Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (10 page)

When they looked at me I gave a big grin and smiled like an idiot. I didn’t know what they were laughing about. That’s what you do in situations like that when you don’t understand the language—you either talk really loud or smile like an idiot.

I grabbed my purchases, gave them another ole` and out the door I went, smug in the fact that I had tried to speak with someone in their own language.

You’ve probably figured out that this story isn’t going to end well. I was able to eat five (5) of those comida, caliente things before my tongue went numb and I started to sweat. I had to toss the rest of the bag. Those damn things were way too hot for me.

Now, I realized why they were laughing at me. Stupid American is probably what they were thinking. We’ll teach you to make fun of us.

Ole`?

Or maybe, touché!

And One Senior — January 26, 2009

Mom and I went to dinner and a movie this weekend. We saw the
Curious Case of Benjamin Button
and then had dinner at a new Cuban restaurant. The movie was interesting, albeit a little bit curious.

Movies have gotten really expensive. The regular price for an evening show is $9.75. The matinee (before 6 p.m.) price is $7.25 and the senior rate (age 55 & over) is also $7.25.

As we waited in line to purchase our tickets Mom kept reminding me to ask for the senior rate—make sure you ask for the senior rate. Since it was before 6 p.m. the matinee and senior tickets were going to be the same price so I didn't mention the senior rate.

Oh my goodness! Mom went senior on me and the ticket agent. “What kind of place you people running here? I worked my whole life paying school taxes to keep you kids in pimple cream and Xerox paper. You think you could help a senior out by giving them a discount on a movie ticket.

And furthermore, why does it cost fifteen bucks for a drink and popcorn? I know those big time movie stars make 40 million a picture, but why should I have to pay for it? As a senior that has proudly paid her taxes since before our current President was born, I think I deserve a discount."

Nobody said anything until the ticket agent said this: "It's now after 6 p.m., so I'm going to have to charge you the full price of $9.75 and..."

"And one senior!”

Age-Related Questions — February 21, 2009

I've spent a lot of time in front of the mirror lately. No, I don't consider myself vain, but I do like to present a pleasant exterior for the outside world to see. I don't do the "mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all" saying every time I glance at my reflection. After all, if you've been paying attention you'll remember that my sister (Big Red) is the fair-skinned member of our close knit family.

I don't comb my hair a lot either. If I comb it too much it starts to fall out. Mostly, I do the Arthur Fonzarelli (the Fonz) when it comes to my hair. I'll saunter up to the mirror, cock my head from one side to the other, give myself the thumbs up and an "Aaaayyyy" and out the door I'll go.

Whether you're male or female as you age certain issues begin to arise. Here are a few of the questions that I have when I search my reflection and wonder exactly who it is that is staring back at me:

Will I ever outgrow pimples, bumps and zits?

Will my hairline recede any slower if I start doing the comb over?

Is Grecian Formula just for men? (I'm going gray at the temples.)

Should I be offended if I get the senior discount at Kroger? (I'm years away from that, officially anyway.)

Why do all of the young people keep calling me "Ma'am?"

Why do I have to spend as much time plucking black hairs on my chin than shaving my legs?

Why can't I figure out these new video games? (Nobody, and I mean nobody, can beat me at Galaga or Tempest.)

Why can't I find a career that's both rewarding and interesting?

At what age can I begin to have my midlife crisis?

Why do I consider cartoons goofy and boring?

Why is the President only six years older than me?

Will kids ever pull up their pants?

Will Steve Perry ever go back to Journey?

Why is gravity harder on women than on men? (A man who ages has character and ruggedness; a woman just looks like an old hag.)

Lastly, how can I get some of that bailout money? At my age, I've already lost half of my 401K and got laid off from one of my jobs. You can send my stimulus check in care of the MA Fat Woman. I'll be waiting, because I need some stimulation, too.

I Thought He’d Be Taller — April 8, 2009

I ran up to the local gas station the other evening to pick up a couple of snacks and was on my way out when I held the door for a gentleman who was on the way in. Nice of me, huh?

The guy was kinda slump-shouldered and was wearing a plaid-looking western shirt and a white cowboy hat. He had blond curly hair and a bushy mustache. I took one look at him and said, "Hey, you're Alan Jackson!" He nodded at me as I held the door for him and walked on inside. (Was that who I thought it was?)

I put my purchases in the Mustang and looked over at the vehicle he was driving. I'm not sure what I was expecting but it turned out to be a dual cab black pickup truck with steer horns across the front. I immediately appreciated the beauty of that truck. It wasn't a new truck but probably around 1995. It had tinted windows but I was able to see one other person inside.

I watched as he nodded to several other people, made his purchases and strode back through the door. I was watching him the whole way. I wanted to be sure that was really him. I noticed that he was wearing white cowboy boots and ripped jeans.

I thought, "Wow!” that guy looks the part all the time. I watched him as he jumped into that cool truck and hoped he would drive past me so I could check out his license plate. The front plate, lo and behold, said Alan Jackson on it. Hmm!

As he drove past I wanted to get his tag number and try to find him on the Internet. I got friends that can do that sort of stuff. I was a little disappointed to see that his plate wasn't one of those vanity plates that said "Chattahoochee" or "Summertime.” Actually, it was just a generic plate and I forgot to get the number.

Anyhow, I looked back into the store and around the parking lot and folks were gesturing towards the truck—was that really him? I immediately got on my phone and called mom because she is a big Alan Jackson fan. I got her voice mail as usual because she was at her Sunday evening Bingo tournament.

Not to be deterred I called my sister to let her in on the details. She's a REALLY BIG Alan Jackson fan. I went on and on about how I held the door for him and how he nodded in my direction. I mentioned his hat and his white cowboy boots, the fabulous truck and the ripped jeans.

The one factor that made me question whether it was him or not was his height. I'm 5'7" and this guy was barely taller than me. My sister agreed that she thought he was a long drink of water and was about 6'4". No way was this guy that tall.

It sure did look like him. My sister was so excited. Did you get his autograph? Did he have his daughters with him? Don't you live near the Chattahoochee? As we continued to go back and forth about possible conversations that we would've had with Alan had he been able to stay and chat I received a text message from Mom. Check the TV, it said.

My sister and I both flipped on the television and there sat the real Alan Jackson at a country music awards show being aired live from Las Vegas.

Or, was it?

Maybe, the guy on TV was the impostor?

Makes you wonder sometimes, doesn’t it?

Neck Pimples — May 20, 2009

My next door elderly neighbor, Ms. Merlethem Shatz, cornered me up at the mailbox the other day and proceeded to tell me how she had been feeling recently. I normally try to avoid these conversations with her because whatever she tells me usually makes my skin crawl.

This time was no exception. Neck pimples! That was what was ailing her this week. She had a big icky pimple on the back of her neck and couldn’t get it to pop.

It was making her whole head hurt like she had a migraine or something. She asked me if I wanted to have a go at it (she's British) and I started to look at it before I caught myself.

Sometimes, your curiosity can get the better of you and Merlethem realized that she had piqued my interest and started in on one of her stories. She's kind of like Rose from the
Golden Girls
and her stories about life back in St. Olaf.

"Back when I was a girl I had the worst time with pimples...or I think you call them zits now...blah, blah, blah."

Goodness! I had to get out of there, and fast.

"You don't have any Preparation H, do you?" she asked.

"What for?" I replied.

"Well, I had a pimple on my bum a few years back and all I had was some Preparation H and I put it on the bump and it went right away."

"No, luckily, I haven't had a need for Preparation H. I don't have any hemorrhoids and I don't have pimples on my butt. I think they sell it at the drug store."

"Okay, I better get down there before they close. Damn, my head hurts. You got any Goody Powders?"

"No!"

"What about Tylenol?"

"No!"

"Bayer?

Excedrin?

Aleve?"

“NO!”

"I know you got some Doan's pills for your back that is always out when I ask you to carry something for me. Can I have one of them?"

At that point she had followed me down my driveway and onto the new porch. "Merlethem, this is my house," I said. "Yours is over there."

"How'd I get here?" she asked. "I told you that neck pimple was bothering me. I can't even find my own house. Are you sure you don't want to have a go at this thing?"

Rrrrrrriiiinnnggggg
. "Gotta go, someone is calling," I said. "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Felicia from Proactive..."

Wrong Number — May 21, 2009

"Hi Helen, it's me Doug," said the voice.

And that's how the call begins each time. Doug has been calling for Helen at least ten years.

I don't know Doug.

I don't know Helen.

I'm not Helen.

I've had the same wrong number calling me for so long that I feel that I should know Doug and Helen. I did call the number that Doug left one time and it turned out to be a garage. I guess Helen likes Doug to work on her automobiles.

Or, is it something else?

Is there perhaps something untoward going on? Could Doug and Helen be secretly having an affair? If so, how does Doug ever meet up with Helen when he doesn't even know her correct telephone number?

Could Helen think that Doug handles his tool better than any other grease monkey? Does he make her spark plugs spark?

Maybe she just has a crappy car that is always being fixed by a crappy mechanic?

I don't know, maybe the next time Doug calls, I'll pretend I'm Helen and see what his response is. If he starts breathing heavy, I'm hanging up!

(But, I won't change my number!)

Anything Goes At Red Lobster — May 23, 2009

After spending time in the hospital recently my sister decided she wanted to go out for a nice meal as soon as she felt up to it. She likes seafood so we chose Red Lobster as our destination for the evening. There were four of us seated at a small table and my sister and I were seated next to one another. We still had a slight case of the giggles from earlier in the day when we had been making fun of her doctor who had a very bad bedside manner.

We placed our drink orders and were perusing the menus when I noticed the table next to us standing up getting ready to leave. Normally, I wouldn't have noticed such a minor detail but one of them had bumped into me when they were standing up. I glanced around just in time to see and hear an elderly woman snap off the loudest fart imaginable as she was being helped from her seat.

Well!

Slap me, poke me, hit me, nudge me, do whatever you can to make me silly, because my eyebrows shot up and my lower jaw hit the floor. The NERVE! Of that woman. We were in a public place!

Meanwhile, my sister who couldn't see but had heard what had just taken place looked at me for confirmation of what she thought she heard. My face said it all! We looked at each other and just lost it.

You know, there are times when no matter what you try you just can't stop laughing. I tried closing my eyes and not looking at my sister to keep from laughing but my shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down my face. My niece and my sister's best friend that were with us looked at us like we were out of our minds.

In between gasps of air I was able to say this statement: "Old...woman...(gasp)...just farted." Heads bobbed in unison and then the rest of the table dissolved into laughter, too.

Meanwhile, our server had arrived with our drinks just in time to witness this jovial outburst. He looked at me with questioning eyes and I managed to blurt, "She farted" and motioned to the table behind us.

He thought that I meant my sister and gave her a glance and left us with this parting remark: "You do what you need to do because anything goes here at Red Lobster."

I started to correct him but he was too quick and had headed back into the kitchen where I heard muffled sounds of laughter coming from the kitchen staff.

We had begun to settle down some when the waiter came back to take our orders. He gave my sister a wink and said, "You toot all you want too, honey. Your secret is safe with me!"

We gave that young man a very good tip!

Wrong Number…Again — May 30, 2009

"Hi Helen, it's Doug from Automotive Excellence again. I've got your Saab ready to go."

I was sitting in the recliner half asleep when I was awakened by the phone ringing. Before I could reach over to get it the answering machine had kicked on and I wasn't too surprised to hear Doug going into his spiel searching for Helen. I couldn't resist this time so I picked up the phone.