Your Girlfriend's Creepy Mother

Apparently there are two thirties. There is the Friends thirty where you're still young and sexy and "thirty is the new twenty" and then there is my thirty, where you have gray hairs and stretch marks and can't wear spaghetti strap tank tops anymore because you can't wear spaghetti strap bras anymore and the option of going braless no longer even occurs to you. This thirty is the new forty.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I went out to the greenhouse, where my good friend Jame works weekends, to buy my mother a beautiful hanging basket. She will hate it, but that is inevitable so I buy it anyway. While shopping around for the proper soon-to-be-hated flowers, I am assisted by a strapping young man. And by strapping, I mean he is a gay porn model come to life in front of me. And I, of course, am wearing my grubby weekend housework clothes, not a hint of make-up, and haven't dyed my roots in two months. Nonetheless, since I happen to know this kid, I chat with him while he reaches effortlessly to retrieve for me baskets of flowers which hang above my head. Stretching. Flexing. His t-shirt lifting to reveal. . . and then the watering hose from the plant falls out of the basket and cracks me on the skull. Ouch. What a rude reminder that I am an old married pervert buying a plant for my mother with a car insurance rebate check.

And who uses metal hoses to water hanging baskets anyway?

But anyway, back to our story. Adonis, as I'll call him, appeared to be flirting with me in that "Thank you for pulling me away from the register the old lady with the tomato plants was driving me crazy" kind of way that seemed to whisper just a little bit of "Just in case you're wondering I'd do you and by the way I have nothing going on all next week since I dropped out of junior college with two credits left because I heard The Dead were going back on tour." So I flirted back, in a "I'm married and you are way too young and you stink of patchouli and pot but damn you're still sexy, you phish-quoting hippy" sort of way. I'm not an idiot. I know when someone's coming on to me, even when it's watered down. He was making it clear that the next move was mine, and welcome. I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn't that old. I guess I'm still decent looking, and to someone who's never had the misfortune of seeing me naked, I could look okay. I have a decent smile, and good hair. And if Adonis is hitting on me, I must still have it.

Well, I bought the plant for my ungrateful mother and, sadly, left. But let me tell you, nothing cheers you up quite as much as getting hit on by a twenty three year old with two percent body fat. And nothing brings you down again like being told by our best friend hours later that after you left, they guy called you Mrs Robinson. Yeah, I'm old.

Mrs Robinson. Not Stifler's mom. Not Stacey's mom. Not a milf, no. I don't get compared to any modern day examples of older but still sexy women. Nope. Stoner-Adonis has to reach through the smog of his memory to pull out a forty year old reference to a chain smoking pre-Botox seductress in order to describe me. I get to be Anne Bancroft. Yeah, that's great. I wouldn't want to be anyone sexy or desirable. I'd much rather be your girlfriend's creepy mother. See this way I have nowhere to go but up, unless any mimbos out there would like to accuse me of being manly? I suppose there's still room for someone to call me Chandler's dad.