Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: cybersecurity, email, Middle-Age, relationships, sex, spam, technology, Viagra
One of the things I do every day that brings me great joy is to look at the spam that comes into my email. According to the non-retail emails that get filtered (thank you, awesome security keep-that-crap-off-my-computer software) I am a middle-aged man who:
- is very helpful and willing to take lots of sketchy, unidentified meetings;
- is very, very lonely;
- is very, very horny;
- is bisexual;
- but can’t get it up;
- has hard muscles;
- is confident (according to my eyes);
- likes red wine; and,
- is dumb enough to go meet someone randomly with the promise of “good sex now.”
My favorites are the ones where the English is a bit…iffy:
“One doze is enough even for 60-years-old…”
“Your girl will really need a lotion!”
“With our pilules (that’s how it was spelled) you will have more energy”
“Perhaps you will come into a rage, but…”
And my personal fave: “Oh, it seems I’m ready to be yours today.”
Really? It seems you’re ready? That just sounds like you’re surprised that you would be attracted to me. You also don’t seem to be in control of your body, as if your body has just let you in on a little secret. I can’t imagine going up to some guy in a bar and whispering in his ear, “It seems I’m ready to be yours today,” like I was hanging about, preparing myself for the day I’d finally meet him. (Oh, I’d still get laid, because it would be said to a guy, but the slightly puzzled, matter-of-fact delivery just makes me giggle.)
Listen spammers, if you really want a middle-aged mom to open your emails, use phrases like this:
“I’ll just lay here and let you read until you fall asleep.”
“I’m the guy who’ll load the dishwasher.”
“Teenagers – WTF?”
“Mom, I’m sorry but they made me do it…”
“Cute dog pictures.”
“Free coffee.”
“Free wine.”
“You’re right – I’m sorry.”
“Outlander is coming to [YOUR TOWN HERE].”
“Huge Costco sale is on!”
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, bars, bourbon, Dancing, drinking, elderly, Enzo's Chop House, humor, Middle-Age, parenting, parents, sandwich generation, sex, south, southern, subourbonmom, Twerking, Viagra
Being part of the Sandwich Generation is more than just taking care of both your parents and your kids—you’re also the ground wire between those two high-voltage groups.
Now y’all, I am well aware that I have lately slipped into a routine of going to work, coming home, fixing dinner, and mindlessly binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy. Somewhere between the patient being diagnosed and the amazing procedure that miraculously saves her, I fall asleep. I know my mouth is hangs open and I probably snore, but no one has made it into a Vine yet (that I know of).
Until the other night, I assumed my flagging energy is a sign of age—then I was proved oh, so wrong.
A week or so ago, Hubby and I broke the mold and went out at eight o’clock on a Wednesday to meet some friends—we hadn’t seen them in a while, and they were going to Enzo’s Chop House.
Enzo’s is known for three things: great food, stiff drinks, and fun dance music from the 60’s and 70’s. We’d been there before, and knew there would mostly be older folks out having a good time before going home and bathing in Ben Gay—we were confident we would outlast them.
This time it wasn’t just an older crowd—it was a scene out of the movie Cocoon.
Our mere speckles of white hair and ability to walk without hitching one hip up on one side were not the only things that set us apart — was the dancing.
As I said, Enzo’s is also known as a fun place to dance to the oldies—and by that I mean Motown and good ol’ Southern Rock. (I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but Southern Rock is now classified as “classic.” When I was growing up it was just “Rock.”)
Usually, when Hubby and I dance, we do the high school sway back and forth thing, because the one time we took dancing lessons, it was pointed out (to me) that both people can’t lead. So while we shifted our weight back and forth, the rest of the crowd was doing the Shag, the Swing, and the Two-Step, and even throwing out some disco moves that would make John Travolta look bad.
It was humiliating.
And if the dancing wasn’t enough, watching those reliable social lubricants, Viagra and Bourbon start to take affect was just scary. Like any bar filled with 25-30-year-olds, the bourbon goggles eventually came on, and couples that had begun the evening together started mixing it up. Men in their 70’s shuffled over to tables occupied by younger women and began chatting them up. Eventually, one of the women would stray from the herd and find herself out on the dance floor shuffling and kicking her feet to Al Green and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Hands sometimes wandered a little lower than they should, and meaningful, myopic stares stretched across the dance floor from table to table.
It was almost like watching your parents twerk.
By ten o-clock, the Highball Shuffle took over as the dance move of choice. The music wound down, and Styrofoam water cups began to replace bourbon glasses on the tables. By 10:30 we were done with a capital “D”. We were sober, and I’ll admit it—a little jealous—we left those rascally retirees to their own (sometimes medically required) devices and went home to the next generation of bar-hopping, dancing romance-seekers.
Subourbon Mom 