...everybody will stare and they’ll gawk astounded/we’ll give you an ass so big, you gotta walk around it/you can have knowledge, self-esteem, and class/but who needs all that when you gotta nice ass?....
Too long to haiku, too good to let go.
I'm at the sink. Wednesday says, "Whoa, Mom. Those pants make your ass look great."
Really? Is it the pants or the wedges I'm wearing? I slip one foot out, descend to flat-footed posture.
"No. Actually, it's even better flat. You should wear flats more often. Especially with THOSE PANTS."
Seriously? I believe her, because when we shop, trousers are deemed "good ass" or "not good ass" pants. Badass pants are something else entirely.
"Yes. Like, if you weren't my mom, and were a little bit younger, I'd maybe be a lesbian. At least a little."
Pugsley protests. "A LITTLE?" I wonder, too.
"A LITTLE bit younger?"
"Yes, like 30 or something."
"Only for women, though. If I were dating a guy, it would be creepy."
I don't think I can participate in this conversation anymore. It's too weird for me. I leave the kitchen. They continue discussing.
"Yes, a guy should be twenty, twenty-two, like that. But if I was going for a woman, thirty is okay."
"That's... no, you're just nuts."
Of her having an opinion of his mother's hindquarters, he has no comment. But his sixteen-year-old sister mentions that she doesn't consider a 30-year-old woman out of the question and earns his censure.
(I recognize the difference between Wednesday saying something and Wednesday thinking something. They're frequently different. I'm not sure my forthright Pugsley remembers that always.)
You can't date anybody who's twenty or older. Nineteen's the limit.
"Wait, did you forget who've you got me engaged to?"
Well, yes, J's in his mid-twenties. But you're engaged. It's not like you're DATING him.
"Seriously, I wouldn't date a 30-year-old woman."
"That's your problem, isn't it?"
Bent as bonsai, yes, they are. Boring? Newp.
Your Favorite Martian; Booty Store