Put some REAL knickers on. Please.

I wandered down to my (semi)local today to enjoy a little live music and some vertical dancing action. Jimi Hocking and the Blues Machine were great. GREAT. Loving it. Loving a lead singer who can SING (mother was an opera singer, guess who has great classical training), loving guys who can dance. Everybody's happy.

Then the mid-life-crisis Barbies appear. These are the women who bought themselves cosmetic surgery to pay back their ex-husbands. Or to find a new husband. Or to find, if not a sugar daddy, then someone who will buy them a drink. I just want someone to buy them a better color lipstick. Or, in the case of one unfortunate, full, boylegged panties.

I'm not saying that being over forty puts you out of miniskirt territory. Hey, fifty is apparently the new thirty. And if wearing a short skirt makes you feel all right then you go ahead, lady. But please, in the name of all things depilated, does it HAVE to be a full, spins-out to waist-height skirt? I mean, it barely covered your butt to begin with, but now no-one in the bar wants to take you home because they've all seen it all.

I'm tempted to advertise my services as a 'dresser' - literally, one who ensures you leave the house DRESSED. That means that when you think an strapless bodice top would be just the thing, I will gently remind you that you plan to be twirling about with your arms above your head. Tape may be a wise investment.

Hair is a component of your appearance, not an accessory. Sparkly butterfly clips will look much sweeter in your granddaughter's hair than in your own.
When striving to maintain a youthful appearance, bleach-blond wire hairsprayed into dead-straight tufts is not a weapon in your charm arsenal. It's just a weapon. That anyone takes money from you to make it look like that is criminal. (We're talking hair to shoulders or longer, not some perky, sweet pixie cut.)

Perhaps more worrying than any of the mavens of grotesque is the following exchange:
"So, where are you guys playing next weekend?"
"Oh, over at the Manhattan, but you should come to the Elephant and Wheelbarrow the weekend after that . It's a really nice gig."
"And do many people dance?"
"Ah, not so much, no. It's pretty cruisy though. Why, you'd want to dance?"
"Ah, yep. Just need to know if I have to bring my own boy or I can recruit from the crowd."
"Oh, you'd have a boy to bring, wouldn't you? You look like you'd have a few boys!"
"Ah, yeah. Yeah, I could probably scrape one up." [quick, embarrassed exit]

You look like you'd have a few boys???!!! I really hope that's some kind of a compliment. On the other hand, I have (and wear, let's be quite clear) a wedding band.
Guys, decode please: "You look like you'd have a few boys!" with reference: NO, I was not wearing a short skirt. OR a strapless top. Grey tee, black skirt.

ANd the perfect end to a Sunday... Hubs, rifling through the cookie tin full of homemade cookies: "Have you tried any of these ones with the stuff?"
"Ah, yes, the ONES with the STUFF..."
"Should I maybe make a little plate of cookies and things to..."
"You know, I'm SURE that's something you can do spontaneously."
"Oh, yeah. Yeap. I'm -ah- just talking to myself over here. Not asking you anything about stuff at all."

Yeap.