Two Questions

Yesterday June got 200 comments on a post when she asked her readers to tell her their age.  TWO HUNDRED.  Y’all.

Now, my mama always told me that a lady never reveals her age or her dress size, so it never occurred to me to ask such a personal question here on ye olde blawg.  But if June can do it, I can do it, so here goes. 

How old are you? Inquiring minds wanna know. 

I’d also love to know what state or country you live in. Ready, set, GO!

Don’t let me down, y’all.

And now that you’re here, let me tell you a funny story. 


A few weeks ago, I arrived at the Philadelphia airport after one one of my trips, I can’t even remember which one, how sad is that?  I took the shuttle to my car, and when I opened my door, I noticed a folded Post It Note on my seat.  I didn’t think much about it, climbed in, and drove off.

On the way home I called my husband and asked if he needed me to pick up any groceries.  Of course he did, so I stopped at the Acme and hopped out to get a few things.  I was wearing a black dress and a little green sweater wrap and silver sandals.  I remember thinking that I’m never this well dressed at the grocery store.  I admit it, I was feeling cute.

I walked up and down every aisle, smiling at everyone I passed.  My trip had been fun, my time away relaxing.  I was in a good mood, shiny happy people and all that.

Then I wandered into the wine store that is next door.  I was standing in the checkout line when a man behind me said, “Excuse me.”

I turned and smiled.

“You.  Um.  You have something on the back of your dress.”

I turned around and there it was — that bright yellow Post It Note from the seat of my car, stuck to my hiney.