Just One More Damn Thing To Make Me Feel Old

As some of you know, I'm prone to midlife crises. Being told I looked like the wonderful, yet older Susan Sarandon last summer put me into a tizzy.

I suppose some people have a crisis, buy the Boxster or botox--whatever the gender may be--and that's it. Finito.

Yet each time I think I'm coming to terms with my age, something like noticing the start of a double chin or mustache sets me off again. And so it happened once again the other day while being interviewed for a job.

When I was younger, more like the Damn-It-Janet Susan Sarandon,

I taught public high school.  Within a few years, I'd upgraded to teaching at Temple University Japan. Much as Susan upgraded to:

Afterwards, like Susan who took a small step downwards when she made:




I taught at the not-quite-as-prestigious, but still accredited institution of higher learning (whose Rockets football team beat the blue and gold off of the U of M Wolverines last fall) The University of Toledo.  


Once I had babies,  I began freelancing. In not much time I went from local publications to national ones such as Ladies' Home Journal and Woman's Day. And my pay jumped to new levels much like Susan's did with the success of this film:



Four years ago I took a gig doing narrative non-fiction on small school reform for KnowledgeWorks Foundation, with generous support from The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. And like Susan with this movie:



my career reached a new high. Not only was I wined and dined during the gig (thanks Bill) but, along with my colleagues, won two national awards for writing!!!!  Yes, I am entitled to use exclamations marks here.


But according to Doug, Nietzsche says, "That which doesn't kill me, makes me take a nose dive." A few months ago the grant was finito and I started looking for work again.

The other day I had an interview to be a tutor for kids in the projects. (The black supervisor's words, not mine)  Yes, a tutor--not that there's anything wrong with that.

You look really familiar, I told the supervisor.

A lot of people say that, she replied.

But I didn't mean it in that way. She really did look familiar. So we talked about schools she'd attended and discovered she went to a junior high in which I taught, but a few years before I was there.

Still, this plagued me.

I remembered a girl in that junior high who was really enthusiastic about a poetry unit I presented. She was a good writer and we bonded immediately. The more I thought about it, I realized I taught the unit when I was an education student doing field experience, which would put me there at the time she attended.

I searched through my old files and found sample poems from the students. Her poem, signed, was on the first page.

Yep. I was being interviewed by a former student. 

Yep I was offered the job, took the job and am now I'm being supervised by a former student!!!!!  More exclamation entitlement.

Is there anything more...ah, let's see...the word humiliating comes to mind...than working for a former student?

Like the award winning actress Susan Sarandon who signed a deal with Revlon, my career took an age-dive:



I mean, what was next for this Grown-Up-But-Groupie-Like Aging Hippie Wilco-Stalking Couch Surfer prone to midlife crises?

I can only hope it isn't becoming one of these:






Anyway, the following day during orientation I showed the supervisor the poetry, and she lit up like her then 13-year old self.

I remember you!!  (The Black supervisor's exclamation marks, not mine)

You were that teacher!!--the one who did the poetry!!  You were really positive and supportive of my work!! You even gave me a present for being so interested in the poetry!! 

Wow. I don't recall that, I responded.

You know, she said, I began to love writing.  I continued doing it and went on to major in journalism in college.

It was then that I put my current midlife crisis on hold for a moment and beamed just a bit myself.

******************************************

A special shout out for my buds who gave me stellar recommendations.

More beaming guaranteed at Humor-Blogs.

Meg's Real Life Mammogram

I’ve noticed a trend of bloggers posting nude photos of themselves like Don of It's a Funny Thing or describing mishaps with anatomical body parts such as April of April's Rants.

Since I'm all about trends, I thought I'd tell my mammogram story.

I’m not sure if it’s to be shared—it’s not as funny as April’s story, for it’s hard to beat those freak accidents—but it should give those of you unfamiliar with mammograms a feel for what it’s like.

OK. Maybe not the “feel” some of you would hope for, but….here is my true story:

***

I’m staring at a technician in white Reeboks. She is fortyish, with a wedge cut. Her nametag has a lot of initials after it.

“When was your last mammogram?” she asks scribbling on a pink form.

“This is my first one,” I say.

“Your first?”

“Well, I’ve always lived in the time BC.”

She furrows her brows.

“Before Cancer. I mean there was always cancer, of course. It’s just that I’ve spent the last decade thinking about breasts as… as machines that pump milk and not objects that prompt Race for the Cure.”

“Excuse me?” She does not look amused.

“Oh, I’m all for cancer. I mean, Race for the Cure. I even buy those pink and white M& Ms.”

“Change into this gown while I get the equipment ready.”

I do as I am told. Ms. Reeboks, after all, will be control of the torture device.

When I exit the dressing room, I take a seat near a table of assorted self-breast exam pamphlets and women’s magazines. I pick up a magazine and turn to an article about Susan Sarandon. Recently I was told by some Tonight Show folks that I look her. I’ve been a wreck ever since.

Here’s what I learn: Susan is in her 60s. Her companion, Tim Robbins, is much younger. Besides being the mom of three, Susan’s a political activist who’s been arrested on a few occasions.

“Way to go!” I shout after reading this.

“Pardon?” says Ms. Reeboks, looking over at me. How can I tell her that a 60something-cradle-robbing actress has just made my day.

Ms. Reeboks tells me she’s ready. I follow her to the machine. “I’ll try to make it as smooth as possible,” she says. I notice she didn’t say as painless as possible. We all know that like pelvic exams, mammograms aren’t supposed to be painful. After all, they’re only smashing your breasts.

She positions my shoulders and breast in place, her hands like popsickles. A long plastic cube comes down on top of my breast and I think, not so bad.

“I’m going to bring it down a bit more,” she says, turning a knob. “How’s that?”

“Okay,” I lie, my breasts like pancakes.

“One more time should do it.” The tube comes down even more, and now my breasts are crepes. I’m wondering if the initials on her nametag are S and M.

“Now hold your breath,” she says leaving the room.

Hold my breath?

I have been holding my breath. I need to take a breath. I thought they were supposed to say ‘take a breath and hold it.’ I got cheated out of taking a breath and I really, really need to breathe.

“Got it,” says Ms. S & M, almost too happily.

Ms. S & M repeats the procedure three more times. The third time I’m holding my breath and end up swallowing my gum. The wad is stuck in my windpipe and I start to cough like a maniac. I automatically try to straighten up and move away, but my boob is stuck and that’s makes the coughing worse.

Marsha comes running over and I’m hoping she’s up to date on her CPR certification.

She loosens the vise. “Are you okay now"

But I’m still hacking away, so I wave my hand. A few minutes later I have to repeat the last exam.

While holding my breath this time I decide I get some Haagen-Dazs afterward as a reward. I’ve just been physically tortured. And there’s more to come--- waiting days for the results.

The thing is, I’m not sure I want to know if I have cancer.

I wouldn’t want the rest of my life spent thinking about my death. I’d go over to school and wonder if this was my last parent-teacher’s conference (which wouldn’t be half bad) or cook dinner and think this is the last time I’ll open a box of macaroni and cheese (which might actually be good).

While I’m waiting to see if the films took, Marsha asks if I’d like to watch a Breast Self Exam (BSE) video. I’d rather read about my new hero, Susan Sarandon, but I don’t want to be impolite.

Marsha presses channel three and presto, I’m watching a stone-faced male doctor tell me how important it is to feel myself up once a month, especially after my periods (well, someone has to, I guess). The remainder of the video features still shots of a young woman using the three-finger position to circle her breasts.

As I watch I wonder if the model was someone in the office, or the daughter of the videographer or if she had to audition for the part.

-- If she auditioned, how does one find out about such an opportunity?

--Do they post them on college campuses?

--Are models with big breasts and large nipples eliminated because it would be too erotic?

--Does a mole on the breast disqualify you? What if your breasts are asymmetrical?

--How much money can one make from appearing in a BSE video?

--How many takes does one do?

--Do you include this job on your resume?

God, at my age, here’s one more job I can cross off the list of possibilities.

“You’re free to get dressed,” Ms. Reeboks says.

“Thanks.” I get up and walk past her to the dressing room, hoping like hell she doesn’t notice the magazine under my hideous hospital gown.



Unfortunately, there are no photos of my exam. So I will once again refer you to Extremely Funny whose site has cleavage and then some.

For you gals I give you this:






Do a woman whos' s just gotten her breasts smashed like crepes a favor and VOTE for her post at Humor-Blogs.

In Which I Blog About Bangs and Not Beer

Day one of not blogging about beer: I've heard from a faithful reader that I blog about beer too often. And with you all as my witness I will stop. Here and now. Cold turkey. I’m all about pleasing my public, for why else would I click that 'publish post' button instead of restricting my dysfunctional life to notes on pub coasters.

Of course I also click that 'publish post' button so you all can click that Humor-Blogs button so I get beat the crust off of Honey Pie--which just ain't happening. (BTW, I recently voted for my own post not because I think I'm funny, but because Hamell is funny. It seems some of you missed his video clip called Ann Coulter's Snatch. Folks, please, even if you don't like the C word, even if you disagree with Hamell's politics, this is one clever guy. Scroll down and be prepared to laugh. And if Ann Coulter doesn't amuse you, try one of Hamell's songs about fast food or drug use or beer...Oops. Sorry. Must not blog about beer).

Anyway, I'm also backing off on blogging about my 3 Handfuls, who drive me to drink. Of course I say that tongue and cheek. I don’t need an excuse to drink. Rather, I mean, I like to drink. I mean, not to to drown my sorrows or to get drunk and dance on the tables at Mickey Finn's (this is a purely made-up example). No, I drink micro-brewed IPAs for that bitter, hoppy flavor which…Oops beer again. Sorry. This is really hard.

Anyway, today I am blogging about my bangs. A few weeks ago while on vacation in CA, I was told by the Tonight show crew that I looked like this woman:



Thanks to all who said it was a compliment. But Susan Sarandon is like, old. And even though she has Tim Robbins who is a buddy of John Cusack, I used to be told that I look like Meg Ryan who’s actually had John Cusack, if you know what I mean.

So I’m on a mission to look younger.

I go into a hip music store and ask Hot Clerk With Sideburns to help me find a youthful shirt.

Who’s it for?

For me, I say, admiring his high tops.

OK. How’s this? He holds up a shirt with anime characters on it. It was youthful all right--12-year old teenie bopper youthful.

No, that’s not quite right.

Hot Clerk With Sideburns And High Tops leads me to a different table. How’s this one? he says.

This one’s 19-year old cardboard guerilla death metal youthful. At least we’re heading in the right direction.

I shake my head.

Who is this for, really? Hot Young Clerk w/SAHT asks.

Dude, it’s for me.

He walks to a rack under a poster of My Morning Jacket and pulls out a gray shirt.

This one is perfect for you. It has a message on it.

Now I am reduced to Ms Clichéd Customer who’ll wear a shirt with a message. I look it over. I quickly consider the anime. But I don't want to disappoint Hot Young Clerk, so I take the message. And it is a pretty cool message:



It features guns turning into musical instruments and says 'Weapons of Choice.'

One problem. I consumed so much beer, I mean, barbeque on vacation that the shirt is too small for me. So what do I do? I cut my bangs—not unlike a 12-year old teenie bopper’s.

Did it work? Do I still look like Susan Sarandon?

Dang. I forgot to take a photo of myself with my new bangs—kind of like sending an email and forgetting the attachment.

OK. Well. Stayed tuned for the next post in which I reveal my bangs (and not how much I love Stone Brewery's Ruination. Sorry. More beer. I guess I suck at this).

p.s. Is there an age cut off for high tops?

HELP!!! My ratings are sinking and it's enough for me to crack open a b.... never mind. Just please click here.

Stalking in Malibu

is not easy with loudmouth kids.

"There! In the sunglasses!" my son shrieks. "Is that John Cusack?"
"Not unless he's gained 80 pounds," I try to shish him.
"That woman, there..." my daughter points, "is that Britney and her kids."
"How many times do I have tell you," I push her finger down. "If you see Britney, she won't be with her kids."
"That Corvette. Five 'o clock. Is that Will Smith?" my teen yells.
"Will Smith is black," I whisper. "And not a senior citizen."

We go to Nobu's. Nobu's is closed. We go to Starbucks. Starbucks is empty. The closest we get to any movies stars is the waitress at Paradise Cove who has personally waited on Brad and Angelina before they opened their orphanage.

And as we drive one of the canyon roads, we're pretty sure we see Mel Gibson's garbage cans and John Cusack's gardener. Or John Cusack's garbage cans and Mel Gibson's gardener. Or maybe it was Britney's gardener. Or maybe her new boyfriend. We're not sure.

Anyway....a few days earlier I am told I look like a movie star.

Coming down the escalator at Universal Studios, I am filmed by the Tonight Show crew. I sign a release that my five seconds can be used for a segment on people who look like famous people (or their gardeners).

"Who do I look like?" I prod the young producers.
"Oh, we don't decide. The writers will decide."
"When I was younger," I tell them. "People thought I looked like Meg Ryan."
"No not Meg," a hot guy says. "More like Susan Sarandon."
"Susan Sarandon!" I protest. "You're aging me."
"Dude," a young woman tries to console me. "She's got Tim Robbins."

Tim Robbins? Ummm. OK.



But I'm pretty sure Susan Sarandon doesn't tape her sunglasses together. What do you think?

For more people who look like people, check out Humor-Blogs.