Sunday, January 25, 2009


The nice people at The State do not seem to understand that they have thrown my entire day off balance. I got up. I started a load of laundry, which is more than I usually do. I let the dog out, fed the cat. It's newspaper time.

BUT NO PAPER. ARGH! So, now I've had to call my friend to complain ('cause that helped), fire up the computer to find the non-delivery phone number, call the nice people because the non-delivery form on the website didn't find my account info, and talk to a very nice man who was sincerely apologetic and helpful, thereby negating the previously justified cussing I had done about the printed news industry in general.

Good news: They're bringing me a paper. I guess it must have been in Arkansas that they stopped doing re-delivers (which, you'll note, is a misnomer as the paper was not delivered, and therefore could not be RE-delivered) and started crediting accounts. I had built myself all up for nothing.

Bad news: Now I've been distracted by facebook, this blog, and a hundred other things. My Sunday paper time is MY time - it's early, the light is dim, and there is no noise about except for the occasional stompity-stomp of not-so-little feet in the playroom. I touch every page - except sports (blagh) - sort my circulars according to interest level, saving the best (TARGET, of course) for last. I proceed to coupon time and the joy it brings to match coupons and store sales to maximize the benefit and minimize the cost ( THEN and only then can I get on with my day.

So, I suppose I should be grateful for the muse brought on by the non-delivery, but I'm not. I'm just off kilter and edgy until my crack arrives.

Great. The washer just stopped. Now I feel compelled to start another load. Rats. Looks like I might accomplish something after all today.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Mom Jeans

Alright, I know I am not a fashionista (I'm more of a "fashionleasta" as they called Michael Feldman on "What Do You Know" today...) but get this: (warning, I get a little judgy, which I'm sure you'll find not at all surprising.)

Today I went downtown to the University bookstore to get my books for this semester's class. It was SO evident that I was twice as old as most of the folks there - I only had four employees approach me in their red "I Can Help You" shirts (seriously, that's what the shirts said), each of whom appeared genuinely disappointed that I was able to figure out the system all by my old lonesome. As I returned down the street to my car, some little adolescent punk stoner sophomore hung his nappy long haired self out of his friend's passenger window, looked at me and said "Moooooooommmmm Jeeeeeaaaannnnnns!" Y'all know I am usually pretty quick with nice little zingers, but I was at a loss. All I could initially think was, "WHAT? These are not designer but they are by no means Mom Jeans!" So, I smirked and chuckled, said nothing, and went on about my business of getting to the car and heading to the grocery stores with my coupons! (How MOM!)

I know that ultimately the best response was no response, but I WISH I had been able to chase the little hookah-sucking Gamecock down to share with him a thing or two about my "Mom Jeans" and how I totally rock them.

First, I'd ask if he had ever actually seen the SNL sketch to which he was referring. Clearly not, as despite any weight I now carry in my midsection, my low-rise flares hardly qualify them as Mom Jeans and the trunkload of junk I carry back there is many things, but not flat.

Then I'd share with him the glories of being a mom and how fine a compliment it was for him to recognize my status as such. I'm fully twice his age. I pay my own tuition. I maintain a 4.0. I buy my own alcohol. I don't have to catch a ride to the Wendy's with my friend in his used car. People respect me. People depend on me. I am salaried and I have benefits. I do my own laundry in a machine that does not take quarters. I can sit at my house and watch any of a number of channels on one of my flat-screens and not have to worry about my roommate bringing home some skank or eating my food. Best of all, unlike my adolescent friend with the tremendous wit, I can "get some" whenever I want with no alcohol involved.

These jeans are evidence that I have been young once, and that I am as young as I feel, but I have overcome much of the self-righteous ignorance of that youth. I can be myself without worrying about what some hosehead thinks of my appearance. There is nothing more important to me than the people who gave me these hips and their needs.

Much like, I suspect, his own mom. I bet he turns to her for money, for comfort, for advice, for food, for laundry service. I imagine he's more than once lied to her, and I hope he's regretted it. I'm sure she loves him despite his low GPA, his "habit" (yeah, I'm assuming), his struggle to realize that he is not the center of the universe. I am certain that, while he probably THINKS he does, he has no idea what the words "sacrifice" and "love" mean - at least not yet. Unless his mom is dead, I am willing to bet that he fully takes her for granted.

My beloved, the best insulter I have ever known, suggested that I should have made a comment about his parts belonging to a boy, and despite the potential for imprisonment that could have brought on, I'm glad that didn't come to me. I hope, instead, that he might hear his mom's voice in his head as he goes to bed tonight, and that he realizes how much better he could have done if he wanted to impress his buddies by insulting a middle-aged woman. I'm sure they thought it was hysterical, and I hope their moms' voices creep into their deepest sleep, as well, if not tonight, but one of these years when they are married to a mom and some little twerp shows his immaturity on a Sunday afternoon with such a clever shot.

Now that I think of it, I should have said something...


(Here's the link to the SNL commercial parody - there are a ton of equally entertaining videos on Youtube, too!)