Before I start this blog in earnest I want to issue an apology or two. The idea of me even attempting this is akin to an ice-skating armadillo. (Wtf? And are you effing kidding me?) See, the two things just don’t go together. My own sons have long called me a techno-idiot. Believe me, the moniker fits. In my defense, I grew up with rotary dial telephones–I didn’t even have a phone, in fact, growing up as a military brat in Germany. So lest you judge too harshly o ye of the Millennial generation, just remember this: When I was your age, a “web site” was where a freakin’ spider named Charlotte did her thing in a barn for a rat!
About my sons . . . 34, 32, and 31 btw . . . they are going to laugh their asses off when they hear about this. Seriously, mom, seriously? I can hear them now. You’re going to air your dirty laundry online? Well, not totally. I promise to keep the streaks to a minimum. But if I do embarrass you, here’s my sincere-ish preemptive apology up front . . .
The sincerest apology I do, however, owe is to one of my oldest and dearest friends. I call her wise one/best friend/sister/mom. We met in 1979, when I was teaching her teenagers. (I was a high school German, English and History teacher in a former life.) She has been a big sister/mother figure to me ever since. I couldn’t begin to count the hours she has held my hand and listened to me rant and cry about all life’s trials and tribulations. Never does she judge and always does she listen, offering the sagest advice and deepest comfort. Over the years I’ve shocked her, but never has she balked. First, when I asked her to proofread my romance novels (sex scenes included). Then, over the last couple years, as I reentered the dating scene. (Much more on that in future postings.) Yet the biggest apology I owe her is for yesterday.
Techno-idiot that I am, I had a hell of a time setting this damn blog up. I still don’t know that it’s been done correctly. I have a feeling I’ll be hiring a more tech-savvy friend for help. (T, be expecting a call soon!) One of the few pluses about being 60 is that “financial” is one of the few stable areas in my life. You know what they say . . . more money than sense . . . Back to my mea culpas. Being naive (wow, that’s a word rarely used about me!) ok, being stupid, I never realized–or even considered–what the name of this site would engender in an online google-esque search. Suffice it to say, the words “60” & “sucks” resulted in 100s of choices with a prevailing theme. In a nut shell, grannies sucking–and it ain’t on lollipops or dentures! Oops! So when I called my dear friend and asked her to do a search to see if the site came up, NEVER did I think this lovely 78-year-old-woman would be bombarded with gray porn. I’m so sorry, D!!!
Yep, techno-idiot . . . but I like the name. So, because I apparently went through the “stubborn” line twice when they were handing out personality traits (I think I missed the “boobs” line altogether and went through the “nose” line twice, too.), Single at 60 Sucks stays. Because it does.
But in life you have two choices, ladies. You can laugh or you can cry. I’m going with the former. In a sarcastic, snarky way, of course–’cause I hit those lines twice, too.