The Confessions of Mrs. Sprat

It all started with my friend's observation a few months ago.

"Wow, Greg has lost a lot of weight. He looks really hot...Are you worried?"

Am I worried!?

Well I wasn't until right then. Up until then, I was busy being proud of my man and enjoying his new hunky physique. Until then, I relished the second looks he was getting from other women. Perhaps it was naivete or an overly healthy self image but it had never occurred to me to be worried.

So now I'm worried. I'm worried that we might be a Jack Sprat couple. I'm worried that when people look at us they wonder what he is doing with me. I'm worried that my new found insecurities will make me even less attractive.

Most of all, I'm worried that her very question implies that I should be worried.

CC

Thumb Suckers

Monday afternoon, in my car on the way to swim lessons I happened to glance out the passenger side window just in time to see two sleazy looking men looking back at me from a boxy old, primer grey Isuzu pick-up. Just as I was about to give a nervously friendly wave, the driver shouted something in my direction, threw his head back, and they sped off laughing.

If I were a more naive person I would have given him the benefit of the doubt and assumed that he said "Some hitch!" in reference to the tow package on the back of my van, or maybe "Bum itch!" suggesting vigorous back-side scratching as an explanation for his erratic behavior. Call me superficial, but I am a girl who judges a book by its cover, and based on their heavy gage body piercings, death metal bumper stickers and matching construction orange t-shirts, I knew better.

Of course I began to self-blame. Did I cut him off...was I driving too slowly...did he find me singing "Cats! The Musical" and he couldn't abide a corny yet admittedly catchy show tune?

Honestly, how pathetic and guilt spongey could I be? I quickly gave myself a good scolding, and formulated a more acceptable explanation. Clearly those men are misogynistic creeps who resort to random acts of verbal bullying to feel powerful and (being the tender and soft hearted woman that I am) I should pity the bleakness of their sad little lives.

Sighing with relief, brimming with righteous indignation and a healthy dose of moral superiority, I hoped that they happened to look back at me in their rear view mirror at the exact moment my lips were mouthing some words which may or may not have been "Thumb Suckers."

CC

Living Will

When I am old I will be fabulous; Old Dame fabulous with poise, and grace, and a sarcastic wit. I will be mysterious, or at least mystifying. I will have bobbed silver hair, with one pure white piece in front that sets off my eyes. When I am old I will have soft crepey skin, and wrinkles that make me look wise. I will have energy that belies my years and hands that will betray them and I will show off my old hands with nails that are long and always polished.

When I am old I will command a room with my presence, and my warmth will envelop it. Young women will want to be like me when they are old, and young men will wish they had known me when I was young.

When I am old I will wear high heel shoes and complain about them. I will carry an elaborate cane which I wouldn't need if I didn't wear high heels. I will have lots of costume jewelry, and I will regularly wear too much of it at once in order to look grand.

When I am old I will curse. Mostly, I will curse softly under my breath, but sometimes I will curse loudly so as to shock people.

When I am old my children will still seek my advice and my grandchildren will follow it.

When I am old I will have framed pictures of me when I was young and beautiful. When people see those pictures they will say, "God, you were beautiful!" and I will smile proudly at them and say, "Thank you," because by then, I will know it is true.

When I am old I will have a very small dog named Patsy or Kipper. I will take this very small dog with me everywhere I go in a great big purse and I will feed it from my plate and it will hate everyone else but me.

When I am old I will live alone but not be lonely. I will have friends who are old and we will go to lunch and to the matinee and we will talk too loudly during intermission about our constipation. I will be a terrible gossip, but I will not have a reputation for being a gossip so my friends will still confide in me.

When I am old I will have to have a 'procedure.' Just a small procedure, but one that makes people worry so that I know they still love me. Once its all over, everything will be fine and afterwards, I will talk about my small procedure vaguely, so as not to be too morbid. 

 When I am old, I will be old, and not wish to be young again. I will drive a fancy car very slowly, and I will wear large sunglasses over my bifocals, and sometimes I will forget to take the sunglasses off.

When I am old I will be vain. I will wear too bright a shade of lipstick and carry a gold compact with a magnifying mirror in my purse. I will reapply my lipstick all day long so that people will see that I am still vain.

When I am old I will be eccentric but not crazy. I will sing and dance around my house and talk out loud to myself. I will read good books and go to the museum, and to the symphony where I will make noise with the candy I keep in my purse.

When I am old I will have money. I will spend that money on my grandchildren and when one of them has a big fight with their parents they will come and live with me, but not stay too long. 

When I am old I will be inspiring because I will have lived a full life and people will see that I am still living it. 

When I am old I will sing songs to my grand children that no one remembers, and some time my grandchildren will hear those songs somewhere else and think of me.

When I am old I will paint my toenails red. I will wear the same perfume every day and my granddaughters will never be able to wear that perfume because no one wants to smell like an old lady.

When I am old I will have a house that my children will not want to sell when I die. I will take ill in that house, and I will have a nurse named Peggy or Ginger and she will change my diapers, and call me 'Sug'. When I go, I will go quietly, but only after my children have said goodbye. I will not be afraid to die, but my children will be afraid to lose me. They will cry a lot at my funeral, and afterwards, they will go back to my house that they do not want to sell, and look at my pictures and laugh and tell each other my stories and say, "God, she was beautiful," because I was. 

CC

Written Apologies

To the Little Girl on the Playground ,

I'm sorry that I called you a liar when you told me that your grandpa was your biological father. And now that I am old enough to know what that means...I'm even more sorry that your mom is your sister and your brother is your uncle.

To the mean girl in P.E. ,

I'm sorry I let you shame me into never wearing my favorite shoes again. My mom paid $3.99 for those bad boys and I don't care what you say...electric blue, vinyl low tops are bitchin'


To Michael C. ,

I'm sorry that I treated you like a scrawny weakling and rolled my eyes in disgust when you couldn't lift all 120 lbs of my dead weight in that dance sequence we did together. I am now willing to accept some personal responsibility for our failure...I guess I could have jumped a little.


To Rhonda D. ,

I'm sorry we would call you a "fashion leper" almost to your face. I can't say you deserved it...but I do hope you have come to realize that the grape purple, polk-a-dot, ruffled chiffon blouse with matching beret was a bit much.

CC

The Reluctant Blogger

Hmmm....I'm not entirely sure about this whole blog thing. I think that the name itself has been turning me off. I mean honestly, "blog"? It sounds like a Tolkein character, or the sound that comes out right before you're going to be sick. And then there are all the blog word derivatives: 'blogger', 'blogroll,' and my personal unfavorite, 'tumblelog', which conjures up the image of a rolling piece of poo. Was web-log really so hard to say? Did we really need a 'short-form' of a two syllable word?

So now I find myself in the position of a reluctant blogger. Why bother you ask? Why add another tasting of mediocrity to the soup of uninteresting over-share which makes up the (cringe) blogosphere?

It has recently come to my attention that a lot of people much hipper than me have been blogging it up for some time now. What I saw as tacky self aggrandizement is apparently a fashionable form of personal self expression. Besides, no one wants to be last to the party.

CC