Miss Thing is Delighted to Announce
There I was, admiring his behind, visions of scented oils
dancing in my head, when he suddenly turned around and
flashed me a mouthful of braces. “Ma'am?” he asked, concerned, “Ma'am, are you all right?”
Don't you “Ma'am” me, whippersnapper!
But then I thought about it: that one-night fling some gal my age had after the A Flock of Seagulls concert (you don't know her!) could have produced the stellar young guy that stands before me. The one who now shaves, drives a car and is eligible for jury duty. And that his lovely behind? Could've been one I diapered.
When did all this happen, exactly?
The buildup is as gradual as a new laugh line and the result is just as hard to get rid of: I simply wasn't aware of it until it was too late.
Meanwhile, the song stuck in my head was the one Wilma and Betty sang to Fred and Barney when they disguised themselves as car hops – and I knew every word. (“Here we come, on the run, with a burger on a bun” – oh, you get the idea.) If anything, my long-term memory has gotten sharper: I could be blind- folded and find every light switch in every house I've ever lived in, all the while reciting dialogue from “Gilligan's Island.” Tell me, what is the use of knowing Carol Brady's maiden previously-married name (Martin) from decades past when I can't find the car keys that I was holding in my hand five minutes ago?
By the way, the Bradys' dog was named “Tiger.”
What's going on?
It's Mother Nature, that's what. You would think a mother would be more sympathetic to women as they age. I ask you: who would put a hormonally-challenged woman, who checks out bag boys and can't find her wallet but knows the entire theme song from “My Mother, the Car” – in charge of teenagers?
Mother Nature would. Mother Nature does.
Mother Nature is not a nice lady.
Well, two can play at that game, MA'AM! What I lack in sex appeal and short-term memory, I more than make up for in attitude. From this day forward, the Fabulous Vixen I Truly, Truly Am will no longer accept the dreaded appellation of “Ma'am.” In fact, in celebration of my Fabulousness 2.0, I hereby declare that the hideous word be banned from the English language. Can I get an “Amen!” on “No More Ma'ams!” Truth be told, I'd rather be called “Sir” than “Ma'am.” Yes, well, at least “Sir” connotes a royal title bestowed for some lofty accomplishments, not to mention a boatload of serious swag. Yeah, now we're talkin'. Hey, if Elton John can be a “Sir,” I can darn well be one, too.
Ooh, wait, I take that back: call me “Miss Thing!”
According to the Urban Dictionary, “Miss Thing” is a gender-blending slang term used by male homosexuals.” And as we all have seen, know everything before the rest of us do, bless their hearts. Apparently, it can be used negatively (“Miss Thing thinks she's all that!”); it can also be a positive thing, the gay equivalent of “homes”: (“Hey, Miss Thing! Look at you, girl!”). I would rather be called “Miss Thing” than “Ma'am any day. With “Miss Thing”, there's some wiggle room: is it being said out of admiration, or spite? There's nothing ambiguous about “Ma'am”. It only means one thing: “Hey, you with the cellulite and the bags under her eyes – pay attention.”
But more to the point: I want to be called “Miss Thing,” cause, honey, I am All That – and More!
I know, I know: I sound like one of those pathetic older broads using the expressions the kids use today, but I've freakin' earned that title.
Yeah. I say: “Miss Thing” or Nothing! Because if you call me “Ma'am,” frankly, I'll just ignore you.
Either that, or I genuinely won't be able to hear what you're saying.
However fabulous I am, you'll have to speak up. “Miss Thing's” hearing isn't what it used to be, honey.