The Life and Times of this Ol' Broad

I had coffee with my friends Michael and Louis a few days ago. I told them about the difference between women in their early 20s and women in their late 20s. I'm sure there are individuals who do not do much progressing during this period, but I can say that I'm a hell of a lot better person now than I was even four years ago.

It's as if it happens overnight: I woke up, stopped fucking weighing myself three times a day, stopped being mean to everyone, started feeling as if I was worthy of happiness and health, stopped comparing myself to everyone around me, and now I'm at a point where I'm hard-pressed to feel nervous in new settings, to feel as if I don't belong, or to get embarrassed about even the most embarrassing situations. Really, it's a beautiful way to live.

In example, one of the most embarrassing songs ever is also one of my favorite clean-the-house songs. So when that embarrassing song--Shakira and Wyclef's "Hips Don't Lie"--was performed on my embarrassing guilty pleasure show--Dancing with the Stars--I had a moment of zen. See? That could pretty much destroy any street cred I have with all of my intelligent and cultured readers, but late-20s Bette does not give a damn.

Despite all of this, something embarrassed the hell out of me yesterday. I woke up and made breakfast for the Bunny and I. As my Gimme Lean soy sausage was sizzling away in a skillet, the smoke level got high enough to heat up our fire alarm, which is connected to our ADT system. Apparently, ADT tried to call our land line, which is not even hooked up to a phone, since we just use it for our alarm, and they got no answer. This prompted them to call the fire department BEFORE calling my cell phone.

Once we got the alarm to shut off, I answered my cell phone and explained the situation. The operator said, "Well, I already called the Fire Dept. Would you like me to call them back?" Seriously, she says this like it is no big deal. I'm thinking, "No, it would be totally awesome to waste tax dollars on a faux call to our home to save our sizzling soy sausage." After her promise to cancel the call, we sat down to enjoy our meal.

It was kind of like a movie: We sat silently eating across from one another, and, all of sudden, we hear sirens roaring down the street. We looked up at one another--half-laughing, half-terrified. I sat there in nothing but an old bathrobe with my hair piled on my head, matted from the previous night's workout and pillow slam, and I just know my eyes got huge. The Bunny ran to the door, meeting the fire chief on our doorstep, five firemen in the yard in full gear, two firemen running down the side of our house, and two engines with one smaller fire truck parked down our street. After explaining to the chief that yes, this is our house, "not our parents," and yes, we own it, and "everything is okay. Wife was just cooking breakfast," the chief made him sign some kind of report, and they left.

Where was I, you ask, during this whole scenario? I nervously, and bashfully, scrubbed at the breakfast pans in the sink, peered sheepishly out the window at all of the commotion--a sea of red and flashing lights--and wondered what the neighbors must be thinking now. They haven't seen this much action here since the cops arrested a man on our lawn who worked for us and stole our lawnmower to sell for crack.

Really, we're actually quite dull. I swear it.