Lost: Smutty Blonde with Great Tits

So while I was home, I made quite a few trips to the hardware store. On my second trip in, a man who worked there, Bob, befriended me. He lent me a tool and gave me advice. He was friendly, but not overly so. He was great. Especially since it had been so long since I experienced anything remotely resembling customer service.

So Bob became my friend.

In my subsequent trips, Bob would advise me on cleaning products and techniques. He’d put all my purchases on the counter for me so I could look around, unburdened by tools and cleaning supplies. It came that I looked forward to my trips to Ace Hardware.

One afternoon, my brother accompanied me to pick up fluorescent light tiles that Bob had arranged to be cut for me. My one attempt yielded broken bits of plastic in the backseat of the car. They never made it home. Jeff was to help protect the tiles from my fumbling hands.

Bob was there, helpful as always. When he pointed us to the Goo Gone aisle, Jeff ruined my very special and very platonic relationship with Bob.

“Cock tease.” He said under his breath loud enough for me to hear him… and Bob who was walking behind to make sure we found it.

“Okay, well, let me know if there’s anything else” Bob said before he walked quickly, to the other side of the store. My face turned beet red.

I slugged him in the arm. Apparently Jeff did not know Bob was behind us.

Well, this brought up a few thoughts.

One, cock teasing was the furthest thing from my mind. When did that happen?

Bob was in his fifties, slight of build and a bit mouse-ish with indoor/outdoor aviator glasses. Now, in my life prior to Sparky McLovey, I might have been known to date an older man or two, but never thirty years my senior. Well, maybe, but Bob wasn’t my type of older guy. Bob wasn’t even a guy to me. When did that happen? It used to be that all men were men to me. Not necessarily beddable, but men. Then it hit me.

Since I got married, I’ve forgotten about men.

Okay, Vin Diesel and Robbie Williams don’t count.

An even more horrifying realization is that since I’ve gotten married, men have forgotten about me.

When did that happen? When did I stop wearing glossy glossy lip gloss as I felt it was too young for me? When did this change happen? When did I stop wearing low blouses for crew necked t-shirts? When was the last time i wore lingerie in public?When was the last time I put on tights and a skirt? When was the last time I flirted with someone other than Sparky? When was the last time that someone flirted with me?

Then more synapses started firing away in my head. When was the last time I got out of a speeding ticket because I was cute and had great tits? When did I last have great tits? When, when, when…

When did the Bobs in the world become the generation I’m most likely to attract?

When I moved to Krautland.

I used to have a manicure every two weeks, a pedicure every four weeks. I used to have my hair done by John the Magnificent every 6-8 weeks. I used to have great natural highlights. I used to pay quite a bit to have all the hair below my navel painfully ripped off every four weeks. I used to go shopping once a month for something cute and new. I used to go to MoMA when the new exhibits were up. I used to have drinks after work. I used to be able to drink without my face turning a million shades of red. I used to be able to hold my liquor. I used to smoke. I used to have a full-length mirror so I could see the entire outfit, shoes and all. I used to…

All that is gone. I’m sure the spirit of that city girl is still roaming San Francisco looking for her body so she can get laid. Meanwhile, her half-sister is getting laid, but not getting dressed.

I haven’t seen my entire body, clothed or unclothed in years. We do not have a full length mirror. Haven’t since i moved here. I have to stand up on this marble counter to see my lower half and that way I can’t see my upper half. And standing on the counter is a bid sketchy so I don’t really do it. There was one time at the gym and that one time was horrifying. I had no idea the outfit looked as bad as it did. I can only see to my hip level in our mirrors here at home. I had no idea my ass had stretched THAT far back.

I blame Sparky.

I blame Sparky for not allowing me to buy the fifty million full-length mirrors I’ve picked out. No, no, more frequent visits to the gym are not the answer. It’s seeing myself in the goddamned mirror. The girl I am in my head does not resemble the girl typing this rant, at all, save for the first name and green eyes. If I had a full-length mirror, I might have noticed when I got old and fatter.

See, I used to have a wall of mirrors. My closet doors were mirrors and they were my saving grace. Not only were they useful for daily inspection, but they also mirrored the bed. One could get an all over picture if you know what I mean. It was helpful. Its was much better than my best friend. My best friend would say “yes, you’re fat.” Or worse, “No, that looks GREAT on you.” The mirror just stands there and lets you figure it out.

My mirror used to reign supreme on my daily culinary fare. It ruled with an iron fist over my choice of clothing from panties to ski wear, eyeliner to handbags. I might have been vain, but I was well groomed and well dressed and well, I was pretty damn cute.

So, since I got back, the mirror has been ordered. This is no easy feat, mind you. The government has less red tape and guidelines than Sparky on what can or cannot be placed in the house. It must match, it must not be shiny, it must be shiny, and it must coordinate with the color of the shoes he wears on the third Thursday of May. He’s a bit anal retentive about furnishings.

However, no matter how much he loves me and my wide ass, I really miss the smutty blond I used to be. And I really want this mirror.

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7 thoughts on “Lost: Smutty Blonde with Great Tits

  1. OMG – I love the “lingerie” picture of you and the Danish guy at Folsom St. Fair.

    Or was he Belgian?

    -. Sparky

  2. Well, welcome to the Middle-Aged Matrons Club, Jen!

    You know, I bet that Dutch guy in the picture is pondering the same things today – like when was the last time he wore crotchless leather chaps and how come the only guys that hit on him now are pot-bellied cheese shop owners called Jan.

  3. I don’t know. Gay men seem to have a longer shelf life. And he had a really big… uh… schwanz.

    Middle Aged? Am I really middle aged? I just wanted to take a break from the ride, not jump off completely.

    My new work out routine will have to include slutting it up again. Forty and frosted, here I come.

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