Brain Barf #4: Senior Citizens, Italian-Americans, Dreamboats, and Tap Shoes

My neighbor sent me this last night:

In five years, J.Lo will be getting discounts at restaurants and movie theaters because she will be considered a senior citizen.  And she will still look like that.  

YOU GUYS I SAID J.LO IS ALMOST A SENIOR CITIZEN.  SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE YOU'RE NOT EVEN LISTENING.

Meanwhile, I look more and more like this every day:

My friend MoMo was invited to play pool with a friend of hers today.  She told me about it, which is free license for me to post it here.

MoMo (and her friend):

Anouchka:

In her friend's defense, he has only been in the U.S. for about 18 months and apparently thought that an "Italian-American" would be a rare and exotic treat.

I'm been pestering Habibi lately to spoil me and praise me and tell me I'm a rare and divine treasure more often, but it hasn't been working.  I'll send him text messages periodically, featuring my face, looking putrid from sweating my ass off glowing post-workout, with a subtle and flirtatious hint like, "TELL ME I'M PRETTY!!!!!!!"  Don't get me wrong, he is basically the ultimate in terms of husband-ing.  Tonight when I got home from work, the kitchen was clean, the kids were fed and in bed, the laundry was folded and put away, and the trash had been emptied.  When it comes to choreplay, the student has become the Master.  On paper, we don't go together: he is perfect, well-adjusted, and I am "mentally unstable".  He is charming and dreamy.  I get asked, "Are you an old person or a young person?  Because you are short like a young person, but you have wrinkles by your eyes like an old person."  Senescent people think he is a dream come true, while they question where I play football and swear at me.  He could take a shit on a public playground and it would become a city landmark.  People like him everywhere he goes, every boss he has had since we've been married has sung his praises, his co-workers are mystified by him, his friends are suspiciously wonderful, and his family (including my own flesh and blood) worships him.  He really is just about perfect.  He's faithful and lovely and has never made me feel judged.  He has held my hand when I've cried, my hair when I've barfed, my heart when it has been broken, and even my ankles above his head in our first apartment together when I was bored and unemployed we didn't have Netflix yet I and wanted to see if he could do it.

But dammit, is it too much to ask if I want the man who experienced that momentary (but permanent) lapse in judgment and asked me to marry him to put me on a pedestal for my looks and my intellect? So maybe I laugh at my own jokes before the punchline.  It is conceivable that someone like me would fart in bed.  Sometimes I forget to put on deodorant and it's a public health hazard.  If only I had a nickel for every time a man said this to me...I would still have zero nickels:

I went to a cat cafe last weekend.  In case you were wondering, it is not a cafe where you eat cats.  I have standards.  It was a place where you can go drink coffee or tea and get kitty loveys from 100% adoptable (not edible) cats.  MoMo and I decided to double-date with our daughters to get our furball fix...despite having both cats and tea at home.  The tea was rubbish, the kitties were darling (of course), but the conversation I had with one of the volunteers about how many pairs of colored tap shoes she owns because she has a real addiction to buying tap shoes and loves tap dancing so much that tap dancing is second in her life only to cats but she was carrying a pair of tap shoes with her because she was teaching a tap class that night and she was going to lend a friend of hers this particular pair of tap shoes because they pinched her (own) feet and even though she tried to spruce up the trim on them with black sparkles they just were too boring and not colorful enough because she loves color almost as much as cats and tap dancing was nothing short of extraordinary.