Thursday, February 24, 2011

When I was 17, it was a very good year...

Yesterday the oldest of my three sons turned 17 years old.

Yesterday twenty five percent more of my hairs went gray, including the menopause whiskers on my chin and the treasure trail that didn't appear until after pregnancy number two.  I'm streaked like Pepe La'Pew and I'm only 36.

Yes, I had him young.  I saw you thinking about that and counting on your fingers.  And yes I'm young for this damned menopause too.  Let's clone three more of me, put me in a Buick and declare it all ironic.  From teenager to matron in seventeen short's been my life's dream.

By the time he's 21 my uterus is going to fall out and land on the floor and I probably would be grateful for it.  Any one of you could call dibs on it.  Fun at parties.

In a year he'll be an adult. 

By tomorrow he could fall wildly in love or lust with someone who has her own ripe and healthy uterus and experience the miracle, or the horror, of conception.  Some ditsy girl will find illogical and impetuous reasons to find my manchild sexy and allow him to perform an act that gets many a boy before him invited to be a guest on Maury Povich.  The thought of that has just whitened ten percent more of my hair.

I gave away my virginity at 17, not that I've told the boy this, and I'm assuming that he is also capable of that much stupid. 

Really, at his age, all that needs to happen is for a girl in the school hallway to slip on a banana peel just the right way in front of him and bam, I have a grandbaby. 

Last week I related how banana peel accidents happen and told this child of mine not to have sex.  Just don't.  No sex until you at least have a job.  No sex unless you can spell gonorrhea without using spellcheck or confuse it's definition with diarrhea.  No sex until you can walk right up to a pharmacist with your head held high and say, "I want you to sell me a condom, in fact today I think I'll have a French Tickler..."

Bathroom condom vending machines are there for adolescents to giggle over.  Be a man, get yours over the counter.  In the right size.  No, that's not extra large for most of you.

Son, please, for the love of all that is holy and good in this world, don't make me a grandmother even though I may look like one, alright?  Please wait until I can spare to have a total of sixty percent of my hairs grey or three years after my uterus falls out, whatever comes first.

Thinking again are we?  How do I know that the boy hasn't already had sex, right?

Observe my son, photo taken yesterday:

Those are the Rubik's type puzzle cubes he got for his birthday. Even if they are impressive, these will not get him laid.  Do I need to mention where he developed the dexterity in his hands to solve these?

That's right, he spends date nights playing video games.

Yeah, YOU think too much.


  1. So you want to be a young grandmother. Lets hope you can hold off for awhile.

    Oh, and happy birthday to the spawn of Becky.


  2. I'm 33, I still have all of my hair, it's still it's original colour, I can still bench press 200 lbs and run with my dog.

    Probably because I have no kids.

    Kids have aged my friends horrible.

    And now I want some for some reason?

  3. Have a kid. Run with it on a leash. It's fabulous!

  4. My DH has that rubik's cube and he can solve it in record time and let me assure you that it does, in fact, get him laid. Some of us think that math geeks are sexy as sin.
    But for the sake of all the 17 year old girls out there who could go a few more years without being impregnated, let's hope that gals like me are few and far between.

  5. Being a Grandparent is a great thing but I'll agree with you that you don't want to rush into it. Now if you can only keep your son convinced of that, too.

    It is good that you have heat this winter, but I for one am ready for SPRING!

  6. Just found your blog and I love it! I love your light hearted attitude! I'll be back!


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