[ granny joe, 1950-ish ]
My mom and grandma had birthdays this week. I am constantly reminded that I am a Murray through-and-through and that I didn't get any of those drop-dead-gorgeous Brawley genes. My sister took them all for herself. Bitch.
[ not even fair ]
OK, I must give credit to Dad - he did give me height and blue eyes and apparently semi-OK metabolism (it's waning, of course), even if he also passed along a slew of annoying skin conditions and non-existent cleavage (I quite literally have my dad's chest). I suppose I get a lot of my personality from my mom and maybe that's why people say we look alike when we clearly do not.
[ 1980 ]
[ 2009 ]
I'm not sure how I'll age, but I'm not afraid of it. I may not be a babe-like granny like my maternal fore-mothers, but that's what face-lifts are for, right? Kidding.
Happy birthday to two gorgeous old broads!
p.s. I stole the clever title of this blog from a song by Eliza Doolittle. Santa brought me her CD and I'm kinda in love with her. She's playing Coachella (along with a thousand other artists I'm dying to see) but I'll have to wait for her next trip to Canada.