I am joining up with the Unmom for Random Tuesday Thoughts. I’ve been wanting to get in on this action since June, but alas, my thoughts are always so clear and organized, and I’m such a fountain of information and accuracy that randomness is not something I’m comfortable with…
You guys buying any of this?
I didn’t think so.
Basically I kept forgetting.
At the top of my list of randomness is my nursing class today in which we were learning… actually, I can’t even be sure what we were learning. I’m sure it was very important, and will probably serve me well in my career as a nurse.
However, I was too busy staring at the teacher’s boobs.
No. I’m not a lesbian. But she was wearing this tight knit sweater, and her breasts were like, “Check me out! Yeah, you in the front row…yeah, you, the one who stuffs your bra!”
I leaned over to the girl next to me and said, ”She has got great tits,” which prompted my friend to snort with laughter. Had she been drinking her tea, I’m quite certain it would have been all over her notes, then there would be two of us wandering around the hospital, ignorant to certain ailments because we hadn’t been paying attention in that class because of my obsession with nicely shaped boobs.
My daughter is ten years old. She is a dancer. Her hair needs to be pulled back into this very specific bun complete with a precise amount of bobby pins, gel, hair net, and head band.
My daughter who has a big stick up her ass when it comes to how her hair should be done, will spend the entire time staring at herself in the mirror while I’m maneuvering a hairbrush through piles of blond hair, elastic, pins, and hairspray, critiquing my every move, “Mom, the bun is too high. Now it’s too low. It’s to the left.”
Last weekend, a friend of hers came over before dance and offered to do Zoe’s hair.
Zoe comes out of the bathroom with this lovely little bun.
HOWEVER, it’s parted on the side, which Zoe has strictly forbidden me from doing. She prefers it slicked back so tight, you could skate on her goddamned head.
The bun was low, at the base of her neck.
Again, Zoe has this specific spot on her head where she insist the bun be situated. Like a bulls-eye.
When she comes out of the bathroom, she looks at me with parted hair and bun sitting at the base of her thick skull, and says to me (in that infuriating little prehormonal bitch tone) “This is so much better than the way you do it, Mom.”
I’m pretty sure the child has no idea how close she came to being dragged up and down the street, by that perfect little bun.
My daughter showed me a picture that my ex sent her via email. It’s a shot of him and his wife at the gym. He’s shirtless. She’s wearing a sports bra. Both are flexing for the camera.
My daughter found the photo weird.
I found it a blatant reminder of what an idiot I was in my twenties. I married this man. And, presumably, I was of sound mind.
How did I not see this? ‘Cause let’s face it, flexing his bicep muscles in my face is nothing new. He’s chased me down at our children’s sporting events before to say, “Have you seen how big and buffed I am?”
It was awkward then.
It’s even more awkward now.
I guess it was too much to hope that with age would come wisdom.
In his case, I suspect with age will come an ever greater need to be validated.
I wonder if I rub his belly and say, “Whose the stupid boy with the big muscles? That’s right, you’re the stupid boy with the big muscles?” if the validation will mean that we won’t be subjected to his narcissism more than once a year.
’Cause lets face it: There’s not enough room in this country for the two of us!