Manager Mom's Gallery Of Shame, Part 2

My birthday weekend is over, and I'm sad to see it go. I had such a good time using "But it's my birthday!" as an excuse to avoid all of the things that I didn't feel like doing, from the trivial (fetching the newspapers from the end of the driveway) to the disgusting (doing the final assists on The Boy's butt-wiping) to the obvious (did not cook a shred of food the entire weekend.)

I meant to post these on Saturday, but I was busy lying on the couch. For those of you who enjoyed the first eight years, behold the terrible power of my adolescence, with its parade of overthought hair and questionable fashions:



















I would like to point out that my mother showed all of these to Manager Dad after he proposed to me. And he STILL went through with the wedding.

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Manager Mom's Gallery of Shame: Part 1: The Grade School Years

Sunday is my birthday. I will be thirty-eight years old.

"Wow, ManagerMom!" People never say to me. "At 38, you're quite the cougar MILF! Have you always been this stunning?"

To answer this question, I bring you portraits from the first eighteen years of my life, which my own mother faithfully saved in an 8 x 10 picture frame in our living room:
Having seen some of my fellow bloggers on Fug Mug Friday over at PapaTV I don't feel quite so bad.

On the other hand, there's still the adolescent years. I'll save those for tomorrow.

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