She’s HOT!

The new guy has a hot ex.  How do I know?  We have a mutual friend; he called me; he told me.  The conversation went something like this:

MF:     He split with his wife about a year ago.

Me:     Yeah, I know.  We’ve been hanging out.

MF:     Wow, I should start hanging out with her.  She’s HOT!

Me:     Oh god, don’t tell me that!

MF:     Why, you don’t want to know that she’s hot?  What does it matter if she’s hot?    Because she’s really HOT.

Me:     (desperately) Hotter than me???

MF:     (long pause)……………ummmm……nooooooo. Not hotter than you (liar!)…but I       can’t really judge because you and I can’t ever have sex. But she’s hot!

Me:     I don’t want to know that!

After that, I don’t remember much.  I think he used the word “hot” about ten more times.  I also believe the word “MILF” was bandied about.

I’m feeling inadequate.

Frump

I’ve felt like my frumpiness factor has been high the last few days.  It’s a culmination of a handful of disparate events – all culminating in my feeling old and frumpy:

1. I’ve met a boy.  We haven’t gone out, but I’m definitely interested – very interested.  And I want him to be interested, too.  He’s cute and stylish – and I am feeling neither these days.

2. Our holiday party at the restaurant was on Sunday night.  I was engulfed by nubile, perky 20-something servers with flowing bleached hair, party-bright satin dresses  hemmed two inches past their crotch and sparkly three inch high heels.  (I was wearing my spattered chef’s whites and a sweaty headband to keep my hair out of the food).

3. On the same night, I was called “matronly” and a “MILF” by my fellow kitchen compatriots.

4. My hairdresser called my current grown-out haircut “mom looking”. Needless to say,  I have an appointment at Sassoon on Thursday.

5. Tonight is my work holiday party – we need to dress warmly and stylishly.  This morning, I spent 20 minutes staring at a pile of bulky, conservative, work-appropriate sweaters – and realizing there wasn’t one stylish one in the bunch. 

To combat these feelings, I painted my fingernails bright red.  Of course, the fact that my knuckles are scraped raw from an unfortunate carrot and mandoline accident doesn’t help matters any. Ugh!