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Got any money, honey?


So the other day I said something funny happened to maddmom, here's the gist.

Maddmom went to Rosemont College, it's Catholic and single-sex undergrad, the graduate programs admit men. In anycase, it's a small, Catholic, all-female school and my wife loved it. Every year about this time we get calls from the Allumni (Allumnae?) association, typically students asking for donations to the school. "Remember your Alma Mater" all that crap. Anyway, it's a chance for the ladies to chat with current students and maddmom always makes the most of it, because even though my parents live about three minutes from Rosemont's campus, and I went to Villanova which is right across the street, the traffic out there sucks and we have pretty much acclimated ourselves to living out in the boonies. I kid you not, I would rather shave my nuts with a broken beer bottle than drive on Montgomery Avenue ever again.

So to make a long story short, or a short story a little less long, maddmom and this current student were talking on the phone and discovered that they shared the same first name. Interesting, because maddmom's name isn't exactly common. I mean, how many people do you know named maddmom? So they get to chatting like all girls do and maddmom says something like,"oh I wonder if anything has changed, it's been so long since I graduated." And the sweet young thing on the other end of the phone says, "Uh yeah, like since 1992." Which is a sentence that, when spoken by an eighteen year old and passed through the eardrum filters of a thirty-something mother of four means, "Yeah, like when I was four years old you old cow. Has your uterus fallen out yet? You know my tits are so perky OSHA required 'safety eyewear required' stickers on my nipples when I worked as a temp last semester."

Maddmom kind of laughed it off, but you could tell she wasn't happy. I mean, the girl on the other end of the phone obviously thought maddmom was some bedraggled hausfrau with her hair all fried and her feet in tissue box slippers stuffed with empty plastic Wal-Mart bags. And that's not fair, I made her throw out the slippers.

But when you were 18 what did you think a 30 something looked like?

And all that brought up something else, at some point during the Christmas festivities I was staring at the crack of some 18 year old girls ass, in church of course, and I thought to myself, "you shouldn't be wearing those pants dearheart." Now I'm of the opinion that there's nothing wrong with looking at a girl's ass in church, especially if half of it is hanging out, but as soon as the the word "dearheart" crossed my medulla, I realised I had just turned into a dirty old man.

I now know where the line is crossed. It's 36. As far as I know, no one under the age of 36 has ever heard the expression "dearheart" let alone actually used it. "Dearheart" was the word lesbian nuns used to get the girls to pull up their kneesocks when I was a kid in school. "Your socks are low, dearheart." "Can you pick up the chalk, dearheart?" "Let me help you push this desk against the wall dearheart." And there I was, looking at underaged, underdressed ass, in church and thinking, "Oh, dearheart..."

So either I've turned into a lesbian nun, or all lesbian nuns are dirty old men. You go figure.

So in the spirit of the New Year, I've decided to start my list of resolutions and number one is:

Stop thinking about old lesbian nuns when staring at young girls asses in church.


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