There comes a time in life where we feel we have tried every possible option (the easiest ones anyway) and the only path left to take is the windy bitch-ass path and there is only one thing left to do: WHINE. Nine times out of ten it won’t get us any closer to our destination (whether that be a quarter-pounder with cheese or a new job or even just a poop alone on the toilet)- but damnit, it just feels good.
I do a lot of this whining, I’m not ashamed of it- because on really ugly days it’s either that or punch someone straight in their forehead- and let’s be honest here, I don’t have the funds to bail myself out of jail when I could have just acted like a baby and felt better after a good old fashioned whine-fest.
As time passes by and my age creeps up on me in more unexpected, unflattering, and wholly unappreciated ways- I find that the amount of whining I do about other things transfers to my body.
This doesn’t sit the way it used to; when did THAT start hanging?; is that…. IS THAT A WRINKLE?; fuck YOU gray hair.
I’m already married, so there isn’t going to be a sugar daddy interested in my goodies in exchange for botox and a number of tucks and lifts as I age, and I’m pretty damn certain if anyone ever DOES find the fountain of youth they will ask for virgin sacrifices and firstborn children as payment… and well… I’d rather have floppy tits than pay the piper in that case- so the only thing left to do, OTHER than whine- is to accept it.
We are all going to get old (if we’re LUCKY). It’s a fact of life. It’s going to happen and there’s nothing you can do to stop the clock from ticking away- so why not embrace the mothball smelling moldy oldness and try to make a grand ol’ time out of it.
That is why I have come up with a plan, an epic kick-ass plan of how to be a kick-ass old lady. Think Betty White… only crazier… only not crazy at all. I may be unrealistic about the expectations I have for wrinkle creams, I have always been logical, but you can bet your sweet not-yet-wrinkled ass that when the ta-tas go south, I will find other things to have fun with.
These days it seems like everyone wants to be the “cool granny” in the cool clothes with the mid life crisis car and the tiny little purse dog and $500 sunglasses. Or the “kick ass granny” in the lather coats speeding into the neighborhood on the loudest fucking motorcycle you’ve ever heard… and I suppose those are both well and good- but what I want to be is BATSHIT CRAZY GRANNY.
I don’t want to be throwing around young-people slang and trying to stay hip and “with the times”- I love technology and don’t plan to be on any autocorrect fail website in the future- but if you think I’m squeezing my wrinkly old body into a tube top and hot pants like I did in my early 20s, you’re on crack.
The grandchildren, assuming I ever have any, will think I’m awesome no matter what I wear- because the kind of things Batshit Crazy Granny are the kinds of things small children laugh at. And once they get too old to find me funny, they’ll probably be a-holey teenagers anyway and deserving of my humiliating wrath.
When my hair finally decides it’s had enough and goes Santa-white or tinsel-gray, I won’t be using “Just for women” or going to a salon to try and cover those suckers up every few weeks. Hell no! I am going to use the lightness of my hair to my advance and go electric blue. We’re talking Marge Simpson blue. And then I’m going to tease it, and wear ornaments in it like a Christmas tree. A bad ass Christmas tree.
I’m not going to keep with “the times” on current slang. Unless by “times” you mean the 1950’s. I wasn’t alive in the 1950’s, but there is no greater a-hole than a 1950’s crotchety old fart. Only I won’t REALLY be angry- but people will think I am and therefore be terrified of the Batshit Crazy Granny with the electric blue Christmas tree hair. Meanwhile, I will be laughing hysterically with my awesome old lady laugh.
Let me at those whipper-snappers, dag-nabbit! I’ll smack that smile right off their faces. My peepers may not be what they used to, but Jiminy Christmas, ONE day Alice… straight to the moon! Now go play on The Facebook and leave granny alone so she can go see a man about a horse and then puff on her magic cigarettes. Bless your heart.
No one will have a single fucking idea what in the holy HELL I am saying- and it will be awesome.
|Hellz yeah, WITH a floor
length fur coat.
I expect my back to go before my knees or hips- so when it comes time to get my saggy ass into a hover-round, I’m attaching a bullhorn. And I will yell at people. Horrible OBSCENE things. And no one will be able to do anything because I’m old and in a scooter and I have huge insane blue hair covered in knick-knacks and strangers will just assume I have lost my damn mind and suck up their feelings of butt hurt.
What I REALLY want is a blinged out cane, so that I can smack people in the backs of their knees and cackle as they suddenly lose all sense of gravity and balance.
Sorry, dearie! Granny has muscle spasms!
If it so happens that all of my teeth decide to fall out of my head, that’s okay. I will find pleasure in leaving them in random places, and ‘accidentally’ forgetting to glue them into my skull and spit them out mid-sentence at unsuspecting people.
Music must be played at deafening levels- y’know, since I’m old and old people can’t hear. Preference? Golden Oldies- which by then will be cheesy 90’s rap and hair metal. I will sing along including curse words.
Parents just don’t understand, y’all.
Oh, and I’ll hire a driver; a really HOT driver- ’cause as fucking awesome as I’ll be with my blue hair and dirty pirate hooker mouth- my old ass should probably not drive. Old people cause accidents- and I plan to live FOREVER even without virgin sacrifice to the fountain of youth.
My eyesight already sucks at 28, imagine at 82.
I will still roll down the window in my living room on wheels from the backseat and shake my fist at shitdicks for tailgaiting.. because of course I will insist my driver go 10 miles under the speed limit.
What? You were in a hurry?
Boobs low and spirits high! Enjoy old age. Like a Boss.
The “Are You Ready to Have Kids?” Checklist of Doom goo.gl/fb/DTPJ1A
If anyone asks how I died, you can just go ahead and tell them "she was lured in by free pie in exchange for listening to 2nd graders screech Thanksgiving songs for 30 minutes"
I'm not saying this is the perfect #Christmas gift for all the parents in your life, but.... okay, yeah I am. That's exactly what I'm saying. Truths from the bowels of parenthood! amazon.com/Kids-Are-Turds…
@Gofashiondeals All of that and more. Good times. Gooooood times