ME: Hey kid, look. Vitamin String Quartet did a whole album of Nirvana.
THE QUEEN: I don’t know them.
ME: You know. Smells Like Teen Spirit? Here, listen.
TQ: Hmmm….nope.
ME: You’re messing with me.
TQ: No, seriously, Mom. That doesn’t sound familiar at all.
ME : develops more gray hair
SHE WAS BORN IN PORTLAND IN THE 1990s FOR CRISSAKES WHAT IS UP WITH THIS I DON’T EVEN
Thanks to ahunt for pointing me to Gangly Thoughts, and to a post about hitting that Certain Age where the invisible sign around one’s neck that reads ATTENTION ALL MEN: PLEASE COMMENT ON WHETHER YOU FIND ME FUCKABLE starts to get a little faded and weather-worn.
Part of me is really enjoying this slide into the invisibility of females over 35. Part of me is just pissed off. Look, I don’t need the hassle, but when even the lack of hassle pulls you into the swirl of the patriarchy and assigns you your rank therein, it’s annoying as hell.
It reminds me that back in the day, I used to explain to people that the difference between being a stripper and not is that people who want to stare at and harass strippers generally have to pay in advance for the privilege.
I’m sitting in my new doctor’s office while he reviews the results of another bunch of blood tests. We know I’m anemic; eating red meat and taking iron daily isn’t working, and I’m tired of assuming it’s just something I have and have to put up with.
He flips through the file and asks me how old I am. I think this should probably be right in front of him, but god knows what my previous (idiot) doctor bothered to write down.
“Thirty-seven.”
He nods, and starts to read over something in the file folder. “You have how many children?”
“Three.”
“And is that the size you want your family to be, did you want to have any more children?”
I realize that he is looking at the lab report from my pelvic ultrasound.
“Doctor, where are we going with this?”
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