MILF . . . GRELF . . . All the Same Thing, Really

(Post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

My children: the lights of my life, the center of my world. The combined total of 27 hours labor, 18 months without adult beverages and the very reason I pee a little every time I sneeze.

They call me names.

And not nice ones.

Yeah - a few weeks ago, I fancied myself most MILF-ish, on my way to meet the family after work. Had on a nice new outfit: green silk shirt, and black pants and kitten-heel shoes, both made of velvet.

A word about velvet: I effing LOVE it. In a perfect world, EVERYTHING would be made of velvet - all clothing, car interiors, cubicle walls - and especially lingerie. Personally, I've been on a 20-year mission to find panties made of velvet. My home-boy George Costanza (a.k.a. Art Vandelay) said it best: 

Mmmm . . . velvet.

Wait - I had a point here. What was it? Oh yeah.

So I figured I was looking pretty shag-worthy, definitely velvety, also I was truly excited about endless baskets of tortilla chips as I headed into Central Ohio's finest "No Hablo Ingles" strip-mall restaurant. I located the family, already in a booth, and walked to them. 

"Hey guys. I am SO hungry. Scoot over," I said.

My children turned, eyeing me up and down. Obviously they admired the velvet. 

I sat as they looked at each other and smiled.

"You like my new outfit, don't you? It's velvet!" 

For some odd reason, they clapped their hands over their mouths, widened their eyes and began laughing.

"Well, your shirt looks like a grandma shirt . . . " choked the girl, between guffaws.

"And your shoes look like elf shoes . . . " giggled the boy.

They doubled over and shook with silent laughter. The boy raised his head first.

"Hey, you're a . . . a. . . a GRELF!"

"What?" I asked.

"A Grandma-Elf!" 

Can you feel the love?

I was going for MILF.

I got GRELF.

From my son, the Hobo, named as such because he mostly dresses himself like a homeless crackhead.

And my daughter - the Princess - fond of spending all our money on grossly overpriced name-brand t-shirts and hoodies.  She generally dresses like some kind of Abercrombie track-and-field team member.

Neither one wears velvet of any sort. I don't know what's wrong with them. 

Clearly, they didn't inherit my mad fashion skillz.

But they're good at nicknames, because here it is October and they still call me the G-word, programming me into their phone and Ipod as "Grelf Weber."

And that's not the only new name I've received around here lately. No sir. Do not underestimate my family's ability to insult me each other.

One night not long ago, it was pretty late - 7 p.m. and all - so I was in the house wearing my usual post-work attire of pajama bottoms and a cami-shirt.

For those of you senior citizens and grelfs-like-me out there, what the the young folks call "cami" is a spaghetti-strap tank top, usually with a makeshift built-in bra inside.

I love to sleep in them, because I am possibly-peri-menopausal-shut-up and I tend to get very hot under sheets. And not in any kind of fun way.

I also love the little bra-contraption in such tops - they allow aging mammies a modicum of support, without the choking rib-strangulation of a regular brassiere.  I have several hundred camis, even one made of - wait for it - velvet.

Mmmm . . . velvet

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah.

I forgot I had on a cami that night, when I heard a car coming up the driveway to bring my daughter home from practice.

"That's probably the Corsis. I should go out and say hi," I told the husband.

"You better put on a sweatshirt, Halter Hattie," he said. "You can see their headlights - they don't need to see yours."

Halter Hattie. Halter-f*cking-Hattie. 

I spun around to face him.

"'Halter Hattie'? This is NOT a halter top - it's a cami," I laughed. "Thanks a lot. Halter Hattie? Now I feel old, white trash, and, like . . . saggy at the same time. Halter Hattie?! Why don't you just go get me a 40-ounce and a pack of Pall Malls?"

I flounced outside to talk to my friends, but first I grabbed a sweatshirt, because - true enough - the particular rigging in camis does NOT leave much to the imagination in the chesticle area.

You've seen a woman in a cami? You've pretty much seen her naked boobies.

But that is no reason to call her names. At least without bringing her a 40-ounce and a pack of Pall Malls first. Or some velvet.

And judging by the names they call me lately, my family sees me as, how you say, old.

You know what? I'll give them old. I'll give them ancient.

And deaf:

• "Hey Mommy - can I go over to Evan's house?"
• "Mom. Can you make me a hair appointment for Homecoming?"
• "Honey? What's for dinner?"

What's that? Sorry, folks. I do not understand this "Mom/Mommy/Honey" of whom you speak.

I only answer to Grelf.

Or Halter Hattie.