon District.

Me: How much? Can I buy it from you? You know that's my dream guitar, right?

Rock Dad: I paid him $10, and no, you can't buy it from me. I'm keeping it.

Joe: No way! I can't believe you paid $10 for any Gibson. You bought it from a junkie?

Rock Dad: Yeah, he said he needed money, and I said I'd give him $7. He took it.

Me: You paid $10 for a Gibson SG, and you're not going to give it to me? What kind of son-in-law are you going to be? That's just wrong. I rescind your invitation to Christmas.

Rock Dad: I really paid $7 for it, but I had to do some work on it so it came to $10.

Me: You don't want an SG, and I do. How about I trade you my Fender Strat? The pickup is broken on your Strat, and mine is perfect. That's fair. Back me up here, Joe.

Joe: I'm not getting into that, but that's an amazing deal on that guitar.

Rock Dad: I don't want your Strat. I just ordered a better pickup for my Strat.

Me: So you don't even need that guitar. You're going to be playing your Strat all the time. Plllleeeeaaaaasssssseeeee.....

Joe: That's a hell of a deal. I'm not sure if you're brilliant or evil.

Me, muttering as I give up and sit down at the piano: I think you're just selfish.

Rock Dad: I'm definitely evil.

Joe: I think maybe you're both.

Rock Dad: No, I'm just evil. If I were brilliant, I would have gotten his amp too.

A farewell to my tabs

It had to happen, I suppose. For months I've had 20 25 35 a few tabs open in Chrome. Not always the same tabs. I open and close a lot of tabs, but about half of them have been open for a long time. Some I use frequently -- every few minutes or hours. Some daily. Some I just don't want to forget about, but I don't look at them very often because I'm too busy checking my Facebook or writing blog posts. I don't think it's a big deal, but my  kids treat me like I've got some kind of mental illness because of the number of tabs I keep open.

A typical conversation goes something like this:

Child (age 29 or 22), whom I gave birth to in a haze of pain and blood and loud swearing and then ended up with stitches in a body part I write about a lot when it's not my own: Mom, why do you have so many tabs open? You have to close some of these! Your computer is so slow it barely moves.

Me: There aren't that many tabs open. Just do what you need to do and get off my computer. I don't want you to find my porn.

Child: Your computer is running so slow we can't run this video. I'm going to close some of these ...... Do you know you've got 34 tabs open?

Me:  Do not close any of those tabs. I need those tabs. I want those tabs to stay open. I won't be able to find them again.

Child: Your computer would run so much faster if you'd close some of these tabs.

Me: My computer is geriatric. It's so old I can't even remember when I bought it, but I know it was at least 5 years ago. Of course it's slow. The tabs are fine. Leave them alone, please.

Child: The problem is the tabs, not the computer. I'm going to close some ....

Me: I SAID DO NOT CLOSE MY FUCKING TABS. Those are my tabs. Sometimes you're just like your father. He used to count the number of cans of tuna in the pantry because he thought I bought tuna every time I went to the store .....

Child: Why don't you just bookmark them so you can come back to them later?

Me: I have bookmarks. Once I bookmark them though it's like they've gone into a black hole. I never look at them again. If they're open, I'm reminded to read them. Also I have to check my Facebook and my email and Pinterest .....

Child: You're like someone on an episode of Hoarders. You collect all the tabs, and you can't throw any of them away.

Me: I am not like those people. Those people have mouse poop in their carpets and they walk on piles of pizza boxes and old newspapers. These are tabs, not 30 years of Good Housekeeping. Just get off my computer if you don't like my tabs.

Child: I'm going to try your laptop. I can't even get this youtube video to load because of all these tabs using up the RAM.

Me: Fine. Just don't close my tabs.

Child, after opening laptop: I don't fucking believe this. You've got 23 tabs open on your laptop!

Me: They're different from the ones on my desktop ..... Well, some are the same, like Facebook and Pinterest and my emails. But most of them are different.

Child: This is insane. You've got a problem, Mom. You're like a crazy cat lady.

Me: I don't even have a cat! Not one!

Child: No, but you've got about 50 tabs open between these two computers. Your computer would run so much faster if you just closed some of these.

Me: No, it wouldn't. That's what browsers are for. To keep your tabs .... Besides my laptop is just as old as my desktop. They do the best they can, poor things.

Child: Mom, this is serious. You need help.

Me: A friend said he could do some work on my computers so they don't run so slow. He said they would be like new again.

Child, slowly, as if speaking to a child: Mom, if you'd close some of these fucking tabs, your computer would run just fine.

Me: You aren't the boss of me.

Child, under his or her breath: Hoarder.

Me: I heard that!

Child: Tell it to your cats.


Kids. Isn't it crazy how they go from needing their poopy diapers changed to deciding they can tell me how many tabs I can have open on my computers?

Anyway, last night, Chrome crashed and didn't retrieve my tabs when I reopened it. Disloyal son of a bitch. I lost all my tabs, except the ones on the toolbar. Some were really important, and I can't remember what they were. I was going to write about some of those articles eventually. Or sign up to take a certificate class in Excel. Or learn a song for karaoke. Or listen to a Ted Talk.

It's like a library burned down. An entire fucking library of tabs.

But don't worry about me. I've already opened a dozen tabs, and I'm sure I'll find more. I do mourn the loss of those other tabs though. They were like family .... family who didn't mock me for having too many tabs open.

I learned something from this experience and from writing about it though. Something that will get my kids off my back and keep me out of the Home.

I learned Chrome has extensions that will put all the tabs in a list in one tab, thus freeing up my RAM for other uses. The extension I downloaded is called .... wait for it ..... OneTab.

I really can't review it yet, because I just downloaded it. But other people gave it 5 stars. And it was free so if it doesn't work, I'll delete it and go back to a toolbar full of tabs.

It really doesn't bother me, but my kids have made such a big deal about it, I've taken to keeping my curtains drawn during the day so my neighbors don't find out how many tabs I have open at one time. Maybe now that I have OneTab my children can respect me again and find something new to complain about, like the number of episodes of Supernatural I have on my DVR.

November 15: The end of this poop

Have you ever had this happen? You hear about something or somebody for the first time, and then you see that thing or that person everywhere? Or you write about something, and that thing catches your attention with astonishing frequency?

Yeah, that happened to me. With poop. Since I wrote about Gracie's rolling turd, I've noticed poop everywhere. People are writing poop on their Facebooks. People are saying it on TV. I had to change a poopy diaper. And then I had this conversation with my daughter, Elvira.

Elvira: Coraline's little friend Carly is here today. They've been playing with each other and totally ignoring me. I picked up the bedroom and cleaned the bathroom. I don't know what to do next.

Me: Who knows what you might do now with all your free time. You could write your first novel. Or paint a gallery full of paintings.

Elvira: Or I could poop alone. That would be an achievement.
*******

As I promised Tuesday, I have just one more poop story, and this one is also about Elvira .... and poop.

When Elvira was 3, we were at the library one day checking out our books. Another mom and her daughter of a similar age were checking out next to us on the left.

Elvira turned and said to the girl, "How old are you? I'm 3." And she held 3 fingers up in front of herself about a foot from the other little girl's face. It was adorable. I smiled, for about one second.

The other mom, hereby known as Snooty Bitch, drew her breath in sharply and stuck her hand down between the two girls, closer to Elvira than to her own daughter. In fact, very close to Elvira's face.

"Don't let her touch her!" she said in a loud, shrill voice that indicated she thought Elvira might have leprosy. "Don't let her touch her!" Double leprosy.

I stared her down for a few seconds. One of those stop-motion periods of time with her hand in front of my adorable dark-haired daughter and my eyes telling her, "Snooty Bitch, I would be taking you outside and kicking your skinny suburban ass around the parking lot, but I don't want my daughter to know you think your snooty little princess is too good for her. However, next time I might not play nice with you. And you don't want to see me when I'm not nice. I will shank a bitch who hurts my daughter."

Elvira says even now that she's an adult with a child of her own that look makes her want to hand me her cell phone and go to her room for a week. And that's when I'm giving the look to someone else.

I took Elvira gently by the shoulders and moved her to my right side.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I want to play with that other little girl."

"Her mommy won't let her play right now," I said. "Just wait over here while I check out, please."

Snooty Bitch pulled her daughter up against her. We both went back to checking out, Elvira peering around my legs trying to catch the attention of the other little girl.

We both finished checking out at the same time. Snooty Bitch took her daughter's hand and headed toward the door. I also took Elvira's hand so she wouldn't attack the other little girl with kindness. I could tell she still wanted to make friends.

Suddenly she thought of the perfect ice breaker. She shouted, "My favorite color is purple. What's your favorite color?"

Before Snooty Bitch could stop her, the other little girl turned around and said, "Brown. My favorite color is brown."

Elvira stopped came to a dead stop. "Brown? Brown? Why is your favorite color the color of poop?"

I grabbed Elvira by her jacket, dragged her behind a bookcase and ducked down beside her. She was so confused she couldn't think of anything to say. But we heard the other little girl say loudly and clearly, "Mommy, why is that little girl so naughty?"

I didn't hear what Snooty Bitch said. I was trying too hard not to laugh hysterically back behind the bookcase where we were hidden. And I was failing. I was, in fact, almost peeing my pants I was laughing so hard.

Elvira said, "Mommy, I'm not really naughty am I?"

"No, baby girl, you are not naughty," I said. "And thank god your favorite color isn't the color of poop. Let's get the hell  out of here."

No more poop stories, I promise. Vaginas are much more fun. 

She's in the home

My son Drake and his girlfriend Montana are home for the weekend. They're both working at a nursing home and going to college full time. Drake works in the kitchen, and Montana is a nurses aide.

They were telling me about some of the patients on the dementia ward where Montana works. One is very polite. Even though she doesn't know what's going on, she always says something like, "Oh, aren't you sweet for doing that."

Another is paranoid. When Drake brings her a cup of coffee she says, "You put something in that. I know you put something in that. It's poisoned."

"No, it's just coffee," he'll say. "Nothing in this cup but coffee."

"No, you put something in it. It's poison."

"Really, it's just coffee. But I can get you another cup. Shall I get a fresh cup?"

"No, it won't matter if you do. It's all got something in it." She doesn't trust anybody.

I said my daughter Elvira and I have an agreement. She's going to take care of business if I ever get like that. I said, "I don't think you could do it, Drake, but Elvira will be able to. She'll smother me with a pillow or something and nobody will know."

Drake said, "I don't know, Mom. She's got a kid now. I'm not sure she can do it. Teen Elvira could have done it, but maybe not adult Elvira."

"Teen Elvira did try to smother me several times. Nobody would believe me. Besides, just make her change my diaper one time and she'll smother me with the diaper. She won't even bother with a pillow," I insisted.

"No," Drake said. "She won't be able to do it. She'll just get a big box, write 'home' on the side of it, stick you in it, and set you down somewhere. When people ask where you are, she'll say, 'In the home.'"

Shit. I'm afraid he's right. I'm going to live out my life in a big box with "home" written on it, probably in purple glitter paint. There are worse things than having somebody put poison in your coffee.

You know where to find me.

 

Why You Shouldn't Be Friends with Your Mom on Facebook: Reason #289

Click to go to the original blog post.

My child, who happens to be the mother of a child her own self, posted this status update on her Facebook. I should note that my child refused to friend me on Facebook for years, which caused a terrible rift between us didn't really bother me all that much. Every once in a while I would ask her if we could be friends, and she always said no. I finally gave up .... and then she finally got drunk one night came to her senses and friended me. I told her no because I didn't want her to know some of the crazy shit I was doing just to teach her a lesson ..... but later gave in. She has only herself to blame for the following conversation.

Reticula’s Child: I'm fine with porn, but everything PETA does pisses me off. What a terrible idea.

Hot Italian: PETA jumped the shark years ago. One would almost expect this crap from them at this point.

Reticula: I've used PETA as an example in my 101 classes when we're working on ad analysis. They create expensive ads that they have no intention of airing just to get the negative publicity. I guess it works for them.

Reticula’s Child: Did you read the part about how many animals they euthanize? And how they're going to sneak in animal abuse pictures with the porn? Fuck those people. They're awful and they don't help animal abuse one bit.

Reticula: I can imagine they only took in and then euthanized animals that were in terrible circumstances. What I don't understand is how they think a photo of a naked porn star will entice anybody to spay or neuter an animal. I think they've become publicity hounds (hee) and forgotten their mission.

Reticula’s Child: It's not the porn, that's just to get people on the website. It's the horrible pictures that are mixed in with the porn, I guess. Ugh.

Reticula: I agree with the author of the article. People who click on both porn and animal abuse photos are probably sick people who aren't there to support the vegan lifestyle. It just seems like a desperate, immature move to me. Who's running PETA these days and making these decisions? I don't disrespect them for their message. I don't respect their tactics.

Reticula: Wait. Did you say you're fine with porn? I can't believe you said that.

Reticula’s Child: I have no problem with porn. It really doesn't bother me. Umm, normal porn, that is. It's cheesy and stupid and not particularly arousing, but doesn't offend me. Unless it's wierdo porn.

Reticula’s Child: We should maybe move this conversation into a private message.

Reticula: So you're saying weirdo porn is not cheesy, stupid and un-arousing. Oh, what have I done? How did I fail you?

Reticula’s Child: Hey! No! Weirdo porn is all if those things AND I find it offensive and gross. Word-twisting witch!

Reticula: Bwah ha ha! No child should be born of an English teacher.

Reticula’s Child: Now I'm just trying to have the last word.

Too much sex is never a bad thing.

Reticula: Word.

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.