Nipped and Tucked

May 27, 2012

I recently decided that the blog needed a little face lift.

But in keeping with my broader feelings about plastic surgery, I’m pretty terrified of surgical change.  I didn’t want anything that was drastic or involved pain.  Or an unrecognizable result.  I guess what I wanted was just a little makeover — a fresher and better looking version of what I already had.

So here we are.  What do you think?  It’s a subtle change but it’s more me.  Bravo to Cynthia at NW Designs for understanding what I wanted.

I have a few other random nuggets for you, since my brain is awash in holiday weekend wine.

  • Since the whole of humanity — except for my family — seems to have a vacationy destination for Memorial Day, it seems that television programmers have saved all of their worst possible options for this weekend.  I mean, if you want to watch Throw Momma From the Train or Leprechaun 2, your time has come.  Or, you could watch Super Shark.  Not sold? Have a look at the compelling description below.


I mean, if this can be a movie, why can’t my life be a reality show?

  • I doubt that I’m the first one to bring it to your attention, but this marriage proposal is all over the Internet this week. If you thought you had a great “how I got engaged story,” I hate to tell you:  This guy one-upped you.  Big time.  If you need your faith in humanity restored, have a look.  And don’t even think about saying it’s cheesy — I call your bluff and know that you’re really grinning quietly in a corner while nobody is looking.  Or maybe I’m just projecting.

 

  • I also have a far less widely circulated video to show you.  Consider it an exclusive preview before it breaks worldwide.  If you’ve been here before, you know that I am not a “look at my cute kids on video” person.  I’m really not.  In fact, this might be a Fordeville first, so just indulge me in this isolated incident.  I know it’s 27 seconds of your life that you can’t get back, but it’s a holiday — and Moves Like Jagger: Pre-School Dance Mix, is great for the beach.
YouTube Preview Image

You have to respect how he really tries for those high notes.

Now that they have sealed the talent competition, we’re going to slather up in sunscream and conquer the bathing suit portion of the weekend.  In a pirate ship, naturally.

 

And tonight, if Super Shark does not have an encore presentation, I can only hope that Sharktopus will be on again.

 

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Filed Under: Blogging Cluelessness, Entertainment, Family 6 Comments

Sunscream

May 25, 2012

 

So, the unofficial kick-off to summer is nearly here.  And while that’s exciting in many ways, I have to tell you that there are some things I hate about this time of year.

Mostly, the sun.

See, there are people who need sunscreen (everyone, in theory) and then there are people who NEED SUNSCREEN.  Like me.  I can burn under a 50-watt bulb. I can burn while going out to get the mail.  I can, despite my very best efforts, suffer at least one burn per year that causes the general public to wince and point in sympathetic pain, while considering calling an ambulance.

It’s like trying to outrun and outsmart a very powerful enemy, all summer long.

This has been going on my whole life.  Remember how much you loved Field Day as a kid?  Not me.  I burned every year.  Class trips?  Fried.  Beach outings?  Forget it.  And then there was the time in seventh grade when my family went spring skiing at a very high altitude.  My face suffered second degree burns that were not only incredibly painful, but also required my use of a burglar-style ski mask for the remainder of the vacation.  It made for a great family photo, as well as preparation for any potential life of crime I was considering.

The sun hurts.

It wasn’t that we didn’t use sunscreen when I was a kid, but the truth is that nobody was nearly as diligent as they should have been back then.  {Omg, I’m saying “back then.”  This is what happens when one turns 40.}  And, at that time, pure white zinc oxide was probably the only reliable consumer product available that would have helped me.  That wasn’t really a look I was going for in junior high.

As I got older and suffered more and more burns, I got smarter about my approach.  Kind of like the mouse in a science experiment who gets an electric shock every time he eats the cheese in the maze.  Yet, despite my best efforts over the years, I’ve missed spots in the sunscreen application process.  I’ve burned the backs of my knees, my scalp, my ear lobes, the tops of my pinky toes and my armpit.  I’ve had bizarrely random handprints formed on my stomach from where my sunscreen application began and ended.

Stupid sun.

So about ten years ago, all of this caught up with me and I had a brief fling with melanoma.  I was lucky that it was easily treated.  But, lest I forget that entire experience, I am forced to endure some resulting humiliation twice a year.  I have to see my dermatologist, obviously, to make sure I have no new/bigger/threatening moles.  And do you know how that’s done the super-thorough way?  No?  Let me share.

Shortly after my melanoma episode, my visit to the dermatologist went like this:

Him: “You know, the only effective way to keep a diligent watch on your skin is to have slides done.”

Me:  “Slides?  What do you mean, slides?”

Him:  “You know, we’ll send you to a  medical photographer and he’ll do a series of photographs to capture everything currently on your skin.  That way, I have a ‘before’ comparison to look at every time you come in.”

Me:  “By ‘series of photographs,’ how detailed are we talking?”

Him:  “Every inch of your naked body.  But they are all super-close-up, so nothing could identify you.  It’s not like a centerfold.”

Me:  “Is he a doctor?”

Him:  “No, he’s a medical photographer.”

Me:  “Oh.”

Him:  “You really need to do this.”

Me:  “Oh.” {cue smelling salts}

Goddamned sun.

So off I went to some random penthouse (no pun intended) in Manhattan to see this medical photographer.  It didn’t help that this guy gave me  a business card that appeared to be run off of old ditto paper on his home printer.

My husband came with me — because this whole thing was feeling very Law & Order Special Victims Unit.  Or at least like a bad bad ABC After School Special.  Thank God he did — not because I was physically put in harm’s way, but because I have a lifelong witness to verify the extent of humiliation and psychological scarring involved in medical photography.

How bad could it be?  Well, let’s see.  I’d characterize it as far fucking worse than I ever imagined.

  • Bright, industrial-grade photography lights, EVERYWHERE.
  • Me on a pedestal.
  • Naked.
  • Some stranger — who IS NOT A DOCTOR {and looks eerily like the bartender from that great place on the Lower East Side} — with a camera, who I was quickly beginning to suspect was hired off of Craig’s List, snapping away.

“Can you turn so we can get the inner thigh please?”

Ohmygod.

Ohmygod.

Kill me.

Please.

I looked across the room at my husband and his jaw was more than slightly hanging open in shock.  Probably not what he had in mind when we did that whole “for better or for worse” thing.

The sun sucks.

So now, every trip to the dermatologist entails my slides being projected across the room {life size, naturally} while every inch of my naked body is compared to these “before” photos.

Fucking sun.

As luck would have it, my kids are just as fair-skinned.  Talk about hitting the DNA shit list.  So suffice it to say I’m a freak freak freak freak about sunscreen for them (and for me).  Basically, if they are going outside in the sun, or looking at it through the window screens, there’s going to be copious sunscreen.

You can imagine how much they love this.  But they know it’s a deal-breaker to play outside without “sunscream,” as they put it.

And I, therefore, spend my time from Memorial Day to Labor Day (actually from about April to November) basically chasing two greased pigs in an endless cycle of applying and re-applying sunscreen.  All in an effort to avoid public wincing, red hot burns in strange places and a future photography session with a shady guy who has zero medical background.

I hate the sun.

If you’re a leisurely tanner — well, enjoy your long holiday weekend in the sun.  In our house, we’ll be stocking up on wet suits and putting our names on a list for a melanin transplant.

Happy summer, all.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

Attention, All Husbands

May 23, 2012

I know how to drag out a birthday, don’t I? 

I’ve been so lucky to have my guest bloggers drop by throughout May to celebrate with me.  And today, I have the final of my three guests — Erin from I’m Gonna Kill Him.  I think we can all agree that she knows how to get your attention before you even read a word — how’s that blog name for getting the message across?  In fact, I’m going to ask her if she’ll provide a pro-bono branding consultation to the local window cleaners in town called Peeping Tom.  Because their truck is freaking me the hell out when I see it near my house.

There’s really nothing better than a very bold and very funny writer with a fabulous and precisely placed vocabulary.  Bonus points that it’s often at the expense of her husband.  

When I met Erin around this time last year, she had just had her third child in three years — so I was duly floored that she can manage to string two consecutive words together, never mind a fantastic blog.  And today we get to peek at a rant to her husband — birthday style.

Husbands of the Internet, take note.

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{Kim recently turned…well, she turned an age. An age that was one year greater than the age she was before her birthday. And that’s why birthdays are inherently disappointing. You never wake up on that day, suddenly feeling younger and looking more vibrant. And as you age, people figure that you’re so enlightened and wise to the world that you don’t care about the trivialities of birthdays. But I am not at all that enlightened.}

I hate to point out the obvious, that it’s my birthday. I’m sure you’ve been thinking about what to get me. It was so obvious you spent a lot of time thinking about it last year. The way a mayfly spends a lot of time living. I don’t want to be one of those people who expects the whole world to sit up at attention and throw me a goddamn ticker tape parade and cast a bronze statue in my likeness while hot, sweaty people wave flags with my face on it and eat $15 empanadas named after me because it’s the day that I became a piece of data to be captured by the U.S. Census. That said, when I wrote my wedding vows and then wrote yours for you, I included a whole section about honoring my birthday, and I sort of expected that you’d internalize that point till death do us part. Or till I am REBORN as some other life form at which time the duty of celebrating my birth will fall to some other organism. I’m not even going to think about the possibility that I may be reincarnated as something that doesn’t recognize birthdays, like a Jehova’s Witness or some species of marlin, so I hear. Speaking of fish, you could take me out for dinner. I mean, it doesn’t take a lot of brain power to recognize that I’m no Barefoot Contessa in the kitchen. I’m really more like that waste-of-space husband, Jeffrey, who must believe his testicles will dry up into a heap of dried mustard powder if he even steps foot in the house before an entire Roast Capon has been plated and brought to an outdoor table overlooking the ocean. No, I don’t want to go to the ocean. I just said the word ocean. Going to the ocean involves wearing a bathing suit, which I haven’t done since the birthday I turned 14. That was the last documented moment I have been glimpsed in a bathing suit, and I appreciate you realizing that I have that discomfort and that’s why you bought me that sarong printed with palm trees and people sitting in hammocks for my birthday 3 years ago, but I never figured out how to use it. It ties 50 different ways but I couldn’t find a single way that made me look like a human fucking being in a piece of fabric instead of a beluga whale who swam headfirst into the sail of a windsurf. I realize that I made a lot of marine references just now, but I do not want to go the aquarium. I’m not in the mood to de-suction the kids’ mouths from glass spattered with penguin shit nor to bribe the security guard to let us leave the facility through any exit, even through the drain of the tank containing the orca that became deranged from swimming in a circle day and night, just to avoid walking through the gift shop. If we could stop by one of the ladies’ department stores – one of the expensive ones that I don’t normally go to because the sales staff looks disapprovingly at the kids because they’re not wearing shoes or pants – because they sell the anti-aging creams that they actually call serums and put in glass bottles with pumps. I can’t be sure if they are why Cindy Crawford’s face looks like the new drywall in fancy subdivisions, but it’s certainly not because of those fucking mutant melons that doctor in France harvested.  I just want to pump that serum onto my face and neck and sit alone in the bathroom and read this magazine that I bought from the grocery store instead of just flipping through the whole thing as a man buying beef jerky and sour cream dip breathed sour air on my shoulders. I want to read every page of it and study the pictures of this woman wearing a sarong in all 50 ways that it can go while somehow not looking like an asshole in 48 of them.

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Fifty Shades of WTF Did I Just Read?

May 19, 2012

How’s this for a cliche?  Right after I turned 40 — and I mean, only about three days after — I pulled my back out.  I wasn’t exercising or lifting one of my kids.  No, I was unloading the dishwasher.  How sad is that?  So, despite what many people have said, I’m not sure that age is just a number at this point.  It seems more like a chiropractic adjustment and an Icy Hot addiction.

Now, there were a few benefits of having to remain relatively still for a couple of days.  I could relax about John Quinones catching me on camera in town — I was safe.  More importantly, I could also make some real progress on the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy while I sat on my couch, visibly aging and mumbling about lower back pain.

Thankfully, my back improved in a few days.  But by then, it was too late.  I was already hooked on the Fifty Shades books.  I was in too deep.  And so I kept reading.  In the pre-school parking lot.  In the pediatrician’s waiting room {“Is the air conditioning on?  It’s pretty warm in here“}.  And late at night.  Shamefully late at night.  Hanging on to Mr. Grey’s every word.

Sadly, my late nights with Mr. Grey resulted in a personal speed-reading record.  I’m not proud.

The reality is that these three books may be some of the worst writing I’ve ever encountered.  In fact, I would like to come back in my next life as the editor for this trilogy.  Because I’m fairly certain that she 1) did not lift a finger in the so-called “editing” process and 2) made a large fortune nonetheless.  Nice work if you can get it.

If you don’t have the time, or if you’re going to go all high-brow on me and pass on this trilogy to read Us Weekly, I get it.  I think we can still be friends (if you’ll have me — I’m the one reading the smut over here).  But I thought I’d just recap the highly intricate plot for those of you who feel you might be missing out.  Because, sooner or later, you’re going to get trapped between two or more suburban moms who will go all Fifty Shades on you.

Here it goes — the major plot points.  Try to stay with me.

  • Christian and Ana meet.
  • Tension builds.
  • They fight.
  • Dark secrets unfold.
  • They start having lots of sex.
  • More dark secrets unfold.
  • The relationship evolves.
  • They fight.
  • They have more outrageous sex.
  • The relationship evolves.
  • More sex.
  • More fighting.
  • More sex.
  • More sex.
  • More sex.
  • More dark secrets unfold.
  • More sex.
  • More fighting.
  • The relationship evolves.
  • More fighting.  Followed by more sex. And more dark secrets.
  • Encounters with psychopaths emerge.
  • More sex.

Got it?  I just saved you days of your life.  Not to mention embarrassment in the pediatrician’s waiting room.

Now.  For those of you who are like-minded souls and have read/are reading these books, let’s talk.  After all, we can’t get those hours of our lives back — and my book club is all, “We’re discussing real books,” so I need some friends who will indulge me in a bit of post-Fifty chatter.

As a discussion guide, I thought it would be fun to create a The Fifty Shades Bingo Companion Game.  I will include the most  overused/absurd/tired words and phrases from the trilogy (I’m keeping them PG, just in case you popped over to my blog thinking it was Family Day).  Every time you come across one of these words or phrases in the books, you get to cover that square of your Bingo card.  Until someone wins.  This should take all of three minutes.

{I know, Bingo enthusiasts, it’s not a regulation sized card, but work with me.}

What’s that?  You called Bingo within 12 pages of the first book?  All of you?

Well, if Bingo isn’t going to last long enough, I have another suggestion.  We could just make the Bingo words into a list and use them as a drinking game.  Oh wait, then we’d all need our stomachs pumped in short order.

So we’ll have to find another way to discuss all this sordid best-sellerness.

And I have to face the fact that my quality time with Mr. Grey has come to an end.  I’m somewhere between enlightened, educated, traumatized and — really, above all — wondering how they’re going to handle this as a movie.

But in the meantime, I have to go and catch up on real life.  I have a few terribly disappointing TV season finales to bash.  I have to emotionally prepare for pre-school graduation.  I have to find a new white wine at Trader Joe’s since they stopped carrying my favorite.  And I have a pile of neglected Us Weekly issues to read.

So, farewell, Christian Grey and all your baggage.  And your playroom.  And your chiseled chin.  And…well…oh, my.

 

 

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Dares, Goals & Guts

May 16, 2012

Project Extended Birthday continues!

My guest today is Elizabeth from Flourish in Progress.  If you’re not already reading her blog, consider this a public service announcement that your life is not as complete as you thought it was.  I have followed Elizabeth’s writing for a while, and she’s a total and complete badass.  I mean that as the highest possible compliment.  Her words are powerful, spot-on and pack such a punch.  She can make you laugh, cry and curse like a sailor equally well.  

I had the pleasure of meeting her last year at a blog conference in Boston, and she is as wonderful and entertaining in person as she is in writing.  Plus, I’ve never seen such a well-dressed, elegant woman start a pitch-perfect verbal bar fight quite like she could {it was totally justified, trust me}.  She prevailed, of course.

Her blog began as a way to chronicle her 30th birthday resolution of not shopping for a full year.  Yes, really.  Along the way, she acquired tons of followers and gave us some fabulous writing, including her not-to-be-missed Monday Dares series.  She was a BlogHer 2011 Voice of the Year and recently had her writing appear in — get this — The Huffington Post.  Which officially seals her position as one of my heroes.  

It’s such a treat to have her here — just don’t cross her in a bar.  

Thank you, Elizabeth!


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I stopped making a long list of Ways I Will Vastly Improve Myself to ring in the New Year almost a decade ago. Sure, I still “commit” to one or two things at the beginning of the year, but it’s mostly because I need a quick and easy answer to spit out when those overly chipper women at afternoon pick-up ask repeatedly for a span of about three weeks in January how I plan to change my life for the better. I’d like to be honest and say the best way to boost my mood on a daily basis would probably be to stop making forced small talk with them, but who has that kind of courage? Well, maybe you do, but I’m a coward. I’m very self-aware of this flaw, but I don’t plan on changing any time soon, so I’ve learned to just put up with me.

Instead, I save all of my Self Improvement Goals for my birthday.

Some years, I can’t muster up much more than “Try really hard not to steal money from my daughter’s piggy bank because I’m too lazy to go to the ATM and I really want to eat lunch at the cash-only noodle joint.” This might not seem like such a big deal, but trust me, I wrestle with this on a weekly basis.  I have yet to pay her back a single penny. My secret hope is that she just thinks she’s an extremely bad money counter, and in fact, there were only $43 dollars in the bank instead of the $49 she thought she had when she last counted.

Other years, I mean business. My birthday is in September, so this usually happens after I’ve spent an entire summer reading self-improvement books on how to be happier or healthier or craftier or less ghetto. I’m still open to all the improvements listed. Except for the “less ghetto” part. If you took out that very integral part of my being, I’d just be an empty shell.

On my 21st birthday, I made a commitment to stop living on welfare. I was a single mom with a high school diploma and a 2-year-old. I felt trapped and I felt helpless. Actually, what I mean to say is that I felt hopeless, not helpless.

I had been stuck in a rut- moving from one temporary home to another, working menial jobs and barely scraping by. I didn’t think my life could be any other way.

As I woke up on my 21st birthday, the first words to cross my mind were “SCREW THIS.” That simple statement ignited a fire to climb out of the hole that I had dug for myself and to be the kind of person that my daughter would proudly claim as her ma.

It was slow-going at first, but that’s the thing about doing something hard. You’re unsure at first, maybe even afraid, but each step makes you feel more empowered.

My daughter recently turned 12. And I know now that all of it, every hard grimy little bit, was worth it.

Happy Birthday, Kim. I feel so fortunate that we crossed paths. If you are the picture of 40, then I can’t wait to get there.

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On the Run From Reality TV

May 15, 2012

Have you seen that show called What Would You Do?  You know, when those actors play out some morally outrageous scenario in a very public place (like an obviously drunk guy getting into his car with a few passengers in plain sight).  And then the unsuspecting real-life people, who are unaware their reactions are being filmed for the sake of ratings, have to contend with how they handled the situation.

Does it make you as uncomfortable as it makes me?  Because it really makes me squirm.

And now, it turns out, they have an affection for filming it in my town.  Three times so far.

Fucking perfect.  Just what I need — a fear of John Quinones jumping out of the bushes to judge my moral barometer for the nation to see.

Go ahead.  Ask me the obvious question:  “Why would you worry about handling a situation like that if you’re a decent person?”

It’s not that, exactly.  I’m pretty sure that, overall, my morals are intact.  But the sad truth is that I could easily fall prey to this show.  Because, honestly, 99% of the time, I am in one of these highly distracted states:

1)  I am at Starbucks awaiting caffeine treatments and am not technically awake.

2)  I have one child talking in each ear, at the same time, carrying on two totally separate conversations in unison.

3)  I am in the Trader Joe’s wine section with laser-like focus on my next purchase.

I don’t see or hear much of what’s happening around me.  

And this makes me a prime candidate to look like a jackass on national television.

Can you see it now?

1)  Some guy is screaming at his girlfriend in a borderline-abusive fashion at Starbucks.  But I do not hear them.  Because, technically, I am not considered medically awake or psychologically fit until the barista hands me my latte.  Enter John Quinones with camera crew.

2)  While eating at the diner, a woman at a nearby table is threatening to kick out her teenage daughter for getting pregnant.  But I do not hear them.  Because, in one ear, my son is quizzing me about the attributes of carnivorous dinosaurs while, in the other, my daughter sings the theme song from The Fresh Beat Band for the 783rd time today.  Enter John Quinones and camera crew.

3)  A group of customers at Trader Joe’s is looking for the person who left a dog unattended in the car outside on a warm day.  But I do not hear them.  Because, listen, I am hosting playgroup at 4:00 and am totally out of white wine.  And it appears that the store has not stocked my go-to Sauvignon Blanc.  Enter John Quinones and camera crew.

See?  See how easily this could happen?

My friend in town has a theory that one of the show’s producers must live around here.  I can totally see that.  I am wondering if that producer has a vendetta against a fellow resident — maybe a mom who totally dropped the ball on the class bake sale.  Or the guy who tapped his bumper in the parking lot.

Or maybe the producers just think my town has no moral fiber to it.  I’m not sure.  But either way, I’m getting a little paranoid.

Look, there have been many times when I’ve been able to picture myself in some type of reality show.  The basement renovation alone could have fueled an entire HGTV marathon — not to mention a quick stop in Gloria Allred’s courtroom.  But at least I would have been prepared.  I would have been caffeinated, articulate and wearing something other than old yoga pants.  Hell, I might have even been showered.

But this John Quinones threat hangs over me as I go about town and conduct my business.  He is hiding.  He is waiting.  It’s just a matter of time.

I’ll let you know when he finds me and when my episode airs.

 

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The Empress is in the House

May 9, 2012

Greetings from the other side of 40.

So it wasn’t as traumatic as I envisioned.  Mostly because I was distracted by revelry.  And presents.

Yes, my friends know me well.  I’m obviously a deeply complicated person.

Now that I have been given more bottles of wine than I can count, coupled with the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy, I can’t be an ingrate and let them go unused.  So I’ll be on my couch with those items for a while.

And speaking of gifts, how about this?

Recently, I asked a few of my very favorite bloggers if they would partake in my extended celebration by writing something for my blog.  These are very funny, very talented women with wonderful blogs, fantastic storytelling skills and, presumably, little to no down time to spend moonlighting for my little corner of the Internet.  And yet, three out of four of them responded to me right away and said yes. How nice is that?

{As for the fourth, my guess is that she’s also knee-deep in Fifty Shades of Grey and couldn’t tear herself away.  That’s OK.  I totally get it.}

I asked my three guests to share something about a birthday in their writing.  Anything they wanted.

So today I am beyond thrilled to have Alexandra here, also fondly known across the blogosphere as The Empress.  Her blog, Good Day, Regular People, was one of the first I encountered and is still one of my daily must-reads.  You can also find her regular columns at Aiming Low, FunnynotSlutty, Mom Renewal Project, MilwaukeeMoms, Sprocket Ink, and TikiTikiblog. Oh, and she was a 2011 BlogHer Voice of the Year!  Her words of wisdom, sense of humor and pay-it-forward attitude are all priceless, and I’m really grateful she took the time to stop by.

I love birthday presents.  Thank you, Empress.

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Fordy is forty.

She is 40 and I wish 100 percent A Very Happy Birthday To her!

Cher (of Who-needs-a-last-name-anyway) said she peaked at 40. She said it was the BEST GD freakin’ year of her life. In an interview, Cher said she never felt healthier, happier, sexier, hotter, more capable, than she did at 40.

All the insecurities of her youth? Gone.

All the self doubt and constant self scrutinization? Gone.

All the standing in front of a mirror with a microscope, all the filtering of what you might say so you don’t say it. Gone.

And she is right.

Hitting 40 becomes a time when you finally start to fall in love with yourself. Thinking maybe all those around you that love you, may be right about you being something special. You lose all the self absorption and realize there are people on this planet who count on you, like you, and enjoy knowing you.

Once you lose all the monitoring of self physically, mentally, emotionally, you become free to live your life and become your truth.

When you trade in the line-free eyes and foreheads, you gain a feeling of acceptance in return. Of saying, Yeah … maybe the thighs are a little jigglier and the upper arms a little flabbier, but that’s all right. It’s a sense of relief to say to yourself I don’t have to look good in everything anymore, and I’m Okay with this.

Other things become important, as they should.

We had our glorious days of youth in the sun. And now it’s time for us to share, let it be someone else’s turn. Let the under 40 crowd do what they do best: look seamless and line free.

Let us, the over-40 crowd, tend to all the rest: which is becoming worthy of those that love us and of the love we’ve been blessed with, over our lifetime.

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27 in My Head

May 4, 2012

Bad news:  It didn’t work.

My petition to change my birth year, in a last-ditch effort to avoid turning 40, has been rejected.  For no good reason.  Something about permanent, reliable records or some such nonsense.  Personally, I suspect I was blocked by my nemeses at the New Jersey DMV.

Fine, Time and Space.  You win.

As I type this, I have just under eight hours remaining in my 30s.  But don’t you worry — I intend to spend them doing some really crazy stuff.  That’s right, I’m going to not one, but two grocery stores.  And the wine store too.

I have a Cinco de Mayo birthday.  This meant nothing for the first 20 years of my life.  Then, Corona made this a big bar holiday and, well, that has worked out really well for me over the years.

But 40?  I don’t know about this.  Let me walk you through the Five Stages of Grief I’ve been dealing with recently on this issue.

Denial:  In my head, I am 27.  It is impossible that this is not also my actual age.  Who do these children belong to?  And who the hell is going to clean up after them?

Anger:  This is bullshit.  Some combination of multiple leap years and daylight savings time has robbed me of at least a few more days in my 30s.  I want them back.

Bargaining:  I will take better care of myself if I can stay 39 for a couple of more years.  I will cut back on caffeine and wine.  Well, on Mondays when the moon is full.

Depression:  How can this be?  I am half way to 80?  Maybe I will just sit here and be upset.  Oh, wait, my wine is out of reach from this spot.  I’ll move closer to it and then sit and be upset.

And finally, acceptance.  It is what it is, right?

Uh, no.  I accept this birthday by dealing with it my own way.  By extending the hell out of it and having a great time. I will get together with a bunch of friends who will graciously lie and tell me I don’t look a day over 39. And, soon, I will go on a trip that I’ve been trying to take for 20 years.  I even have some birthday gifts arriving here on the blog over the month of May — you’ll see.

I know I have everything I could want.  A great husband.  Two healthy kids.  Fabulous extended family.  Amazing friends.  A Keurig in my kitchen and a wine fridge in my basement.  It’s all good.  I’m grateful.  It’s just kind of shocking, this thing about getting a little older.  Somehow it snuck up on me, that’s all.

So I’m done sulking now.  If I have to turn 40, let it be a big, drawn out party.  And if I’ve given you an excuse to have an extra Cinco de Mayo cocktail on Saturday (or anytime in the month of May), even better.

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Friends, Holidays 9 Comments

Time Capsule

May 1, 2012

You may recall that, a few weeks ago, I mentioned our storage pod delivery.  The one we had packed away in late 2010 in order to empty out our basement and vie for the world record in Home Renovation Delays.  I’m still waiting on the official ruling from the Guinness Book people.  I know it’s going to be close.

And when I casually mentioned this pod, I failed to confess something important.  So I’m here to do that today.

Here’s the thing.

I assumed that my husband, to whom I jokingly refer as a hoarder on a regular basis, had stuffed the pod full of his stupid crap random possessions.

Notsomuch.  It was kind of a bunch of my stupid crap.

You see, it seems I have what P calls “a nostalgia problem.”

Yeah.  I think I’m a Memento Hoarder.  A Sentimentality Archivist.  A Memorabilia Historian.

I. Kept. A. Lot. Of. Crap.

This is probably about 30% of it.

Because I’m on the verge of a very big birthday  (it’s true, I’m turning 21 — again), what better time for a little trip down Memory Lane?  One where I mock myself publicly.  You can see just what I’ve been sorting through for the past few weeks.  Which is mainly my life in photos, greeting cards and old concert tickets.  And really bad hair.

I bet you didn’t wake up knowing today was your lucky day.

So my high school yearbook was located in Hoarderpalooza.  Now, I’m not quite self-punishing or drunk enough to show you my official high school yearbook photo, but I did find this one of myself.

How about that French braid and the boxy, oversized sweater?  And how about the clear academic rigor, concentration and focus on my face?  But the real value of this photo is capturing the guy behind me in a moment when he is clearly contemplating killing off all the annoying chatty girls with bad French braids and boxy, oversized sweaters.  This is practically forensic evidence.

And I found a bunch of notes from one of my oldest friends — someone I’m still close with today.

Oh the punk rock rebels in the suburbs!  How cool we thought we were.  This, coming from a girl in a French braid.

Good news, though: I did not fall prey to the weird guy in the yearbook photo and I made it to college.

Do you see me? I’m the one drinking a beer.

I mean, it’s obvious why nobody wants to graduate and go into the real world.  Why would we ever want to leave this behind?  This entire scene seems so foreign now, although perhaps it’s not terribly dissimilar to the pre-school lottery.  Or maybe even playgroup, on a good day.

And then I found this.  I’m too afraid to open it.

Lest you think I might have been bored in high school and college, fear not — I made a career out of attending concerts at that time. And, for reasons that remain unclear, I felt compelled to save some of these tickets.  Probably so I could pin them all up on my dorm room wall.  Or find them in a box decades later and blog about them.  See — my plan fell right into place.

If you don’t know about my U2 addiction, I’ll let the ticket stubs speak for themselves.  When I say these are just the tip of the iceberg, take my word for it.  If I showed all of them to you, I’m pretty sure I would be issued a restraining order.

Now, attending these concerts meant tailgating.  Which required a suitable automobile for these purposes.  Good thing for everyone that I was driving this beauty, which comfortably seats approximately 18 college students.

Oh yes.  The 1986 Monte Carlo.  Where you could almost be in two states at once.

{It was New Jersey in the 1990s, people.  What did you expect?}

Don’t worry, though.  Life was not all concerts and parties.  I did have some significant literary aspirations along the way.

Like this.  I thought this was the funniest thing I’d ever read when I was in middle school.

{And really, if you remember Sniglets, I’ll love you forever.  Triple bonus points if you can name the show where they originated.  Come on — don’t leave me hanging out here loving Sniglets all by myself!  Anyone?  Bueller?}

But then I got all self-important in college for a few minutes and decided I would change the world.  Unfortunately, Sniglets weren’t going to get the job done.  So I started reading stuff like this.

FYI, not recommended for beach reading.  Highly recommended for insomnia. {Who would save this book?!}

And let’s wrap this up with some antiquing.  Behold the evidence of my old age.

I believe this what they called film.  For a Kodak Disc Camera.  Remember those?  I want to just go and drop this off at the local Walgreens with a straight face, and ask the 17 year-old behind the counter when my photos will be ready.

And this was called a record.  Or, a 45.  It required a little machine that spins this circle-like object around and around, while putting a funny little needle on the surface to play music.  And if you turn it over?  There’s another song!  One that is often very good but has far less sales potential.  It’s called a B-Side.  Say it with me.

 

Guess what?  There were bigger versions of those bizarro vinyl circles that contained multiple songs.  Sometimes you will see them for sale on iTunes. They were called albums.  Here is a sampling of my favorite childhood albums — just before I discovered Led Zeppelin IV and my hair went sky high.

So there you have it.  A {very} small yet mortifying display of the random crap I kept in boxes over the years.  And, a written admission that I surpassed my husband’s hoarding tendencies in this particular instance.  Yes, I am making it hard for any of you to believe that, in my adult life, I am actually a ruthless purger.  An anti-hoarder, if you will.  It’s true, despite my obvious weak spot for memorabilia and personal artifacts from my past.

And this was before I had kids.  Maybe I’ll get a new pod for their mementos.

 

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, Friends, Project Colonial 12 Comments