Back in the Dark Ages of my youth, I would eagerly anticipate the arrival of the Sears Roebuck catalogue. Catalogues, in general, weren’t nearly as pervasive as they are today and Sears was the Grand-Daddy of them all. That baby was huge. And, with its giant toy and youth chapters, I spent countless hours lying on my belly on the floor of our living room flipping through it page by page by page.
(Yeah, yeah. Bring it. Lonely only child? Perhaps.)
I discovered yesterday that there’s a new “Sears Roebuck Catalogue” in town. For modern-day children. It’s called the Yankee Candle catalogue and it rocks. Nearly every page has a “rub and sniff” candle for the kiddos. I’m not kidding when I tell you that Big and Little Brother spent nearly 45 minutes with it during the horrible post-nap but pre-dinner witching hour. Rubbing, smelling, taking turns, commenting, flipping the page, choosing favorites and….not arguing.
I’m thinking about ordering a boatload of candles I really don’t need. In part, as thanks to and recognition for the brilliant smelly pages idea. In part, to ensure they keep sending me catalogues!
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I had lunch yesterday with a girlfriend of mine. One of those friends with whom I can discuss anything, say anything, do anything. We lived together in Boston once upon a time and, while our other two roommates were off at their own jobs, she and I spent all day long in pajamas, playing hooky from work, watching ridiculous television, eating like pigs, laying around like sloths and laughing….our…asses…off. She does that to me. Every so often she makes me belly laugh so hard that I can’t breathe. Isn’t that the best feeling? We all need more friends like that.
Anyway, the point is, we can talk without any screening. Which makes me somewhat hopeful that I wouldn’t actually have the following conversation with anyone else.
Me: So, how’s she doing?
Friend: Oh, terrible. She’s so lazy. I don’t even know if she has a job. She has no motivation. Living with her parents. It’s pretty bad.
Me: Oooh, do you think she’s ON DRUGS?
I mean, really. It was barely out of my mouth before I realized how I sounded. OLD. O-l-d, OLD. Christ. It rattled me.
I think I need to get out of my Mommy cocoon, score a joint somewhere and collect myself.
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My wonderful husband, who I adore 91% of the time, is five years younger than I am. And as we grow old (gracefully) together, it seems those years are just morphing together anyway. I mean, let’s be serious here. Once you have marriage, a house, the yellow lab and two crazy kids, you’re all just keeping pace on the same daily treadmill anyway. If you started at 25 or 30, what’s the diff?
Except when conversations like this come up that make me want to check my long-term care insurance, reach for the Exlax and call it a lifetime.
Youth: Had lunch at the Warren Tavern today.
Aged One: Cool.
Youth: You been there? (Try not to sound so surprised, R. I did actually once NOT have a small child attached to my leg.)
Aged One: (likely over zealous) Oh, yeah! The girls and I used to go there a lot when we were on the young and foolish scene.
Aged: Actually, I’ll always remember the Warren Tavern ’cause I was there for the OJ chase. I remember a few of us met up for a few beers after work or something. We were all huddled around the bar watching the tv. Crazy.
Aged: What? Where were you then?
Youth: Well…we had a week off between exams and senior prom and I was…
Oh, dear God. Let’s not try that again.
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