Tag Archives: lori stefanac

That Tingly Feeling

2 Mar

Written by Lori Stefanac of Lola is 40

So, I’m driving my 8 year old to a playdate when from the back seat I hear,

“Mom? I have a tingly feeling down there.”

Because I am driving the car, I cannot turn around to see which “down there” but I have the general idea.

I guess it’s time we had “the talk”.

Or at least a version of the talk.

Crap.

Just wondering…WHY do these conversations always happen when I’m driving?

It’s the lack of eye contact, right?

Or do the kids just want to see if mere words can make me swerve off the road?

I tell myself to remain calm, speak matter-of-factly, and above all?

NO GIGGLING.

(snicker)

In my most responsible mature mommy voice I say,

“Well, Honey…I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  Tingly feelings are normal. They are supposed to happen.”

Stupid speed bumps in our neighborhood. No wonder he’s all tingly.

Hell, I’M tingly.

Mmmmm…nice.

AHEM.

I am totally making him sit on a pillow in the back seat from now on…

a home-made “shock absorber” if you will.

Then I won’t have to deal with my 8 year old’s “Tingly Bits”

My child continues,

“I don’t like it.”

Well, that’s encouraging…I guess.

Or is it?

He should LIKE it, right?

I mean, isn’t that what nature intended?

Could something be wrong with his little package?

I don’t know.

DON’T PANIC!

You’ll ask your husband later.

How am I supposed to field penis questions, anyway?

I try to be helpful.

“Ok. Well, if the tingly feeling doesn’t go away in a minute…you let me know”

Just bought myself a minute.

Go me.

Now think, Lola.

What would YOUR parents say?

“Ummm, just don’t touch it and it will be okay”.

There.

That’s good.

Should I add something about growing hair on his palms?

No. That might be too much.

Overkill.

We don’t want to freak the kid out.

Just want to keep his little hands out of his pants.

Then he says to me,

“I thought if I stomped on it a few times, I could make the tingly feeling go away but it’s not working”

WHAT?

Now I’m alarmed.

“Look Honey. I don’t know much about these sorts of things but I know one thing…

STOMPING on it is NOT a good idea.”

I want grandchildren someday.

But stomping on it made the OTHER one stop tingling,” he says.

Other one?

You have TWO?

Confused much?

Other one?” I ask.

“Yeah” he says, “when I stomped on my OTHER foot, the tingling stopped”.

A wave of relief flows through my body and I let my breath out.

I hadn’t even realized I was holding it.

We are NOT talking about boy parts.

We are talking about feet.

More specifically?

Feet that have fallen asleep…

and feet that feel TINGLY.

You know, I think you are  right.  STOMP on it! STOMP on that sucker like you’ve never STOMPED before.  That will get rid of any unwanted tingly sensations.”

Thank God.

Well, I handled THAT situation flawlessly if I do say so myself.

My parenting skills reign supreme.

Now to find more speed bumps.

Mmmmm…speed bumps.

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The Break Up

26 Feb

Written by Lori Stefanac of Lola is 40

So, my youngest son was taking piano lessons.

I’m sorry. He was taking KEYBOARD lessons.

You can’t mix those two things up…

because, as it turns out?

One is very very cool.

And the other is L-A-M-E!

His teacher was a nice, proper older woman in her early 60s.

Although NICE, she was also, in a word: dull.

Every week after his lessons I would ask my child if he was having fun.

Mostly because I knew that deep in my heart, if he were ME…

I would NOT be having fun with Mrs.Stickuptheass.

Every week he told me that that his lessons were “fine”.

“fine?” I’d repeat back. “Well, how do you feel about your teacher? Do you like her? Are you having FUN? This should be FUN!”

He would tell me that his teacher was “fine”.

Look, I’m not one of those moms who has my kids signed up for music lessons because it teaches them to work hard and exposes them to culture, blah, blah fucking blah.

I want my kid to ENJOY his classes.

This is a hobby.

I don’t expect him to be the next Chopin.

I don’t even expect him to be the next Alan Goldblatt.

You don’t know who that is?

Well, that’s kinda my point…

but he played a mean chopsticks at the last school recital.

Anyway, my goals are reasonable.

Eventually, I want my kids to be ROCK GODS so that they can support me and buy me fabulous shit.

And this isn’t going to happen if they aren’t enjoying their lessons.

So if his teacher isn’t making the class fun? Well then something’s got to give…

and that something is NOT me, giving HER even more of my money, if you know what I’m sayin’!

Anyway, seeing my kid’s lukewarm response to his lessons, I decide that perhaps I need to address his teacher’s choice of music.

I mean, personally if I had to listen to “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” more than once, much less practice it again and again, I might grab that teacher’s stupid metronome and gouge her eyes out with it.

But that’s just me.

That being said, I understand that learning piano,

I mean KEYBOARD,

ahem,

requires one to learn specific skills in a certain order, and one can only play at a given level of difficulty until these skills are mastered.

It’s not like I expected my kid to sit at the keyboard and jam out “Bohemian Rhapsody” in one day.

It’s gotta take at least a week to learn that little ditty.

BUT there has to be a compromise, right?

So I set up a meeting with the piano teacher and ask if there’s a way to incorporate more “Rock” into the lesson.

She says she will try.

And she did.

She had my child playing “Rock Around the Clock” and “Blue Suede Shoes” and a few other simple songs that he could feel a little enthused about.

The problem was that she was still her.

After a few more lessons, my child decides that he doesn’t like his teacher after all.

He decides he wants a different teacher.

He wanted the young, cool, pierced and tattooed “rocker dude” of the music school to teach him.

Who doesn’t want a young, cool, rocker dude?

“He just seems more fun” my child tells me.

Yeah. Fun.

Dreamy sigh.

Damnit.

So I’m not simply dropping out of music.

I have to break up with his teacher and explain why we are switching to another teacher in the same music school.

Of course, my kid is right. This teacher DOES seem more fun. And a better fit.

But now I have to have a really awkward conversation.

And I hate awkward conversations.

After his music lesson I ask if the teacher can hang back to talk for a minute.

“sure” she says, “what’s up?”

I’m starting to sweat and shift my weight from foot to foot.

I’m finding it difficult to look her in the eye.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this…” I begin,

“I think we are going to see someone else.”

“Excuse me?” she asks.

Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Honey. It’s just going to make this thing all the more uncomfortable.

“Look I’ll just say it. We have to break up. It’s not YOU, it’s US. I just don’t think this is working out…”

Suddenly I feel very badly for every douchecanoe ex-boyfriend who ever dumped me.

Being a heartbreaking asshole isn’t as easy as it looks!

Well, I feel badly for all of them except the one from Chicago, who was going to call me back after he did his laundry.

He never called.

Which means that technically, we haven’t broken up.

20 years later, I wonder if perhaps there was really no laundry at all.

Either that, or he was doing laundry for all of Chicago…on a washboard…down by the Chicago River…in which case he may be almost finished.

He’d better call soon so I can free up my weekend.

She still looks puzzled.

“Look, you are a perfectly nice person. And I’m sure you are a perfect fit for…well for someone else. But I think we are just not on the same page. What we want and what you want…they seem to be very different things.”

Holy shit, Woman! Say you understand and let me off the hook all ready! But no. She is silent, allowing me to dig myself deeper and deeper.

Women.

“Um, what I mean is…Hey! You’re great! Really! You are. But…but…”

Still, blank stares.

“Ok. Now you are forcing me to say things I really didn’t want to get into…but the truth is, you are cramping our style. We’ve grown in different directions, plain and simple. We can’t breathe around you! You are STIFLING us!”

“Does this mean you need to change our time?” she asks.

“NO! It’s not about TIME! Wait. YES! It is about time. It’s about time-ING. BAD timing. We just have bad timing. Can you understand that?”

“So would Wednesdays be better?”

“Look, Gail!”

Her name is Gail.

“I see what you are trying to do. But let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be. You have to stop begging.”

“Um, so NOT Wednesday?”

“No. Not Wednesday. Not Thursday. How’s a week from never look to you. Sorry. That was sarcastic, and I can see that you are hurting. That was unfair.”

I bite the knuckles of my fist and turn away dramatically.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cry” I say as I gaze upward towards…well, nothing really. I was just trying to strike a remorseful pose.

Turns out, I don’t know how to do that.

“Uh, Lola? What are you looking at?” asks Gail.

Poor, pathetic Gail.

“Gail. Oh, Gail. We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?” I say as I graze her cheek gently with my finger.

“Sure. I guess…” she says as she backs away from my touch.

A touch that clearly electrifies her.

“Look” says Gail, “I have another student waiting in my office. Are we rescheduling or do you just want to let me know what works for you at another time?”

“That’s a grand idea, Gail” I say, feeling nostalgic for the good ole’ days.

“Let’s just say we’ll play it by ear. Perhaps another time. In another life. We’ll just say that. Okay?” my voice goes up a few octaves and cracks a little at the end.

It can’t be helped.

I’m emotional too.

“Yeah. Good. I gotta go” she says as she turns on her heels and heads back to her office.

I watch her go.

As I watch the sway of her hips I start to second guess my actions.

I’m about to scream out “GAIL WAIT!…

“Can I get some fries with that shake?”

but at the last moment I control myself.

I.MUST.BE.STRONG.

For her.

For me.

For both of us.

And I learned a very important lesson during this very emotional “goodbye”.

The next time I have to break up with some instructor because one of my kids has decided that they are finished with a fleeting hobby?

I’m just going to drop a “Dear John text”.

SO much simpler:

G,
BIN REAL. TTYN
L

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I Can’t Remember What I Forgot

7 Feb

Written by Lori Stefanac of Lolais40

So, I know I blog about my bad memory and limited attention span a lot.

At least I think I do.

I can never remember.

Yeah. I just checked my archives.

I blog about these things quite frequently.

Anyhow, this time is different.

This time?

My bad memory and attention deficit have gotten me in trouble.

Or they may have.

Again, not so sure.

Nevertheless, I’m gonna fill you in on what I do recall.

My friend and I were talking.

She was telling me something important.

I know this because her eyes were knitted together indicating “importance”.

Or “anger”?

“concentration”?

Maybe just a need for Botox?

Whatever.

What I DO know is that it’s her fault I wasn’t paying attention.

I mean, after the first sentence or two?

It became abundantly clear that this conversation was NOT about ME.

Was I supposed to stay tuned anyway?

I think not.

I started to nod my head when it seemed appropriate as I looked down at my strappy sandals and thought about how delicate they make my ankles look.

I also thought about how I should run out to Nordstrom to see if I can find them in other colors because they are really fucking cute on me.

I looked up eventually and she seemed to be wrapping up.

She thanked me.

For what?

I don’t know.

Apparently I am a really good friend.

Well, no surprise there.

Although I have the sinking feeling that by nodding along during this conversation?

I may have agreed to something.

Hmph. Imagine that.

Well, that brings me to today.

I have this sense that I have forgotten something but for the life of me?

I don’t know what.

If my friend had just had the sense to insert a “wow your hair looks great today” in the midst of her monologue, I might have had more reason to stay tuned in.

Alas, she did not.

I mean, just a simple “Hey, I LOVE your outfit” inserted in the middle of all that jabbering about me pet sitting her kids’ stupid fucking fish while they are away and Imight have maintained some focus.

Umm, wait.

Did I just say something about pet sitting fish?

Shit.

Uh…

I have to go.

I have to make a goldfish run.

The kids won’t know the difference between the new fish and their inexplicably dead fish, right?

cute, huh?

And to think…

all of this nonsense could have been totally avoided if she had just told me that she likes my shoes.

 

About the Author:  Lori Stefanac is the creator of the wildly amusing humor blog, Lolais40. She is a happily married Jewish mommy with 3 boys.  She has no skills per se,  no real training, and she’s never published a thing, but she figures if she say it often enough and loud enough people will believe it. Or they will just agree with her to make her shut the fuck up. Either reason is good with her.

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But Does my Ass Look Fat?

4 Feb

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F&*%ing Perimenopause

30 Jan

 Written By Lori Stefanac of LolaIs40

So for about a year now, there have been some strange happenings in my life.

Unusual, puzzling, and bizarre occurrences.
Mysterious phenomena that can only have one explanation:
Alien Invasion.
For example, I’ve been convinced that the house alternates between ice cold and broiling hot within seconds.
Also, I have been having significant lapses in memory.And?

I’ve been having significant lapses in memory.

Plus, the people around me are suddenly all very argumentative and unreasonable.

One might even call them all Batshitcrazy.

Almost as if they’ve been bodysnatched.

However, after seeing a segment on the Today show, I realize my issues may NOT be associated with the invasion of Earth by an alien species that plans to take over by systematically messing with the heat and air in my house, making me forget appointments and making other people difficult to get along with.

It may be something else entirely.

Get this…

It may be medical.

It may be…

Perimenopause.

Or as I like to call it:

“Fucking Perimenopause”.

After watching “Today”, I did what any intelligent person would do when suddenly faced with a medical condition.

I Googled.

Now?

I’m an expert.

And being an expert, I’d like to share some of my expertise with you, my friends.

But I don’t really want to address the symptoms of perimenopause.

That’s been done a trillion times, and let’s face it…

anyone can Google a list of symptoms as well as remedies.

What I want to do is help the men.

Really.

Because my extensive research suggests,

and by extensive I mean my single Google Search

that there are very few resources out there dedicated to teaching the men in our lives how to cope with something that undoubtedly affects all of us.

And, face facts, Men.

You really need this.

Because you are fucking clueless.

CLUELESS!

Well, that is about to change.

Think of this as your own personal survival guide to living with someone who is going through Fucking Perimenopause.

And, by the way,

You’re totally welcome.

Lola’s Man-Guide to Surviving Fucking Perimenopause

1. Do not ask your wife when the “horniness” kicks in.

This will likely result in a throat punch, kick to the nuts or bite to the earlobe.

Personally, I believe that you men are confusing the words “horny” with “stabby”

because Perimenopause DOES, indeed make us feel increasingly “stabby”.

2. Do not ever use the following words to describe our behavior

(unless you are not very attached to your nuts…in which case go ahead and soon you will not be attached to your nuts):

*Nuts
*Psychotic
*Crazy
*moody
*hormonal
*ragging
*Batshit
*mad
*insane
*deranged
*demented
*lunatic
*non compos mentis
*unhinged
*mental off one’s rocker
*batty
*bonkers
*cuckoo
*loopy
*loony
*screw loose
*unbalanced

I think you get the idea.

By the way? We will be all of these things.

3. No matter how many times we repeat ourselves due to our newly impaired memory?

Pretend whatever we are telling you is new information.

Because when you tell us we are repeating ourselves we just want to pluck out your eyeballs with a soup spoon.

4. I don’t care how much we complain about our “Night Sweats”.

Do NOT buy us a portable air conditioning unit for the bedroom and call it a birthday gift.

Again, the plucking of the eyeballs is likely.

5. The only way to control our hot flashes (which, by the way, feels like someone has literally lit a fire inside our body)

is with diamonds.

Don’t ask why.

It’s much too scientific for you.

Just buy diamonds.

6. Although in a moment of clarity we women know that the room is NOT alternating between being as hot as an oven and then as cold as the freezer,

it does NOT behoove you to attempt to explain this to us while we are in the midst of these internal temperature changes.

Just pretend to fiddle with the thermostat and we will be happy.

Or at least less murderous.

7. Do NOT allude to our “mood swings” every time we go from laughing hysterically to crying uncontrollably within a 30 second time span.

This is normal…

to us.

We are complex fucking creatures!!

I suggest you adjust.

Hey Guys? Welcome to the “new normal”

8. No matter how many times we repeat ourselves due to our newly impaired memory?

Pretend whatever we are telling you is new information.

It’s really for the best.

9. We may put on a little weight, Guys.

So when we ask you if “these pants make our asses look fat?”

the correct answer is NOT

“no, it’s your ASS that makes your ass look fat!”

If you DO say such a thing?

Just run like hell because nothing short of a miracle can save you.

10. Our sex drive may not increase like all men hope and pray.

As a matter of fact, sometimes it decreases.

The solution to this problem?

Diamonds.

I know.

Seems unlikely that diamonds could cure not just ONE but TWO of the symptoms associated with Perimenopause.

They are truly a miracle mineral.

Don’t ask too many questions.

I know what I’m talking about…I’m a professional.

11. VAGINAL DRYNESS

Why am I telling you men about VAGINAL DRYNESS associated with Perimenopause?

No reason, really.

I just like to type the phrase VAGINAL DRYNESS.

And I suspect it sort of freaks you out.

12. Understand that there is nothing you can do or say

that is going to be right from here on in.

Let me give you an example of a conversation you might have with your wife.

Let’s go back to the fashion question again, seeing that you totally blew it the first time we went over it.

Wife: Honey, do I look okay?
Husband: You look fine.
Wife: FINE? I look FUCKING FINE? YOU are an insensitive ASSHOLE!

Didn’t go so well, did it?

Let’s try again:

Wife: Honey, do I look okay?
Husband: You look AMAZING! Better than you did when we met! If we had the time I’d jump your bones right now because you look so hot!
Wife: Don’t you fucking patronize me! Do you think I’m STUPID? Do you think I can’t recognize SARCASM? YOU are an insensitive ASSHOLE!

See? Not much better.

Guys? You will always be the asshole.

Sorry.

It’s not our fault.

It’s chemical.

Which reminds me…

13. Don’t ever suggest that perhaps we might benefit from some hormonal treatment…

except in the form of a letter,

when there is a safe amount of distance between you and your wife.

Because by YOU suggesting hormonal therapy?

You are insinuating that we are (insert any word from the expansive list given to you in number 2, here)

And such suggestions will result in…that’s right…throat punching, ear biting, eyeball plucking or nut kicking.

Anyway, I hope that this Survival Guide will save some marriages or at least keep some women from murdering their husbands in their sleep.

And women?

Maybe we should check into some Hormone Therapy?

Hey! Watch your filthy whore mouth! I’m just trying to help!

By the way, how do I turn this portable air conditioner on?

You don’t know?

Well, thanks for trying…

I mean FUCK YOU!

I didn’t mean that…

I love you…

Um…

I’m okay.

I believe I set a new record for myself in this post…

dropping the F-bomb a whopping 10 times!

Go me.

I am all kinds of classy.

Ahem.

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Fame Has It’s Price…$67.49

24 Jan

Written by Lori Stefanac of

So, I was shopping at one of my favorite little boutiques the other day when I noticed the store clerk staring at me.

I pretended to go about my business, but it was actually sort of difficult to concentrate with all of the fucking staring.

Finally, feeling rather exasperated, I look up and we meet eyes.

The clerk asks, “Can I help you with anything?”

She’s being coy.

“No, no. I’m good” I say as I continue methodically working my way through the rack.

You see? I know what’s going on.

This store clerk?

She recognizes me.

I have achieved a bit of celebrity here in my small town and she is staring at me because she knows who I am, but she’s embarrassed to say anything.

Shut the fuck up! She does SO know who I am and is in no way just looking at me because I happen to be the only customer in the store.

Anyhow, I’m used to it by now.

The side glances, the double-takes and even the outright staring…

It’s all just the price of fame.

At this point I have acquired a few pieces that I would like to try on.

Store clerk approaches.

Poor dear…she’s nervous.

I can tell by the way she is walking with a wobble.

Shaking really.

A wobble having nothing to do with her 4 inch heels.

“Can I get you a dressing room?” she asks…shyly.

“Sure” I say.

I am OVERLY friendly to put her at ease.

I mean, come on, Honey, I’m JUST like every other customer…

Except for the FAME…

don’t be NERVOUS!

She leads me to the dressing room and as she opens the door for me she introduces herself.

“My name is Cindy if you need anything. What’s your name?”

That’s cute.

Like she needed to ask.

But I play along.

Afterall, this is a REALLY big day for her.

I’m sure when I leave, she’ll be on the phone, all “OH MY GOD! YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE WHO WAS IN THE STORE SHOPPING TODAY!!!”

“Lola” I reply cooly.

She acts as if it doesn’t ring a bell.

She’s a pretty good actress.

I try on the clothes and select a couple of things that I like.

As I approach the register the clerk, Cindy, looks up.

“Did anything work out for you?” she asks.

She has had time to compose herself in my presence. I’m glad.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, It DID. These!” I declare as I place the items on the counter.

The items that will undoubtedly be known, from this time forward as “Items Worn By Lola!!”

“Oh, yeah! Those are SO cute!” says Cindy.

Like I, Lola, need to be told which items are CUTE.

Even if they WEREN’T cute? They’ll be flying off the rack as soon as the masses get wind of WHO purchased them.

I snicker a little to myself.

“Yes, they are SO cute!”

I’m nothing if not agreeable.

Now comes the part I both dread yet understand.

I look away and pretend not to pay attention.

I AM modest, afterall.

But it’s all a part of “celebrity” and it’s something that I MUST deal with.

“Um, Lola? Can you just sign this?”

And there it is.

Sweet girl.

Took her ALL this time to muster up the nerve to ask for my autograph.

“Sure! It’ll be my pleasure” I reply with my toothy white celebrity smile and ever present graciousness.

“Where do you want me to sign?” I ask.

“Just right here, on the line” she says as she points to a small piece of paper.

It’s too bad I forgot my autographed 8 x 10 glossies at home.

Oh well.

I’ll make sure to throw them in my purse for next time.

“And who should I make this out to?” I ask.

“Uh, just to the store….Just sign on the line if you don’t mind” she says, clearly embarrassed to be putting me out.

I give her a wink to put her at ease, “will do.”

Then I write in my curvy, beautiful celebrity writing:

FROM LOLA WITH LOVE XOXO

Cindy takes the slip of paper and looks at it for a moment.

Call me crazy, but for just a second?

She seemed…well…almost annoyed.

I don’t get it either.

Perhaps she really wanted the autograph made out to her personally and lost her nerve at the last second.

I decide to let her off the hook.

I grab a business card from the stack on the counter and I give her another wink.

“Here, Honey! This one’s for YOU!”

I sign the business card and hand it to her.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND CINDY! IF YOU SHOOT FOR THE MOON, YOU MAY LAND AMONG THE STARS.
MUCH LOLA LOVE

I know, I know…inspirational.

I get teary eyed myself when I think about it.

Anyhow, THAT awkwardness being overwith, I give her one more celebrity wink and make my way towards the door.

“Ta ta, Cindy! Feel free to tell your friends! Oh! I almost forgot! Did you want a picture? I have my phone!”

She looks puzzled.

She probably can’t understand why I’m SO NICE!

Apparently shyness has gotten the best of her again and she declines the photo.

Her loss.

Anyway, when I get to the door I pause…

I open my purse and pull out my super big diva sunglasses.

I place them gently on my nose and peer around the corner before I continue on my way.

Why am I so careful?

One word…

Paparazzi.

 

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Am I or Am I not a Chosen One | Lola Cartoon

20 Jan

Drawn by:  Lori Stefanac of Lolais40

Hey, I know the Jews are the Chosen People, but if life is anything like Gym class….I’ll be chosen last.

About the Artist:  Lori Stefanac is the creator of the wildly amusing humor blog, Lolais40. She is a happily married Jewish mommy with 3 boys.  She has no skills per se,  no real training, and she’s never published a thing, but she figures if she say it often enough and loud enough people will believe it. Or they will just agree with her to make her shut the fuck up. Either reason is good with her.

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You Are Such a Bubbie | Lola is 40

5 Jan

Written By -  Lori Stefanac – Lola is 40

So, the other day, I was having coffee with a friend when I take out my lipstick case, hold the teeny, tiny mirror up to eye level, and reapply my lipstick.

“OH MY GOD! YOU ARE SUCH A BUBBIE!” my friend cries. (‘Bubbie’ being the name of a Jewish Grandma, for all of my non-Jewish friends).

I look around. I KNOW she’s not talking to ME because I’m a hot, blonde, fortysomething but look more like a thirtysomething MILF for God’s sake!

Wait.  She’s looking at me and tears of hysterical laughter are streaming down her face. She repeats the offending sentence,

“YOU ARE SUCH A BUBBIE!”

“I am?” I ask, suddenly aware of the little old ladies surrounding us who all seem to have MY lipstick case in tow.

Well, I have to dispute this argument.  My pride is at stake. So I say,

“WOULD A BUBBIE DO THIS?” [...]

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