Being older means I don’t have to remember crap.

Mar 282012

I'm older, but then aren't we all? For me, being older means I don't have to remember crap. It's the right and freedom of a woman who is done raising children and looking towards the waning years of her life.

Beerhound is always bugging me about how much data I seem to use on my phone, which, quite frankly, is an overwhelmingly wasteful use of his time. We have unlimited data. But Beerhound was born to be a nag. He should be someone's wife. There is not a more prolific nagger on this earth than Beerhound. I, as a wife, have given up on any kind of perfection. Oh, never doubt, I was once a very obsessive person about, well, almost everything. I cleaned my grout with a butter knife everyday. I could remember, word for word, a discussion that I had with a person two months prior (that, dear reader, is a trait all women should cultivate. You have no idea how much it will serve your purpose to remember the words that came forth from someone's mouth in a conversation you are participating in or maybe you're not participating but you hear it anyway. I'm not above guilt or blackmail.) My daughters clothes matched down to the shoes they wore. I was not sentimental about any object. It could of been a picture that belonged to my great-great-great grandfather. If it didn't match my decor, it was tossed. Makes you wonder why I worry about being a hoarder, doesn't it? I never forgot a date or time. Let's just be honest, I never forgot anything. That alone scared people.

But alas, I'm older. My brain can only hold so much information and frankly, most of the time, I just don't give a shit. I write things down now. I have little folders for every part of my life and lists for anything that I participate in or need to do. Notice I said need. That's very important. If it's not a need and I don't use that word loosely, then I don't bother to remember the information. Good God, I only have, maybe 20 - 30 good years left. I'm not wasting any of it on something that someone else considers a "need".

"Mom, wake me up in a hour. I need to meet the boy at 2:30. Okay?"

"Sure sweetie."

"Mom, mom, did you hear me? Are you paying attention?"

"Yes, I heard you. You need to meet the boy, yada, yada, yada. Now go away. I'm listening to Rick Santorium explain why I need to be a second class citizen and have no rights to my own body." Then I yell at the TV, "No means no, you overbearing walrus".

Did I remember to wake her up in time to go meet the boy? Hell no! She's twenty for god's sake. Doesn't she own an alarm clock? I know she owns a phone with an alarm on it. What do I care if she meets the boy on time? He's not my boyfriend. Although I do like him and I do feel a teeny, weeny bit sorry that he had to wait for her, maybe. I'll have to think that one through but of course I won't because that's a supreme waste of my time.

You're probably wondering why I didn't just tell her, sweet daughter, that I would not remember to wake her up nor did I want to remember to wake her up? Because that would take too much effort and she would try to make me feel guilty, giving me that puppy dog face. "Pleease mom, why can't you do this one thing for me, blah, blah, blah." Like I haven't heard that one a million times. And for clarification, never try to make the Master of Guilt, feel guilty. Really?? It hasn't worked for Beerhound in 26 years of marriage. What makes a blond, flaky, 20 year old think it will work for her? I spent 18 hours in hard labor with her and then gave up my dreams of fame and fortune to stay home and then to home school. She's lucky I still let her use my bathroom.

What does this all mean? I don't know. I'm not even sure what I started to write about. Do I care? No, not really. I hope you enjoyed reading it but if you didn't, it won't break my heart and I'm more than happy to suggest you read Carol's posts. She usually makes sense. Her writing has a natural progression.

I doubt my writing is ever going to have a natural progression of thought (yes, I did start my master's program in English) but, you see, I'm 74 days from turning 50 and I don't have a great deal of time left to say what I think needs to be said.

Yes, I am that arrogant.

I've lived half a century, almost. I have people to flip off. I want to be a librarian, the mean kind and I have to start working on that goal. I need to save my energy to tell those idiot teenage boys, that nobody cares what their underwear looks like. That shit only looked good on Mark Wahlberg and I doubt that he would allow his sons to dress like that now. I need to remind women, especially young women, my two young women, to take a look around and see who is actually running the country - huge, white, overbearing walruses with penis issues.

I need to take a nap now. I'm tired. Plus I don't see the dogs, which leads me to believe that I let them outside a while ago and forgot they were left out in the backyard. Our dogs are indoor dogs. They don't appreciate being left to their own devices in the grass and dirt.

But why do I care? They're dogs! dogs! God help me. I really am taking a nap now.