Tag: humour

A Serious Post About F#!*ing Profanity.

Okay, people. We need to talk about this.

Totally kidding. I love profanity. A little too much. When I go skulking about, blog-stalking, it’s a little disturbing how fast I hit the “follow” button when someone uses the “F” word in their intro paragraph. You rebel, you, with your devil-may-care attitude, you just made me smile with your bold irreverence.

Unfortunately (depending on your perspective), I limit myself to the kiddie-table of swear words here. Why? Not entirely sure. Oh wait – my parents would not approve. I think that may be about 92% of it (an overly high percentage for a 41-year-old). And they don’t even read my blog. Sigh.

But, I am (more or less) of the don’t-say-fuck-unless-they-say-fuck-first philosophy. (And, yes, I realize I just said it.) But my parents don’t say the F word, so I don’t say the F word around them. And I don’t say it around my teenagers. And they don’t say it around me. So I talk like a sailor around my husband and friends…and my girls talk like sailors around their friends…and we all live in a penthouse suite in downtown Denial-ville. And we’re happy there.

My parents actually live there, too. My mother is my best reader and absolutely loves my latest novel. It’s first-person and the main girl talks a lot like me (shocking, I know). Well, everyone in the book swears. Top-shelf swear words, too. No kiddie-table crap. However, mom didn’t really have any issue with the swearing unless it was my main girl doing the deed. Really? Yes, really. Denial, party of one, your table is ready.

So, I like using it, but pretend I don’t say it for my parents’ sake, pretend I don’t know it for my daughters’ sake, and thankfully have never accidentally used it in front of the judge. Winning.

Ode to a Hot Mess.

ImageI love a “hot mess.” The phrase. (I love the people hot messes in my life, too, but that is a post for another day.)

I think we should give a medal to whoever came up with this saying. It’s that awesome. Cause anyone can be a mess. He’s a mess. She’s a mess. Your room’s a mess. But a hot mess? Well, that sort of kicks it up a notch, doesn’t it.

And a hot mess conjures up all sorts of delightful imagery. She’s a hot mess. Ooh. A hot mess. Is she sticky? Sexy? Feverish? Melty? Yeah, probably melty. As in: post-meltdown. (Which would explain the myriad of Miley, Lindsay, Britney, and my favorite new addition to the Celebrity-Rich-Girl-Crazy-Pants Club, Amanda Bynes photos that you get when you Google “hot mess.”)

So thank you, whoever you are, who has allowed us to reach new heights of dysfunction while retaining a touch of glamour.

Dear Lord, Make Me Funny.

Image

Although I would settle for you making everyone else less funny so that I seem funnier by comparison.

My husband is a big Joel Stein fan and just bought his book “Man Made.” He told me I had to read the intro. Just the intro. It’s hilarious. Well, turns out, Mr. Stein’s intro is funnier in four pages than I am in 41 years. I’m not certain of the conversion rate on those two units of measurement, but I’m pretty sure it makes me sad.

Because you can’t fake funny. Some people just are. I am not. I do have funny moments. When I’m drinking. Because alcohol makes me funnier makes me think I’m funnier. But the rest of the time? My cat is funnier than I am. (In my defense, though, she is hilarious.)

Although, according to my friends, I do excel at being unintentionally funny which is better than nothing. And probably puts me somewhere between Sponge Bob and Ruth Bader Ginsburg on the funny-meter.

Funny Meter

When ‘Looking Good’ Becomes ‘Looking Good For Your Age.’

Let me preface this by saying, my age has never bothered me. No, really. Thirty? Psh. Forty? Bring it on.

I am now 41. No biggie. I’m holding up well (sort of). I have no problem telling anyone how old I am, whether they ask or not (which sometimes confuses the checker at the grocery store). But, a week ago, I picked up the local business journal and it had the annual “40 Under 40 to Watch” article. And it occurred to me…even if I was rocking it in my profession, I no longer qualify. Why this was news to me, I have no idea, but it was an unpleasant realization (probably compounded by the fact that I’m a 41-year-old who is only TWO years into her profession and by the time I’m rocking anything, it’ll be time to retire).

Then, last weekend, my husband cruelly reminded me that he was only 40 and that I would turn 42 before he even turned 41. (We’ve been married almost 17 years and he has actually always been more than a year younger than me so, again, this should not have been news to me.) 

Well, I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m actually starting to look 41. I find that my age-related-zen may have relied a little on the fact that everyone thought I was younger than I am. And were continuously shocked that I have a 19-year-old daughter. Alas, the shock is fading.

It doesn’t help that women, in general, seem to look better. All this “40 is the new 30” crap? Absolutely true. So, if I had a time machine and could go back to 1987, I would be an amazing-looking 41-year-old. In 2014? Not so much. Case in point: my 20-year high school reunion. If movies teach us anything, it’s that you go to your HS reunion for the sole purpose of seeing the popular girls who were mean to you transformed into fat, frumpy, bitter divorcees. My classmates did not get the memo. Frankly, the lack of cellulite and wrinkles was disturbing.

So apparently they raised the bar when no one was looking. But, life’s little truths still remain…true. 1) age is just a number, 2) living well is the best revenge, 3) always wait 30 minutes after eating before going swimming, and 4) all you need is love.