It's Official:

I'm an old woman.

Last night, with frightening clarity, I crossed the threshold from neurotic, stressed twenty-something to psychotic, frail old-woman: I realized I had heartburn.

Heartburn is something that old people love to natter about, like arthritis, or the good old days, or the diabeetus.

No claims forms... No upfront costs!

I feel like I should be hunched over a bingo table, irritably slamming my Bingo Marker at whatever spots I so decide worthy of neon purple ink, bitching about my arthritis and the gout in my leg and how my grandchildren, the ungrateful bastards, never bother coming to visit their old grandmother Chelsea. And then maybe I'll huck up some spit (or, better yet, just start drooling), and whack Artie with my walker because he was about to win the round. Nobody beats Chelsea at bingo.

When did I stop popping vicodin and washing them down with a refreshing bottle of Smirnoff, and start devouring Tums and swigging Pepto? Next thing you know, I'll be 5'2", be covered in liver spots, and have a hump that'll rival Quasimodo's. Oh, my misplaced youth! Why did you abandon me so?

To add insult to injury, I've developed a nervous twitch whenever I turn my bathroom light on in the morning, as I've been finding a few gray hairs here and there. I'm terrified that by the middle of next week, I'll look like someone shaved my head and glued a mass of Q-Tip fuzz onto it. Both my father and his mother were gray by 30, and since I'm already practically 80, I'm fucked. I'll have to start dying my hair with Clairol No Drip, since Sarah Jessica Parker swears that's what she uses, and we all know that celebrities always use the "do it yourself in a box" hair dye, and never go to the salon and have it professionally done by Ken Paves and his army of stylists.

Bingo, bitches! Momma needs a new pair of orthopedic flats!
(One of these things is not like the other)

So, if you need me tonight, I highly suggest calling sometime before 8pm - after all, it's lights out after Jeopardy. I'll be gumming some applesauce and sipping some warm milk before then, so feel free to give me a call on my cellular telephone. I can't promise I'll know how to answer (or have the eyesight capabilities to even see the buttons) but I'll try my best. If I remember, that is.

Oh, and:

Days till Hull: 10
Days till Christmas: 15