Old as Hell in the New Year

Oh. Em. Gee. My thighs look exactly like that.

Okay. I know I said I was going to dish on that YouTube-welfare-mom-of-fifteen, Angel Adams, but I’m such a fucking procrastinator that now that story is so last year. And all I was going to say anyway is that Michelle Duggar (i.e., not black and poor) can shit out 19 goddamned babies, and she gets a reality show and a 7,000 square-foot house courtesy of Discovery Networks, while her husband, whose dick is apparently a permanent fixture in Michelle, claims that the family lives “debt free” based on some financial freedom seminar. Or based on the proceeds from the sale of their souls to the Discovery Networks. Mmm hmmm.  

Huh. I wonder what the difference between those two super-similar stories really is. Race? Class? Intelligence? Education? Luck? Looks?

Meh. That last one brings me to a much more important subject: me. I mean, I am pushing fifty here, and I am still puh-ritty damned hot if you don’t count things like looks, weight, skin, hair, nails and teeth-whiteness. And if you concentrate primarily on temperature, especially in the middle of the night when I wake up drenched in menopause. Hell. I bought my husband one of those sleep masks, ostensibly to block out all the ambient light in the room. But it was really so that he doesn’t have to look too long and hard on the forty-two-car-pile-up he married.

I also recently purchased some “beauty” products that I’d read about in Glamour and Vogue. Yeah. Because none of the photos of stick-women with luxurious locks and nuclear smiles and skin as tight as a condom on an 18-year-old virgin are touched up or anything. I believe that all I have to do is slather on expensive creams, and I, too, will notice a 74% improvement in the overall texture, tone and appearance of my face in a mere 12 weeks like 86% of the women in clinical studies.

I drove all the way across town to Macy’s, for Christ’s sake, for the privilege of trading my many, many dollars for youth and happiness. The receipts indicated that the serums I snagged must have fucking gold or endangered species sperm as a main ingredient. Unfortunately, precious metals and/or ejaculate do not a youthful glow make. No. Acne is what they make. On me anyway. Yes, not only did I not notice a 74% improvement, I now have new and angry acne marks. And I’m sallow. Plus, still old. Thanks, lying-ass bitches.

At least I was able to get my money back for the offending products after they failed. Thank God for liberal return policies. Then I was able to buy much more down-to-earth goods and services that have guaranteed mood-brighteners. Candy. Shit from McDonald’s drive through. Popcorn-shaped Styrofoam ® coated with buttery-flavored petroleum and a viewing of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Now, that flick, I must say, was the best damned thing I’ve seen in years. Lisbeth Salander is my personal heroine even if she did let some misogynist impale one of her nips. Ouch. Some dude coming at my boob with a sharp implement would have to have some massive cojones. But then he would have none quickly thereafter. So. Yeah.

But seriously, Rooney Mara’s Oscarlicious performance and the cooler-than-any-Quentin-Tarantino-character just as she was written have burrowed nicely into my cells. She kicks ass literally and figuratively. I can only dream of being so cool. Especially now that I’m about to go to bed, where my nightly appointment with sweat is imminent.