Two years

I know, I know. I haven't been around much, of late. Not that anyone asked.

Oh, sure, I've been busy, but who the heck isn't busy in spring, with baseball, lacrosse, end of school cupcake-making.

It's more that I had a little touch of something.

No, not swine flu.

Worse.

See, Mad Mad turned two this weekend, and, as is to be expected, is undergoing a touch of the usual mid-bloglife crisis: Why is she here? What is the point, even? And who really gives a crap about all her silly nonsense anyway? Why doesn't she just email her two readers if she wants to let them know what's going on in her life?

And speaking of life, isn't it about time she got one already?

For some very strange reason, Mad Mad's existentialist crisis coincided with my own. At the ripe old age of 42, I, too, have questions no slick new convertible and young bimbo are going to be able to fix: Why am I here? What is the point, even? Who really gives a crap about all my silly nonsense anyway? And, most important, when exactly is my ass going to get smaller?

Sigh.

There ain't a convertible big enough to ease the pain.

So there has been some moping around.

I tried to shake it off a bit. I even had a couple things I wanted to tell everyone, and went to the effort of finding myself a new photographer. One that wouldn't think taking pics of my butt was quite so funny.

She has her own issues, though:






(Seriously. I truly don't understand how she got herself into private school, that one. )

I went back to my old photographer, and surprise, surprise:



Apparently he's still a little snot. So that didn't help either.

A few death threats later, I got a barely passable shot of my Tangled Yoke in Elsebeth Lavold Silky Wool, but then I noticed something else:



And also? Who the hell wears cardigans? In SUMMER?! Little old ladies, that's who. And worse? Little old ladies KNIT cardigans.

There I am, a little old lady knitting my own cardigan in my Carol Brady hair.

I couldn't suck more.

Now just listen: if you happen to be a little old lady, please don't write in about how YOU are even older, or how you are sure I am an awful person who doesn't like old people. I got nothing against old people. It's just the one looking at me in my mirror that is troubling me some lately. She's always wanting to know where all the brown spots came from and why things keep sagging, and I just don't know what to tell her any more. Mostly I avoid eye-contact, brush my teeth and get out quick before there's more questions.

Most days it works. I am lucky enough to live in New England, after all, where usually one can hide many ills in a nice pair of jeans.

(Provided you don't happen to live in a changing room at Lord and Taylor's, where there are mirrors positioned so you can see your butt in those jeans. Because THAT is not pleasant. At all. Ask me how I know. Oh, don't bother. We're getting to that part. I'm not the most short-winded of people, as some of you have kindly pointed out, thankyouverymuch.)

Any-way.

Summer is coming and well, I needed a bathing suit. (That's how I know. See? I get there. You just have to be patient, sometimes.)

I was hoping to find one that made me look 15 years younger and like I had a good body.

Yeah. Apparently they don't sell those.

It wouldn't normally matter, because, Heck who do I know at the beach? And what do I care what they think? But now, see, we made some friends there. And it turns out I actually like them.

So I don't need them to see me in excruciating detail because I don't want them passing out in shock or falling off the boat and drowning.

So I needed a bathing suit that covered pretty much everything, from wrist to ankles, but didn't look too frumpy because these friends are younger and I don't want them to think I'm an old boring lady. (Who knits cardigan sweaters in her Carol Brady hair.)

It took me a long, agonizing, tear-filled while, but I found something that wasn't too bad.

And then I spent $150 on two cover-ups to cover it all up, just to make sure.

So anyway, long story short, if you're looking for me this summer at the beach, this is what I'll look like:



That oughta do it. Doncha think?

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For those of you paying attention, yes, I did say Mad Mad turned two, and she LOVES presents: Tell her how you get out of your funks, and she'll put you in a little drawing to win a little something. Hand-knit, of course. Maybe a wool thong, though, if she's still cranky.

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The folks over at humor-blogs don't pass out when they look at themselves in the mirror.