Someday, I will turn 90 (Optimist, I know. Thinking positive thoughts that I will live to be a crotchety, nasty, evil, old 90-year-old hag). On February 6, 2062, when I reach that magical 100 minus 10 number and my three children find themselves knocking on the door of senior discounts, I will sit in the back of Miss-Miss's nuclear-powered, flying mini-van and pester my kids to death while they drive me to my blow-out birthday party. Said party will be complete with male strippers, kegs of root beer, and all my sorority sisters in their motorized wheel chairs. The cops are going to get called, I can feel it!
On the way to my 90th birthday party, the following dialog will, I assure you, ensue:
Me: Miss-Miss! I dropped my dentures on the floor! Can you get them for me?
Miss-Miss: No, Mom! Can't you see I'm flying?!?
5 minutes later...
Me: Where's my Ensure? Can one of you reach my Ensure? It's in the other cup holder.
J-man: No, Mom, I can't get to your Ensure. Just wait until we get there.
2 minutes later...
Me: Oh, dang. I've lost my glasses. Have any of you seen my glasses? Bubba? Do you know where they are?
Bubba: Mooooom! They're on the floor. You took them off and dropped them down there. Don't you remember? Just reach down and put them on.
Me: Oh, honey, this arthritis doesn't let me reach down that far.
Bubba: Well, wait until we get there! I can't get them right now. Sigh
1 minute later...
Me: Is that a firetruck? Oh, my! Look at that firetruck! I wonder where it's station is located?
Miss-Miss: I don't know, Mom. I have no clue.
Me: Well, you live here. Let's follow it!
Miss-Miss: We caaaan't! We have to get you to your party! We don't have time for firetrucks!
30 seconds later...
Me: You know, Chick-fil-A is that way. Are we going down a hill? We are going down a hill. Can we go to Chick-fil-A?
All three kids: NO!
I can't wait. It's going to be awesome! I'll be 90, they'll be 55 and 57 and losing. Their. Shit.