....Alligator creepin round the corner of my cabin door...
Sometime in January:
She peers into her coffee cup, then looks around.
What are you looking for?
"Something to put in my coffee."
Like what?
She takes it black, no sugar.
"Like.... sweetener. Or.... an alligator."
I think she probably wants some chocolate syrup in her coffee. She's gotten a sweet tooth these past two years or so. I surreptitiously peek in her kitchen, but she seems to be out of chocolate syrup. I must remember to put that on her list of staples, along with Havarti cheese, bananas, bread, Bosc pears, sliced turkey breast, grapefruit, goat milk, graham crackers, bread, sweet potatoes and ice cream. She's not eating much, and cooking hardly at all. Remind me, and I'll talk about the Christmas Turkey Fiasco.
I joke with her about alligators often being acceptable substitutes for both coffee sweeteners and whiteners. She laughs, she drinks her coffee. Without sweetener.
Also without alligators.
Grateful Dead; Alligator
24 April, 2016
22 April, 2016
Chin Music
...one little cross leads to shots, grit your teeth/You run for cover so discreet, why don't they/Do what they say, say what you mean/One thing leads to another/ You told me something wrong, I know I listen too long.....
Today, she hits me.
It's not the first time ever, but it is the first time since she's been diagnosed as 'impaired'. The other times were 'parenting' and I've mostly forgiven her for them.
I've mostly forgiven her for this, too.
I'm not sure what I'll tell her if she asks why I have bruises on my chin and throat. And I don't know whether I'm hoping to have them, or hoping to not have them.
Today, I check her medications. She seemed to have taken today's supply. She should've waited until bedtime for the one in the red pillbox, but it's already gone. She may have taken it last night before bed, but there's no way for me to verify that. She's complained of dizziness, and taking the responsible medication before bed would keep the dizziness from annoying her.
I heat for her some of the tuna casserole I've brought for her. I heat one of the two cups of cold coffee she has sitting around. I put the red pillbox back upstairs on her nightstand. I don't put a slash through yesterday on her upstairs calendar, the one she keeps taking down, because I don't have a pen on me. I'll need to start remembering to carry a pen upstairs always.
I ask if it is okay if I walk her dogs. She says she's just walked them. I ask if she walked them barefoot. She checks the soles of her feet, and says she guesses so.
I'm pleased she likes the pink hat I knit for her. It doesn't go so well with bare feet, even though she's got capri pants and a fleece sweatshirt (both in need of washing) between them.
I tell her I have my phone with me and she can call if she wishes, and set off. She tires easily now, so I walk down the block, around the corner, up the block, across the street, around the corner, down the block, around the corner, up the street, across the street, down the block, around the corner and back up her street. About halfway, she meets me. Still barefoot, still unshowered, still wearing the pink hat.
"I didn't know where my dogs were," she says.
They were with me. You said it was okay. I told you I had my phone. You could've called me.
"I didn't know where my dogs were."
When we get to the gate, I make them sit. She takes off the leashes, despite them not being inside the yard yet. She has to have her way. I make them keep sitting, and she tries to wrestle them from me, raises her hand and that's when she hits me.
I lose my temper and ask if she's going to hit me again. Not nicely. She does. Several times. My throat still hurts, and it's been a few hours.
She continues to rail at me and threaten me before we go inside. She orders me to leave her property. She says she'll get a restraining order. I do not leave. We go inside. She accuses me of trying to control her. I tell her she looked like a crazy woman, wandering in the neighborhood unwashed and barefoot. She says she doesn't care what the neighbors think of her. I tell her that if she is deemed incapable of living alone, she'll need to go into a home.
"That's what you've wanted all along anyway," she shouts at me. It's not true. I know it's not true, and I suspect on some level she knows it, too. I reiterate that I'm trying to protect her, trying to keep her in her home, keep her doing the things she likes to do. After some more shouting, and a phone call from Coco saying we need to scram now, (hair appointment; her, not me), I say I have to go, I love you, and I lean down to give her a kiss on each cheek, which is the only acceptable way to do it. She gets up, telling me to wait. She wants to give me a hug. "Unless you don't want one," she says, with a nasty edge. I squeeze her very tight and she whispers that she knows I'm trying to help her but it's hard because she has been so cussed independent for so long. I promise I will never leave her no matter how unpleasant she is to me. She says, "I know. I appreciate that. It's just..."
I know.
I KNOW.
The Fixx; One Thing Leads To Another
Today, she hits me.
It's not the first time ever, but it is the first time since she's been diagnosed as 'impaired'. The other times were 'parenting' and I've mostly forgiven her for them.
I've mostly forgiven her for this, too.
I'm not sure what I'll tell her if she asks why I have bruises on my chin and throat. And I don't know whether I'm hoping to have them, or hoping to not have them.
Today, I check her medications. She seemed to have taken today's supply. She should've waited until bedtime for the one in the red pillbox, but it's already gone. She may have taken it last night before bed, but there's no way for me to verify that. She's complained of dizziness, and taking the responsible medication before bed would keep the dizziness from annoying her.
I heat for her some of the tuna casserole I've brought for her. I heat one of the two cups of cold coffee she has sitting around. I put the red pillbox back upstairs on her nightstand. I don't put a slash through yesterday on her upstairs calendar, the one she keeps taking down, because I don't have a pen on me. I'll need to start remembering to carry a pen upstairs always.
I ask if it is okay if I walk her dogs. She says she's just walked them. I ask if she walked them barefoot. She checks the soles of her feet, and says she guesses so.
I'm pleased she likes the pink hat I knit for her. It doesn't go so well with bare feet, even though she's got capri pants and a fleece sweatshirt (both in need of washing) between them.
I tell her I have my phone with me and she can call if she wishes, and set off. She tires easily now, so I walk down the block, around the corner, up the block, across the street, around the corner, down the block, around the corner, up the street, across the street, down the block, around the corner and back up her street. About halfway, she meets me. Still barefoot, still unshowered, still wearing the pink hat.
"I didn't know where my dogs were," she says.
They were with me. You said it was okay. I told you I had my phone. You could've called me.
"I didn't know where my dogs were."
When we get to the gate, I make them sit. She takes off the leashes, despite them not being inside the yard yet. She has to have her way. I make them keep sitting, and she tries to wrestle them from me, raises her hand and that's when she hits me.
I lose my temper and ask if she's going to hit me again. Not nicely. She does. Several times. My throat still hurts, and it's been a few hours.
She continues to rail at me and threaten me before we go inside. She orders me to leave her property. She says she'll get a restraining order. I do not leave. We go inside. She accuses me of trying to control her. I tell her she looked like a crazy woman, wandering in the neighborhood unwashed and barefoot. She says she doesn't care what the neighbors think of her. I tell her that if she is deemed incapable of living alone, she'll need to go into a home.
"That's what you've wanted all along anyway," she shouts at me. It's not true. I know it's not true, and I suspect on some level she knows it, too. I reiterate that I'm trying to protect her, trying to keep her in her home, keep her doing the things she likes to do. After some more shouting, and a phone call from Coco saying we need to scram now, (hair appointment; her, not me), I say I have to go, I love you, and I lean down to give her a kiss on each cheek, which is the only acceptable way to do it. She gets up, telling me to wait. She wants to give me a hug. "Unless you don't want one," she says, with a nasty edge. I squeeze her very tight and she whispers that she knows I'm trying to help her but it's hard because she has been so cussed independent for so long. I promise I will never leave her no matter how unpleasant she is to me. She says, "I know. I appreciate that. It's just..."
I know.
I KNOW.
The Fixx; One Thing Leads To Another
19 April, 2016
Medias Res
...put on your red shoes and dance the blues......
I'd planned to begin at the beginning, but that would mean backtracking, so I'd better just begin.
Tonight, she waited on the porch for me with a baseball bat.
"She's stolen from me before," she tells Pugsley, who waits with her.
"They just went for a walk," Pugsley reminds her.
"Well, they've been gone long enough. She's stolen from me before, you know."
Pugsley explains to his grandmother that Wednesday and I probably were walking the dogs a longer while than she herself usually does (we were) and that the young boy dog (who my family has been calling 'Dogmeat') needed more stimulation than he usually had with just her. He assures her that we would return with the dogs. It wasn't until he held up the car keys to show her that there was no way we could leave without coming back to the house first that she began to calm down a little.
"I just want to clarify," he tells me later, "that I didn't talk down to her, I talked her down."
I glance at the clock. It's past seven. Of course she was upset and worried.
Her 'terrible two o'clocks' are coming as early as 1 PM now. Today at 1:20, she left a message about the third dog, the one I stole, the one she's not getting back.
I don't know how to not feel terrible about any of this.
David Bowie; Let's Dance
I'd planned to begin at the beginning, but that would mean backtracking, so I'd better just begin.
Tonight, she waited on the porch for me with a baseball bat.
"She's stolen from me before," she tells Pugsley, who waits with her.
"They just went for a walk," Pugsley reminds her.
"Well, they've been gone long enough. She's stolen from me before, you know."
Pugsley explains to his grandmother that Wednesday and I probably were walking the dogs a longer while than she herself usually does (we were) and that the young boy dog (who my family has been calling 'Dogmeat') needed more stimulation than he usually had with just her. He assures her that we would return with the dogs. It wasn't until he held up the car keys to show her that there was no way we could leave without coming back to the house first that she began to calm down a little.
"I just want to clarify," he tells me later, "that I didn't talk down to her, I talked her down."
I glance at the clock. It's past seven. Of course she was upset and worried.
Her 'terrible two o'clocks' are coming as early as 1 PM now. Today at 1:20, she left a message about the third dog, the one I stole, the one she's not getting back.
I don't know how to not feel terrible about any of this.
David Bowie; Let's Dance
09 March, 2016
Fresh Start
...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....
I find the top of a FULL cup far more inspiring than the bottom of an empty one. A filled coffee cup is practically poetry. Before the first sip, anticipation and joy reign. After the first sip, disappointment, cooling, bitterness and emptiness are possible. But in those before moments, it's all aroma and promise.
I'm back, watching the Olympics.
I find the top of a FULL cup far more inspiring than the bottom of an empty one. A filled coffee cup is practically poetry. Before the first sip, anticipation and joy reign. After the first sip, disappointment, cooling, bitterness and emptiness are possible. But in those before moments, it's all aroma and promise.
I'm back, watching the Olympics.
14 August, 2014
Do-gooders, Attend:
...If you need me, let me know, gonna be around/ if you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down....
I’d have to shower.
AN OPEN LETTER FROM A DEPRESSIVE TO ALL “WHAT-CAN-I-DO-ERS” EVERYWHERE
Look, I’m probably not going to call you. I’m not up to saying “fine” when you ask how I am. I’m certainly not up to explaining to you how I ACTUALLY am. I’m not up to listening to you tell me to cheer up, to tell me I have so much great stuff in my life, or how bad YOUR life is in some weird attempt to point out how comparatively well off I am.
Honestly, I’m not even up to searching you in my phone or pressing Call.
I know you love me. I know if I called and asked you to take me out to lunch, you would. I know if I called and asked you to pick up a carton of ice cream and drop it off, you would. I know if I called and asked you to come watch a whole season of Angel with me, you’d wait until you hung up to sigh and roll your eyes. But you’d come.
I can’t. I can’t call you first. I can’t even make myself get in the shower.
I know some of you non-Depressive types are all, Oh, I don’t shower every day all the time. Like, once a month I have a No Shower weekend. Or I go to bed still in my clothes all sweaty from the gym. Or, yeah, I’ve skipped it a couple of times myself. This is not that. Not at all. I am in the clothes I wore, that I slept in, from three days ago. Every day, I INTENDED to get in the shower. And then didn’t. It seemed like too much trouble.
Do NOT ask when the last time was that I brushed my hair.
I can’t ask you to come over. There’s nowhere on the couch for you to sit. Some of the laundry is clean, but at this point, I’m not sure which pile it is. I’m sure some of these papers are important, but I can’t sort them to find which ones. I certainly don’t know what to DO with them. And some of them are probably VERY important.
There are a lot of them I haven’t even opened. I can’t make myself do it.
I can, however, develop a shorthand with you.
If you were to call me, for example, and ask how are things, I might say, “Not great.”
You might understand that by Not Great, I mean that I am creating an ass-shaped hole in my sofa, wearing unmatched pajama separates and haven’t done any grocery shopping in two or three weeks.
If you were to call and invite me to lunch, I probably would say No. If you asked would I go with you to a new place you wanted to try, you might understand that “Okay, sure,” is as close as I can get to “That would be nice.” If you were to call and ask me to help you choose a new comforter, I might say Yes, especially if you told me you’d pick me up in an hour. I probably would even shower.
If I had any clothes clean.
If I could ask, I might ask you to come over and just BE with me, without talking about My Problem, or really anything. If I could ask, I might ask you to make me some soup, tea, cinnamon toast. Do not ask me if I am hungry. I can’t remember the last time I cooked an actual meal, which you can probably tell by all the cereal bowls I haven’t washed and the pizza boxes I haven’t thrown away. You could tidy up, or help me. I won’t ask.
If you were here, you might find me a set of fresh clothes and a mostly-clean towel and send me to get washed.
I don’t advise drawing me a bath.
You might pack up my booze and hide it in the trunk of my car, or the trunk of your car, if you think I’m likely to abuse it. You’re probably right. If I say something horrible, forgive me. Let it pass. I’m not my best self.
If you were here, you might clear off the sofa a bit, find the remote, dig something from the freezer to put in the oven and queue up some old movie or television show I like. Watch it with me. Don’t make snarky comments, unless that’s something we usually do together. I’m not up to snark, but it might be reassuring to hear you. Don’t expect conversation from me, but if I do feel like talking, don’t try to ‘solve’ things.
You may understand when I say “Been better” that my meds aren’t working. You may ask if I’ve been taking my meds. You may ask when my next doctor’s visit is scheduled. You may offer to drive me to the appointment. You may offer to call and schedule my next visit. You may offer to pick up my ‘scrip.
I probably won’t believe you’ll do those things, but it’s nice of you to think of them.
It would make me cry if you actually did them, but in a good way.
If you’ve gotten me to agree to go out somewhere with you, don’t ask me where I’d like to go. Ask me if I have a preference. If I say “coffee shop”, please don’t ask which one. If you ask “is Starbucks okay?” I will probably make a face and tell you they burn their beans, but whatever, and will drink a Starbucks something or other. You choose the size. I can’t keep up with the stupid names they have for Small, Medium and Large. Don’t make me make any decisions. If I say “Whatever, “ know that it means “You choose. I can’t.” People-watch with me. You’ll need to start. Notice someone’s flashy jacket, excellent haircut or silly walk.
If I have kids, offer to take them out, to that new movie, or Trick-or-Treat, or someone’s birthday party. If I’ve agreed to a manicure or pedicure, bring them along and walk around the mall or park with them while I’m in the chair. Offer to have them over for dinner, or a sleepover. They’re not having a good time here with me, and I feel just dreadful about it, but I can’t let myself think about it too much or I cry and that scares them.
If I have a hobby, ask me to show you how to do something. I’d like to show you, and it might kick me back into doing it for myself. I probably know where the stuff for it is, and could tell you. You may have to move a few piles of crap to get at it, though.
You really must not mention the condition of my house. I KNOW.
If it’s a nice day, suggest we walk together. Bring the dog along, if either of us has one.
Give me a hug. Don’t worry if I don’t return it. If I do return it, wait for me to let go first. Give me another hug. Lean against me, or let me lean on you while we share popcorn and a movie… nothing too deep or challenging, though. A ‘60s monster movie, anything from the ‘40s, especially the Marx Brothers, almost anything with Adam Sandler in it. Pour more hot water in my teacup. Ask if you could make more popcorn.
If I cry, hand me a fresh tissue and bring the wastebasket in here with us. Keep handing me fresh tissues. Pat me and be soothing. Don’t tell me to stop crying. I will, eventually. Don’t look at me, though. I’m embarrassed.
Remind me that I didn’t always feel this badly. Remind me of something fun we did together. Suggest we do something fun together soon. Schedule that. Schedule it now. Show up for it. Dinner, a show, beers. A haircut might be nice. A massage is too much commitment.
I’d have to shower.
-Cybele Pomeroy, 13 August 2014
ABBA, Take A Chance On Me
09 August, 2014
Sticky Situation
...just enough of that sticky stuff/ to hold the seams of your fine blue jeans/ I said yeah, yeah....
"No, Mom, we have to go RIGHT NOW. Wednesday says she's glued to the cat."
It was kind of a non-sequitur for me, too. Just so you know.
She's glued...?
"To the cat, yeah."
Pugsley and I had been discussing taking my mother out for ice cream after having traumatized her with a newer computer tower, importing her bookmarks and a few other changes, none of which greeted with happy acceptance.
Glued to the cat?
"He got into something sticky, and she tried to clean him and now she's stuck to him."
We're out the door and into the car now, with the lighter fluid my mother pressed into my hands as a solvent. I thanked her without mentioning any of the ideas that sprang like pop-up ads into my brain associated with putting lighter fluid on a cat.
Sticky enough that SHE is glued to the cat?
"I guess; she said something about a box. I told her to try using water to get unstuck."
The cat got stuck on a sticky box and now Wednesday is glued to the cat.
"Mom. Just drive."
Wednesday was no longer stuck to the cat when we arrived. She and the cat were both agitated, but not nuclear. They were closeted in the downstairs bathroom, him in the window and her in front of the sink, trying to remove sticky from herself. She's almost a grown-ass woman, so I investigate the cat.
You got yourself unglued.
"Yes, but he's still got globs of it all in his fur. It's not as bad as I first thought- mostly his arm and a little on his belly. And my hands are all sticky."
Pugsley has found, as requested, with almost NO searching, the bottle of Skin So Soft I keep handy for many reasons. One of them is sticky stuff. The cat, with a minimum of squirming and complaining, allows me to settle him on my lap and apply SSS with tissue to his fur, then wipe off the glue. Wednesday is still scrubbing at her gluey hands with water. I suggest she use the SSS also, and continue to squash the cat against me while I de-glue him.
Wednesday tells me "It's in the trash can," when I ask about the box. Pugsley finds it- turns out. the sticky box was one of those insect traps, which had been on the counter to rid us of ants. The cat had evidently laid upon it. There were no ants in the trap, just cat fur.
We've finished the ungluing. Everyone is safe. I phone my mother to say we'll have ice cream after dinner.
So, he's just greasy now. If we have any clean laundry, don't let him lie on it.
"Can we not have those ant traps now? They're not doing what we hoped."
Yes, Pugsley. We can get rid of them.
A day or so later, Gomez comes home. We do the dinner thing, the television thing, the late-night snacking thing and turn in for the night. He's almost asleep when I remember the misadventure.
Remind me in the morning to tell you about Wednesday getting glued to the cat.
"Mkay. Which one?"
Because that, naturally, is the logical question one asks when hearing that one's daughter has been glued to a cat. Which one, indeed.
ZZ Top, Velcro Fly
"No, Mom, we have to go RIGHT NOW. Wednesday says she's glued to the cat."
It was kind of a non-sequitur for me, too. Just so you know.
She's glued...?
"To the cat, yeah."
Pugsley and I had been discussing taking my mother out for ice cream after having traumatized her with a newer computer tower, importing her bookmarks and a few other changes, none of which greeted with happy acceptance.
Glued to the cat?
"He got into something sticky, and she tried to clean him and now she's stuck to him."
We're out the door and into the car now, with the lighter fluid my mother pressed into my hands as a solvent. I thanked her without mentioning any of the ideas that sprang like pop-up ads into my brain associated with putting lighter fluid on a cat.
Sticky enough that SHE is glued to the cat?
"I guess; she said something about a box. I told her to try using water to get unstuck."
The cat got stuck on a sticky box and now Wednesday is glued to the cat.
"Mom. Just drive."
Wednesday was no longer stuck to the cat when we arrived. She and the cat were both agitated, but not nuclear. They were closeted in the downstairs bathroom, him in the window and her in front of the sink, trying to remove sticky from herself. She's almost a grown-ass woman, so I investigate the cat.
You got yourself unglued.
"Yes, but he's still got globs of it all in his fur. It's not as bad as I first thought- mostly his arm and a little on his belly. And my hands are all sticky."
Pugsley has found, as requested, with almost NO searching, the bottle of Skin So Soft I keep handy for many reasons. One of them is sticky stuff. The cat, with a minimum of squirming and complaining, allows me to settle him on my lap and apply SSS with tissue to his fur, then wipe off the glue. Wednesday is still scrubbing at her gluey hands with water. I suggest she use the SSS also, and continue to squash the cat against me while I de-glue him.
Wednesday tells me "It's in the trash can," when I ask about the box. Pugsley finds it- turns out. the sticky box was one of those insect traps, which had been on the counter to rid us of ants. The cat had evidently laid upon it. There were no ants in the trap, just cat fur.
We've finished the ungluing. Everyone is safe. I phone my mother to say we'll have ice cream after dinner.
So, he's just greasy now. If we have any clean laundry, don't let him lie on it.
"Can we not have those ant traps now? They're not doing what we hoped."
Yes, Pugsley. We can get rid of them.
A day or so later, Gomez comes home. We do the dinner thing, the television thing, the late-night snacking thing and turn in for the night. He's almost asleep when I remember the misadventure.
Remind me in the morning to tell you about Wednesday getting glued to the cat.
"Mkay. Which one?"
Because that, naturally, is the logical question one asks when hearing that one's daughter has been glued to a cat. Which one, indeed.
ZZ Top, Velcro Fly
18 July, 2014
Good Ass
...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.
"What?"
"A LITTLE bit younger?"
"Yes, like 30 or something."
"That's ....creepy."
"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
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.
"What?"
"A LITTLE bit younger?"
"Yes, like 30 or something."
"That's ....creepy."
"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