Posts Tagged Under Annie B. Yearout
Marin Mommies
Living in Marin County, you can’t help but notice the sweet pheromones of the powerful women who prowl the streets. It’s Clan MILF vs. Clan Cougar, and every mom KNOWS to which clan she belongs.
Clan MILF meets at the Mill Valley Depot for coffee. Surrounded by her young, 3.5 blond-ish children (their hair might be a tinge of green from too much swim team at The Club) the MILF’s coffee cup is recyclable and re-useable, and her coffee beans are 100% happily grown by cheery, eager, South American farmers. Her muffin has no preservatives, no fructose, no flavor.
And her heart goes out to the children who have to wear clothes made from synthetic fibers, instead of 100% organic, sheep-chewed cotton. Oh, forget those plastic baby bottles filled with BPAs — she was an early adaptor and switched to Kleen Kanteen years ago, right after the fertility drugs kicked in.
Clan Cougar meets at Bungalow 44, Buckeye Roadhouse, and D’Angelos, or places just like them. Coiffed in her salon-fresh highlights and paralyzed forehead, the Cougar’s hyper-vigilance about raising her now high-school aged children has relaxed, unlike her brows, and she’s looking to fill some me time. Her first husband has been dumped and now she’s single, sassy and looking for a little more carnal fun.
Let the cleavage begin! Continue… »
By Annie YearoutSo Full of Crap
On my desk where I write sits three combs; a tiny nail clipper; an orange bead from a broken kiddie necklace; two pink pipe cleaners; a broken calculator; my camera; Purell; wipes; bank statement from a year ago; an unsent thank-you note to Auntie Boo from Christmas – whoopsie!; a random unfunctioning TV remote; a January Us Weekly stolen from the dentist; a Rolodex from the ‘90s; mouse stickers; a 2004 birthday card; T-Ball raffle tickets expired in March; Target sunglasses; Miss Kitty sunglasses; sunglasses with one lens missing; spinning “organizer” crammed with 30,000 pens; pencils; air tire gauge; more hair combs; mangled Post-Its; broken iPod earphones; rusty Leatherman; red puzzle piece; very tired hair elastic; Aleve cold & sinus packet of eight with one missing. . . need I go on?
And this is just my desk. A 4” x 3 ½” foot space.
Now take this list of crap, times the size of everything by twenty, add wheels or dust or broken musical bits to most of them and – voila! – that’s my basement. Crammed. Full. Stuffed with crap.
By Annie YearoutMe and My Flat-Screen TV
They stagger under the weight, two young, strapping men and my husband. Their faces are red, and their hands clench at the prized wooden box as they lift it out of the semi-truck blocking all traffic in front of our house. The box is as big as an elephant, an abominable snowman I think as I watch from our front porch.
In the front yard, they open the box with crowbars, prying off the protective, hard exterior, allowing the high-tech, delicate insides to see sunlight for the first time since Japan.
The once cloudy sky clears and a golden ray of sun beams down on us. I hear the chorus of “Halleluiah!!!!! Halleluiah, Halleluiah!!” Angels sing. My husband’s face is rapt, in awe, in love – here it is, finally – our giant, flat-screen HDTV.
By Annie YearoutWanted: Playmate for My Husband
Wanted: Married weary female mother of three seeks playmate for my late-30s-year old husband. Must be fun loving, not tired all the time, peppy, happy, consistently cheery, and able to have dinner ready at the end of the day.
Must not be blond, under 26 y/old, or a former capital “P” Playmate. Absolutely no “secretaries” or “assistants” or “flight attendants” need apply.
Must like late, weekday nights out at Bimbos, the Warfield and the Fillmore. Must know what the Boom-Boom Room is and how to get there. Must dig all kinds of music, have a working knowledge of the ‘80s greatest hits, and be able to karaoke Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” in its entirety with a pool cue. Any air-guitar experience a bonus!
By Annie YearoutThe Waterhole
It’s hot. 103 degrees and my dog, Ansel, won’t move anymore. Not even to join me today for my daily escape to the nearby waterhole on the South Fork of the Merced while my kiddos nap.
We’re in Yosemite at the family cabin that great-grandpa Floyd Alvin built in the 1950s. The original olive green décor inside has come in-and-out of fashion three times since, I think. I can’t keep up.
It’s our first visit ever for a full week, and by day two, we’re all covered, completely, with the fine, soft dirt that coats the ground of the High Sierras. Our Yosemite tan, I tease. Cancer free and it washes off with an easy scrub.
By Annie Yearout
