peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

It seems like yesterday that I was listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince’s Parents Just Don’t Understand.

I just googled the song to reminisce. Dude! That song was released in 1988 when I was a teenager and could relate.

Fast-forward 25 years.

Now I can relate to the parents in The Parent Rap. Yikes.

Funny how two and a half decades can transform a gal.

When oh when…did this thing called aging start creeping in?

• When did I become so chatty with grocery store checkers? What a blabber head I’ve become. Just like my Grandma.
• When did I start thinking about fiber intake? And carbs? And antioxidants? It takes me like 10 minutes to swallow all my vitamins in the morning..
• When did I start buying underwear the size of sails? Gasp!
• When did I start yawning at 10:30 p.m.?
• When did I start needing glasses to Tweet and text?

Dude! It just happens. And that’s when I grab my walker and hobble over to launch Pandora and crank up Right Said Fred, loud enough so that the lyrics sink into my old bones.

I go to the county fair every summer. It’s been a tradition since I was a kid. The fair is EXACTLY the same today as it was those many years ago. Just the way I like it.

Except I’m different now. I’m not the kid begging for cotton candy. I’m not the teenager flirting with boys. I don’t tuck money into my shoe anymore. I’m the Mom, with the ginormous backpack carrying all of the kids’ crap, sunscreen, and water bottles. I am the one in the dorky, floppy sun hat, protecting her face from the sun.

But I’m still a kid inside. I still get that giddiness and excitement in my tummy as we drive into the fairgrounds and park in the straw and walk through the turnstiles and get unlimited ride wristbands attached to our left wrists.

The sights are still the same. Leathered-skin carnies operating the rides. A little gruff. A little leery. A little toothless.

The rides are the same. Ferris wheel with the glowing lights. Bumper cars with their stop-and-go jerkiness and electricity popping. Creaky roller coaster that tic-tic-tics up the ramp and then whooshes you downward propelling screams. I can’t ride the spinning rides anymore (old age) but I watch my kids ride and I encourage them with a big grin on my face.

There are still the teenagers preening and flaunting. Girls wearing their tightest shorts, flipping hair, chomping on gum, checking out the boys in line who are also looking and smelling their finest, checking out the girls. I am no longer the teen, flipping my hair and checking out the boys. My shorts are tight (for other reasons).

Unwinnable games. Darts and balloons. Climb the ladder to ring a bell. Shoot the basketball. Knock over old-fashioned milk bottles. Giant pandas, red dogs, monkeys…a girl’s dream to win one and walk around with a stuffed animal under her arm, boasting. I never won one. Now, I’m like “we don’t need a giant stuffed banana with Jamaican hair.” Or DO we?

The world’s smallest horse. “Step right up and pay a dollar.” The horse is merely a small Shetland pony, appearing miniscule, in a pen built well below the stairs you climb. Every year, I am fooled again. But I have hope.

The piglets, the velvety cows, the endearing goats, the sheep with attitude. The smells of the barns are comforting, with their fresh straw and fresh poop. 4-H kids with their impressive pride, grooming their animals and answering your dumb questions. “What is the difference between a llama and an alpaca?” I ask.

The smells and tastes of the fair food. The same. Pink and blue fluffy cotton candy, deep-fried corn dogs, greasy funnel cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar, salty popcorn.

This year, I returned to the fair again with my three kids. Just as we do every year, where we pack in fun, exiting exhausted and a little bit green-faced at midnight. I take my youngest two kids by the hands and we practically skip to say hello to the goats, let the cotton candy dissolve on our tongues, and board the Ferris wheel to watch the “ants” down below.

I wave goodbye to my oldest teen son, who runs off with a friend–as they quickly ditch our goofball trio–and they do what teen boys do, with their hair gelled, just so.

And so, the cycle continues, round and round, like the Ferris wheel. Some things never change.

I’m hanging with the peeps at Yeah Right…check out other fun bloggers there!

Commenting on how time flies and how kids are growing like a weed…those are old lady comments, in my book. Purchasing fiber capsules and complaining about my hardened feet and sore muscles? OMG, those are old lady actions too.

Dude! I am turning into an old lady!

• A friend of mine has a daughter who just got accepted to Dartmouth. Not only is that amazing and impressive, but I knew this woman when she was pregnant with this little Dartmouthian. What did I utter? “Wow, she has sure grown up.”*

*old lady comment

• I was on Facebook and ran across a woman who just got married. A beautiful bride. I knew her when she was a six-year-old. What did I comment? “I knew you when you were just a little girl.”*

*old lady comment

• The radio was on and it was Rihanna. Again. The words out of my mouth? “How can kids listen to this?”* Bah, music these days. And I changed it to the jazz station to listen to–get this–Eartha Kitt and Tommy Dorsey.

*old lady comment

• I go to the kitchen cabinet only to discover I’m low on–what else? Fiber capsules.*

*old lady purchase

My thirteen-year-old officially towers over me, standing tall at 6′. Am I shrinking, like old ladies do? I quickly measured myself. Whew, still 5’8″.

Then I jumped in the car (because I still can) and drove fast (because I still can), blasted some Rihanna, and stocked up on fiber capsules.

I have discovered an amazing photographer: Irina Werning.

She photographs children and families. But wait! Then photographs the same people several years later, wearing the same outfit in the same location.

It makes me a little sad to see the progression of time. But also makes me happy to show that we pretty much stay the same.

Check her out. She’s amazing. Her photographs will make you pause and maybe reminisce.

http://irinawerning.com/index.php?/bttf2/back-to-the-future-2-2011/

This is one of my favorites:

So, I go to the Lancome make-up counter during my lunch break to buy some new eyeshadow.

The make-up girl was unhelpful and a little rude. She boldly suggests that I try the intense anti-wrinkle serum…for extreme wrinkles. Extreme wrinkles?! “Maybe you should try the intense anti-wrinkle serum,” she suggests.

Dude! I know I’ve got some wrinkles around the eyes. Don’t you think I see them every day? Dude! I have big cheeks that go up when I smile and laugh. Too much LOLing, I guess.

I don’t need an orangey-tanned make-up sales tot reminding me. Uh, maybe you should try a college education?

I am reminded of the classic scene in Fried Green Tomatoes when Kathy Bates gets “Towanda” power and bashes into the young woman’s car in the parking lot, exclaiming “I’m older and I have more insurance.” Ugh. Have I turned into Kathy Bates?

Maybe next time, I’ll just visit my gesties (gay besties) at the MAC make-up counter. At least they don’t say mean things to my wrinkled face.

I high-fived a stranger. And it kinda made my day. And maybe hers.

I went to the craft store to buy a heart wreath for the front door–Shut The Front Door, Valentine’s Day is around the corner!

This older woman–looking a bit lonely–was also picking out a heart wreath. I struck up a conversation with her, in typical Pippi fashion. Because I talk to strangers. All the time.

Which wreath did she want to buy? Did she like pink or red best? Or maybe the glittery magenta would be fun.

She couldn’t decide. She thought a small one would be nice because she lives in a condo. Then I asked her which one I should buy. She thought magenta would be fun.

Turns out we both decided on a magenta/hot pink glittery wreath. I was so excited, I high-fived her.

I caught her a little off guard (at first). Then she smiled. I made my purchase, then skipped to my car with a smile on my face.

Two strangers made a connection at a craft store. Spread the joy!

Whether you have breasts like nectarines, onions, or butternut squash (no judgement here)–or somewhere in between–experts recommend getting a mammogram starting at age 40. Or earlier if you have a family history of breast cancer.

Here’s a good link with facts about how mammograms save lives.

Even Pippi had a mammogram just the other day.

Let me tell you, it was fun!

Well, maybe not fun fun, as in let’s-go-have-some-margaritas fun, but definitely not bad. Here’s what happens:

1. You take off your clothes on top, wipe off your deodorant, and put on a lovely gown with a snap (oh and openings on the side, so you really hang out).

2. In the imaging room, the mammogram technician helps place one of your breasts onto the platter. And you grab onto the handle while this machine smashes your breast flat as a pita, while the technician clicks an image (maybe to put on Facebook?) and tells you to hold your breath for like 3 seconds. Easy peasy.

3. Repeat on the other side. You don’t want that breast to feel left out.

4. Then you do a side breast smash for each breast. Click (say cheese).

5. Then you’re done.

6. It takes about 8 minutes for the procedure altogether. And you have the chance to chit-chat with the technician while you’re standing there with your snap unsnapped and your breasts are hanging out. #awkward

But no pain, just a little pressure. You can handle it! Schedule your mammogram today. And when you do, tell them Pippi sent you.

I took my kids to the indoor community pool yesterday. It was eye opening. I saw:

• More crack than a DEA agent
• Bodies more doughy than a doughnut shop
• Sizes resembling Fat Bastard in Austin Powers

I also saw:

• Hairy men proudly holding bald, laughing babies
• Old women in swim skirts doing power laps
• Parents testing out their newly-acquired waterproof cameras on their newly-aquatic infants

What did people think when they took a peek at me–with my unshaven legs (whoopsidaisy) and chipped toenail polish–acting loony as ever? There I was, playing dolphins with my daughter: squeaking and begging for fish. And bolting down the water slide with my youngest son on my fleshy lap. Woohoo!

Whatever.

We were all just people. All sizes and shapes. All ages. All styles. All behaviors. And we were going for it! Exercising. Splashing. Laughing.

Better than the losers simply watching from the viewing deck. Pools are for getting wet. Boo on merely spectating.

I am morphing into an 80-year-old man. Five indications why:

1. I love Scrabble.
2. I can fall asleep sitting upright in my chair. “Just resting my eyes.”
3. I look for typos in newspaper articles and signs.
4. I love Butter Brickle ice cream.
5. I unplug the Christmas tree lights when I leave the house, for fear of setting the house on fire.

Just don’t pass the Metamucil. Not quite ready for that.