Bathing Suits in January

From: Ma

To: Daughter

Opening line for a yet-unwritten book:

“Puffed up to her full Banty hen height of four feet, nine inches, she stomped around like a petulant child on the verge of a tantrum.”

Well? Well?

...

Word of the day: City Shorts. 

Jones Wear (higher end brand). 

Size 8. 

Perfect fit, length and all. 

Yes, yes. I AM the bomb...

Ok. Letchya go. I’m off to play with my ultra adorable hair and makeup (not QUITE so adorable = I feel like I’m getting stale... again... always... Besides that, my lips are disappearing at an exponential rate. Come to think of it, their disappearance is in direct correlation to the rate at which my ear lobes are beginning to sag... argh.)

Oh, yeah. One last ort of Yo’Ma wisdom: Finding a new hair stylist ranks right up there with buying a bra, trying on bathing suits in January when we’re at our fattest AND palest, giving birth, growing old “gracefully,” putting up with male idiosyncrasies, trusting your contraceptive NOT to fail, and finding a new favorite go-to lipstick/eyeliner/mascara when effing Revlon decides that, after thirty effing years on the market as a #1 seller it’s time to “retire” Rum Raisin, as one of THE most gruelingest and worstest things we, as women, must do.  <take a breather, Glenda. . . find your Zen>

OK. Rant. Over.

Please, let’s have a little “phone date,” OK?  I need a Peabody fix... I love that.  Peabody... “Have you hugged your Peabody today?”

Yo’Ma

PS – Yes. I know. I should write my own blog... and write children’s books... Quit nagging me, already.