By Ann Brown
Summer is long gone but for the liver spots on my face.
I am hoping my liver spots will just connect to each other, resulting in a beautiful overall dark complexion. I am not without a low-cost beauty plan for my sixth decade. With Obamacare hanging so precariously in the balance, we have to be creative.
My adjunct plan is to eat more butter so my heart will give out before The Melanoma gets me. Right now, I think The Melanoma and The Heart Attack are neck in neck. So to speak. Actually, also literally: my neck is literally lost in my other neck.
So I have been thinking about getting some work done. It came to me this summer when we put a new roof on the house, painted the exterior, rebuilt the back deck, widened the stone steps in the yard and remodeled the upstairs bathroom.
I took a good long look in the mirror and said to myself, “you could use a new roof, too, Missy. There are patches on your top where nothing is covered. And your exterior is definitely showing cracks from age. Your siding is full of rough edges and splinters.”
Let’s not even get started on what my back deck looks like. My planks are totally warped. Fuck.
And as for my upstairs remodel? Well, my foundation is dangerously sagging. And possibly moldy. Some days I’m afraid to look under my bra.
Still, I’ve been pretty lucky so far. The past 59 years haven’t left me with too many signs of age. I follow the adage, “after 50, you have to choose your ass or your face.”
Yes, my knees give out every once in a while, and my hands look like they need ironing, and I make little “oy” noises when I get up from a low chair. But, all in all, it’s been okay.
At least I still have my fart muscles intact. I haven’t yet begun to do that guerilla farting thing that my sister does where out of nowhere, she farts. She claims she can’t help it, that she doesn’t even know it’s coming. And I suppose I am inclined to believe her but, honestly, if I were afflicted with Guerilla Fart Syndrome, I would lie about it.
Karen is a delicate little flower; she hardly eats anything so her farts aren’t much to deal with. Her little guerilla farts are no more than a delightful unexpected blast of coronets heralding the coming of the king.
When GFS hits me, I can do that thing that Robin does, I suppose. When he feels a fart coming on in public, he moves quickly through the crowd and then makes a speedy exit. He calls it Crop Dusting. It’s gross. If you ever find yourself with Robin in a crowded room and he suddenly begins to power walk towards the door, beware. Especially if it’s Taco Tuesday.
Anyway, back to me.
I think I would like an Eye Job first. My eyelids are bunched to the point of my having to stake them up just to put on makeup. I should tape little Venetian blind pull-up cords at the corner of my eyes.
After my Eye Job, I think I shall have one of those surgeries where they take fat from one place and put it in another place. Like Somalia, maybe. Because there’s no place on my body that needs extra fat. Too bad we can’t do Fat Donation Drives for the Red Cross. You lay down, donate your fat and then they give you cookies! And you eat, like, two dozen of them. And you make more fat! Which you donate to starving people. Hakuna Matata.
I better get to DC while the debate is still on. I think this can work.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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