The Ultimate Mom Jeans

By now, everyone's witnessed "Mom Jeans." Whether on Saturday Night Live's commercial parody for mom jeans or various moms sporting them, or Heaven forbid, even your own mother (and maybe even wife).

For those very few of the uninformed amongst you regarding this nightmarish fad, mom jeans are high-waisted denim jeans that were once considered fashionable in the late 80's and early 90's. Many people (usually under 40) see them as frumpy, unflattering and outdated.

And I'm hear to tell you the ultimate mom jeans horror story.

About twenty years ago or so, my mom started wearing jeans. She had never worn them before, had no interest in them. She was the June Cleaver type who fancied sensible dresses and later, slacks (along with tons of makeup and lots of caustic hairspray that used to set tears to my eyes).

So one day, out of the blue, she suddenly started wearing jeans. They never fit her very well, rose high up over her navel (the way my dad had liked his pants) and were unflattering in the extreme. 

I took a closer look. They were designer jeans. Then all of my worst fears collided in a kaleidoscope of terror.

"Mom," I gulped, "are those...are those...my jeans?"

She laughed (something I didn't feel like doing) and said, "Yes. How do you like them?" She twirled as if on the runway showing off a fashionable gown.

"Um...why are you wearing my jeans?" My voice sounded like I had a mouthful of pudding.

"Well, Stuart, they were here. And they fit." Again she gave an impish smile.

I didn't feel like raining on her extremely frugal parade by telling her decidedly no, they do not fit, not one bit. I tried to shrug it off as impossible a task as that was.

Now, I don't know if any of you have had similar situations, but I would imagine not. The feelings I experienced were odd: it was sort of humilating and emasculating in a weird sense. Here was my mom showing off her new-found (and extremely cheap) jeans as I sat there in horror realizing they were the same already outdated designer jeans I wore in college. The same ones that I had dated in (amongst other activities) many times. I don't know if my sudden avalanche of gut-churning anxiety came from the fact that my old jeans fit (more of less) my mom or the fact THAT MY MOM WAS WEARING MY JEANS. Either way, I feel it would give today's MAGA gender-label-fearing folks a fright.

Brrrrr.

I had long forgotten about this nightmare until last weekend when I was out with my brother and his daughters. Suddenly it came back to me like a paparazzi's lightbulb flash.

"Hey...did you know Mom used to wear my jeans?" I suddenly lobbed out there like a grenade. We were drinking beer so I thought everyone might get a kick out of it.

I was right. Too right. My brother freaked, told the girls (who weren't listening at the time) and laughed and laughed.

He said, "I always wondered where they came from and they never fit very well."

So. Youngsters, heed my advice: when you move out of your parents' house, take your old jeans with you and destroy them at the first possible moment. This is crucial to your future mental well-being.

Now that I have your attention about all things ridiculous, I may as well pimp out my most ridiculous books, the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start with book #1, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and proceed (with caution) from there. If ludicrous situations, bizarre characters, comical hijinks, and murder mysteries are your bag, join the cool kids and buy 'em here.

The great bird wall

Well, hell, the birds are back.

As that great forward thinker, Spiderman (or maybe it was President Trump), said, "With great power comes great guns." (Or something like that.)

I don't know why the birds hate me. They do. Constantly bombarding my auto and deck with their waste, it makes me just want to toss up both of my hands. I said, both. It's not gonna be pretty.

We're talking about some bad pajaro's here. Bad thrushes. Muy malo nestlings.

So I'm gonna build a wall. A wall keeping the birds out of my yard. I'm gonna make my yard great again. It's gonna be great. It's gonna be...fantastic. (It's gonna have to be a pretty dang tall wall, though).

And my neighbors are gonna pay for it, too.

Don't ask me how or why they're gonna finance the great bird wall. I just know they will. I can convince them. Just like in the eighth grade when I promised my fellow students if they'd vote for me for student congress, I'd put soda pop in the water fountains. Well, guess what? I won. Sure, sure, the soda didn't pan out, but that's not what matters.

This is all out war! If birds poop on my territory, I say, let's poop right back on them! Let's make pooping great again!*

*This has been a message endorsed by the Anti-Birds Trump Supporter Society.

Now that I'm on the topic of total crap, honestly, you should check out my Zach and Zora comedy/mystery trilogy. Let's start with the first: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. (Likewise, these books are personally endorsed by the Anti-Birds Trump Supporter Society. Making books great again!).