The F-Word

boot and tractor

 

Due to the tremendous flood of premature birthday wishes, mainly my sisters, but really one of them … twice (she’s very happy that I’ve hit a big one) and my mother, all of them early (when you get no mail at all other than piles of advertisements we call “Conforamagasm” and bills, two cards rapidly tsunami into a flood), I suppose I should admit it and turn twenty-nine again.  But this one is special. This one launches me to a whole new number sequence.  Slide one over on the ol’ abacus, I’ve peaked another mountain.  I can remember way, way, way, way, way, way back ago wishing Brent his happy fortieth.  I looked high and low for a forty-year-old Scotch to ease his body into a new time zone.  Without spending thousands, all I could come up with is a thirty-year-old Talisker.  So I went with the “you don’t look a day over thirty” line (thanks for the tip stevem).  It seemed to work and the Scotch was divine.  Smooth as a baby’s bum with just enough peat for girls like me.  I like my Scotch peaty.

 

With my new unlocked wisdom, I am able to say things out loud like, “I don’t like the Beatles.  I am left unmoved.”  Or “Donchoo even THINK of texting at my dinner table.  Put the phone down and no one will get hurt.“ Or “Facebook is playing you for your narcissistic tendencies and profiting.”  Whew.  Blah.  That feels better.  But I can also offer advice.  Like, “have all your kids before you’re forty.  Except for my mom when a ‘happy surprise’ goes brat” or “making stuff from scratch is taking control of your life.”  Yeah, I’m full of it.  But the baby is crying.  The cake needs frosting.  The cows need checking.  The chickens need feeding.  I’ll take my new wise ass out and get back to work.

 

 

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