Nothing to See Here…

I thought I lost you, but gosh, here you are right here waiting for me. 

I have things to talk about…. things about mean neighbor ladies and things about really ostentatious titles (you may call me Ma’am, now… no, wait - call me QUEEN Ma’am, please).  But all that will have to wait. 

I should write something timely and witty about Halloween but no time… I haven’t thunk anything good up.  Rae-Rae, the little one, she is sick.  Poor little Rae-Rae.  And what is it with the way one of my kids gets sick before every flippin’ holiday?

I should write about the mommy-blogging brouhaha because I loves me all of the bloggers who have been treated badly by that low-life coward who, it would appear, is so very jealous she cannot contain it.  She pretends to be oh-so-blase’ but to a professional like me (don’t ask me professional what, just call me Queen Ma’am and move along) it’s evident she is so terribly insecure and jealous.  Ah, well…. if we didn’t have the meanies, how would we ever recognize the nicies?  And if meanies is a word, why does nicies look so wrong?  Huh?  (Just say “I don’t know, Queen Ma’am.” and move along.)

I thought I would contemplate the reality that, in less than 2 months, I will turn 42.  I’m not one of those who laments the passing years.  I didn’t cry at any of my birthdays.  I haven’t run out to price up plastic surgery.  I’m a go with the flow kind of chick, maybe.  Or maybe it’s just because my hair hasn’t started to go grey yet.  But anyway, I don’t mind the birthdays. 

In fact, I never feel old.  Mostly, I feel like a naughty teenager parading around like a, ugh, GROWN-UP.  I keep hearing myself say these MOM things and thinking that someone is going to discover my posery.  I’ve been posing as an adult for years now, but really deep inside, I’m still an insecure kid trying to figure it all out (except the Queen Ma’am thing - I’ve got that one all sussed.)

In two months, I’ll be 42.  Did you hear me??

It seems like only two years ago I started my period.  I was with Pam, Lisa, and Debbie at Clancy’s corner market buying some Kotex and we ran into Mike and Steve and Carlo as we came out the exit and one of them asked “What’s in the bag?”  We panicked, looked at each other, and Lisa blurted out “Cheerios!”  For years after that, they were referred to as Cheerios.  “Pam, did I start?  Check my skirt - I think I started.  I feel it.  Are you SURE there’s nothing on my skirt?  I swear it’s there.  Do you have any Cheerios?”  Like that.

A year ago, Shawn - the LEAD SINGER of the band - chose me and man what a thrill.  He wanted to skinny dip but I was too damn scared.  It was my one and only chance to skinny dip… all these years later and I still haven’t gone skinny dipping.  And Shawn was HAWT (it’s OK for me to talk like that because I’m only 16, right?)

Six months ago, I had to work up the courage to tell my mom I was pregnant.  That was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Three months ago, after multiple attempts, I finally worked up enough courage to file for divorce and then my life really started.  Also, Carlo?  He killed himself.

Last month, I met Bill and we’ve had this wonderful time together and these three awesome kids.

Last week, I started this blog.

Yesterday, I was promoted to Queen Ma’am.

And here I am today, getting ready to turn 42.  Unfuckingbelievable. 

Oh, and the Cheerios story is real, but I’ll be damned if I can remember who was buying them and who came up with the Cheerios moniker.  All I know is that MY posse (Pam, Lisa, Debbie) was coming out of the store and our male counterpart posse (Mike, Steve, Carlo, Don) was inquiring as to the contents of the bag.  Thank goodness back in the day they didn’t use those flimsy see-through plastic bags.  No, back then it was solid brown paper that was so thick we used it to cover our text books in school!

But I digress.

I’m turning 42 but most of the time I feel like I’m 14. 

Of course, I may be the only 14 year old around with failing weak vision, boobs down to my belly button, aching knees that can barely be trusted, chin whiskers, and stretched out pierce ear holes from all those damn heavy earrings in the 80s.

Ah, life. 

Happy Hallween, ya’ll.  I think I’ll wear the same costume this year as I did last year:  someone who can fit into size 18 bluejeans.  Muhahahahah!!!  Scary stuff, that.