How do you like your eggs? Unfertilized.

Like most almost-thirty-but-not-quite year olds, I’m grappling with the fact that my youth is more or less behind me. Seemingly out of nowhere, I’ve found myself at the age where I need to double-time it in making plans for my future and settling down with a good job, a great man, and an even better nanny. Lucky for me I’ve always looked younger than my age, so I guess my sedentary lifestyle and steady diet of cheap wine, fast food and cigarettes has done me well. Or so I thought.

Dun dun dun…

About a month ago I was standing in line at my favorite sub shop. It must have been a half day for the local school system, because standing before me in line was about 15 oversized backpacks attached to a group of 13 year old boys. Immediately, I found myself irritated. Like most hormonal, Peter Brady sounding boys their age, they were pushing and shoving one another in line, counting pennies to pay for their plate of mozzarella sticks, swearing loudly so that the rest of us customers in line could see how “mature” they were, and most annoyingly of all– they were standing between me and my turkey pocket and my 30 minute lunch break was rapidly dwindling.

The one kid immediately in front of me is next up in line. Before placing his order, he turns his head briefly to scan the room.  When he sees me he does a double take and stares at me, eyes wide, for about thirty seconds. Now I don’t like people staring at me. I don’t even like babies staring at me, but I cut them some slack because they don’t know any better. For some reason, my angry vibe seems lost on them. But for some reason it didn't seem lost on this kid. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but thirty seconds is a long freaking time for a stranger less than a foot away to stare, mouth agape directly at your face, so in the awkwardness that resulted from the lack of his social skills, I forced a closed mouth smile and raised my eyebrows as if to say “can I help you?”. Now not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I occasionally get a double take from the opposite sex, though I’ve never experienced one from one as young as these kids. Regardless. I rolled with it, and I'll admit my near-thirty year old self was maybe even a little pleased. "I still got it,” I thought to myself’. “Oh yeah, I’m a hot bitch”.

Kid In Front of Me in Line whispers to one of his friends, and the friend turns around and looks at me as well. Now this is just out of control. Jesus Christ, I know I’m really, really, really, really, good looking, but let’s not make it so obviously here, kids. You guys have a lot to learn till the days when you’re grinding all up on those hoes at your local discotheque. (See, I’m still in the know . I’m hip to the jive.)

Sigh. It appears it’s time for me to teach these kids a life lesson.

Before I can spout a randomized selection of my vast and infinite knowledge on the subject of courtship and dating within your age group, Kid in Front of Me in Line removes the lollipop from his mouth, smiles at me, and says the following:

Are you Zach’s mom?

I take a step back as though I’ve been slapped. I stand there stunned, eyes blinking and slack jawed  trying to fully digest the weight of the insult he has just hurled at me. I don’t think I’d be any more offended if he had just said “Hey there ugly. Just a heads up that your 401k’s SHIT and you’re wasting your college degree toiling away at a thankless job. Me and my buddies tag teamed your grandma last weekend, and later on we’re going to beat up your disabled father for kicks.”

The Little Shit in Front of Me in Line was patiently waiting a response. When I finally regained my composure, I finally said "No, I'm not Zach's mom". 

Here's what I really wanted to say: "No,you little PUKE, I’m not Zach’s mom. Do I look old enough to have a kid your age? What the EFF is wrong with you. Now, granted I don't know what Zach's mom looks like, but I imagine she must be breathtaking. But, she's gotta be a hell of a lot older than me. Put on some freaking glasses and you’ll see that I’m in my goddamned PRIME. Now I suggest you put that freaking lollipop back in your mouth, turn the eff around, get your mozzarella sticks and get the hell out of here. And pull your friggen pants up, you little twerp."

So I leave the store. Ego totally deflated. As much as I didn’t want a 13 year old kid to undress me with his eyes, I certainly didn’t want him to think I was his friend’s mom. Later on I invested in some age defying eye cream and came to terms with the inevitable onset of premature old age.

Let’s fast forward a month or so, shall we?

Its Halloween night. Matt and I are in my Jeep on our way to a Halloween Party. I’m dressed up as a sheriff and Matt is sitting in my passenger’s seat beside me, sulking at the fact that I’ve made him wear a bright orange onesie as my “escaped con” costume counterpart. He was so orange, he probably would have drawn less attention to himself if he arrived at the party bare-assed naked. (I made it up to him by frisking and arresting him later, but that’s another conversation for another time.)

Wicked Orange 

I make a quick stop at a convenience store to buy some cigarettes, and as I pull up out front, two shaving cream covered kids wearing backpacks walk by my car. They see my sheriff badge from my car window and do a double take before realizing it’s only a costume. I jokingly say to Matt, “Wow, they must of thought I was going to arrest them for the carton of eggs you know they have stashed in their backpacks. Stupid kids.” Matt says nothing as he’s still fuming about he orange onesie. I sigh as I open the door, tip my sheriff hat, and make a “don’t escape now, ya hear” joke as I step out of my car and walk into the convenience store.

Surprise, surprise… standing before me in line are the two shaving cream covered kids. They’re patiently awaiting their turn to purchase two cartons of extra large jumbo eggs. Baking a cake, I presume. Again, I’m immediately irritated. (Are you sensing a pattern here?) As kid #1 puts his stash on the counter to pay for it, Kid #2 quickly scans the store for authority figures. He turns around and sees me. He does a double take, nudges his friend, and whispers something in his ear. His friend turns and looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and continues paying for his dairy products.

Now I’m confused. There’s no way this kid thinks I’m really a cop... I have fishnets on for chrissakes! So obviously I narrow down the other plausible explanations, and realize that he just thinks I’m smoking hot and wanted to point me out to his friend. I can dig that. Although, he does look oddly familiar....

Then he turns and opens his mouth.

What do you think he says?

Yup. You guessed it.

ARE YOU ZACH’S MOM?

I couldn't even friggen believe it. Same freaking kid, once again standing in front of me in line, once again asking me the same freaking question, once again DEFLATING MY FRIGGEN EGO. I figured the anti-aging cream would have kicked in by now.

I finish making my purchase, and walk out to my car to share the story with my still-sulking, citrus-hued boyfriend. His response?

"Damn, I want to see Zach's mom".