In bad taste: Reminiscing about ancient personal history

I'm 50 years old today. I'd be happy to stay alive as a female human for 10 more years so I could see my kids grow into adults, but anything's fine, really. I'm getting too old to care. Lately I've thought about my first real job, if you can call it that. I was on summer break from college--yes, I was young once--and this lady who knew my parents needed someone to help care for her bedbound mother and to make dinner for two, the lady herself and her female roommate. The elder care I learned quickly--giving her pills, offering her liquids, feeding her yogurt and pudding, and changing her briefs (adult diapers) and underpads. It was the ladies' dinner antics that still stick to my mind. The two women had a quaint custom: critiquing the meals that their servants served them. I had big shoes to fill. Their longtime helper had scaled back her hours, which was why I had been hired in the first place, and she was an amazing cook. The ladies I had to impress had a few t...