From Sea to Snow: Turning 32 in Thirty Below

My recent birthday and the birth of my beautiful nephew has caused me to not only re-evaluate the status of my intact uterus but my social demographic standing as well. I'm still on the fence about having a child, or rather, sticking my head through the slats of said fence, peeping over to a land full of bleary eyes and blissful bellies while fruitlessly attempting to retract myself as slivers dig into my all-too fleshy neck, reminding me why I should have never dared to leave my kid-free corner of kitty cuddling and Cabernet-drenched couple's nights. Twin sister is already an amazing mother, and I do believe that the little monkey is going to be sufficient enough to fulfill whatever motherly yearnings that are lurking somewhere between my heart and hiatal hernia. Plus, I threw my $500 glasses in the same pocket of my purse as a nail file and I almost drank a bottle of rubbing alcohol on accident, so I really can't be expected to take care of a living human being at this point.

As for the social demographic aspect of turning 32, I can honestly say it was a mixture of "Damn, it's only been three weeks and I have to dye my hair again because I'm not nearly hip enough to pull off a gray streak" and "Oh. It's my birthday. I just bought a treadmill, but moving it up the stairs was really hard work. So..." BTW, I've used it twice. And my birthday was ten days ago. But it was like, A LOT of stairs.

Anyway, the first thought I had the morning of my birthday wasn't a grand self-inquisition of "Do I feel older? Am I where I wanted to be when I turned this particularly bland age? Should I get facial hair removal?" First of all, I live in MINNESOTA. If you know any 20 year-olds who dream of living in the upper forty of the Midwest by the time they turn 32, they're either aspiring ice fishermen or they've been home schooled. (don't ask why, I just know). And yes, I do feel older, but facial hair removal is expensive and I'd rather fly to Hawaii with a pair of tweezers in my purse. Hidden inside a lipstick tube, of course, no one's aiming for the no-fly list here. Plus, thankfully, in Minnesota, no one shaves or goes tanning, because too much skin exposure could lead to death via West Nile or frost bite.

The first thought I DID have when I woke up on my birthday was "Great. Now if I become the victim of a crime, I'll be described as a 'white female between the ages of 30 and 40' until they can notify my family." The only thing that made me feel even a fraction better about my new age was that I had successfully surpassed the preferred range of most serial killers. Until I hit forty anyway. And then there's the whole vat of mommy complex kids that yearn to play a game of Duck Hunt with middle-aged women who remind them of their mothers. But statistically I think I'm safe; I have short hair (nothing to grab), I'm a little on the chubby side* (harder to drag), I'm super loud (difficult to restrain quietly and annoying while in captivity), and I park at least eighty spaces from any large, unmarked vans.  But now that I feel safe, I could very well get snatched by a priest in a Prius. Good thing Husband is like Liam Neeson and can track down snot in a snowstorm. Plus he's a former Marine and a bona fide black belt. He does scream at the sight of a mouse though, so hopefully Father McDeranged O'Killagain won't have a moat of mice surrounding his parish of perverted possibilities. Although I don't imagine I'm really the type they would choose to be the poster-child of human trafficking. I would most likely be the one who pulls the cocaine cart from brothel to brothel, or strong-arms the German businessmen who come in looking to bargain.

Needless to say, I do feel completely comfortable having my adorable nephew fill future urges of the gaping void that is currently my womb, and my age has only spurred me to take up writing my blog again, and possibly go for a light jog on my new treadmill. (Which, by the way, is the only other place besides a hostage situation where five minutes feels like forever). Plus, my mom had twins when she was 35, so I figure I've got time to catch the baby fever.

Unless, of course, I get kidnapped before then.

*Ok, more than a little.

Ode to Scarlett

Dear old Red, we’ve really had some fun,
Eight great years was a pretty good run.
Although I may have traded you in, I’m really not a traitor.
At least I never pimped you up or made you wear “Vote for Nader”

We’ve been across two states together more than a dozen times
The accrual of hefty speeding tickets being the worst of our crimes.
You’ve carted all of my lifelong belongings from apartment to apartment.
Not once breaking down (except for the time I failed you in the gas department).

You’ve patiently endured the mind-numbing chatter of my not-so-stellar dates,
Safely delivering sailors, sandwich artists and salesmen to their unemployed roommates.
And it was you who witnessed my unfettered excitement,
When I met my future husband after a period of enlightenment.

You’ve treated our little family with the utmost care,
And you never complained about the endless dog hair.
You never showed shame when I cut off dawdling old ladies,
And you quickly forgave me when I hit that Mercedes.

May the unsuspecting high school student who owns you next,
Treat you with nothing less than the utmost respect.
When your radiator starts to rev and lurch after he turns on the air,
I hope he feels the terror that I did at the sheer cost of repair.
And may he reassure you that you won’t be going to the chop shop,
For he will continue to drive you until the day you finally stop.

So it is with this one final tribute I tearfully bid you adieu,
May you now rest your weary struts and know that I always loved you.

WARNING: DO NOT CONSUME AT WORK

The following items should be considered inappropriate to consume in your place of employment. Consumption of these products may endanger your position of employment and result in utter emotional failure and complete mental devastation.

Item #1: Hardboiled eggs. Was it you? Was it me? We'll never know...



Item #2: Fish. Sure to demolish any future relationships and earn you a clever yet secretly hurtful monicker.



Item #3: Peaches. Ah yes, the ever elusive peach. Doesn't look dangerous but what lies beyond that fuzzy exterior will soon transform you from a sleek and sexy professional to a slobbering slow-buddy in sheer seconds.



Item #4: Fried chicken. It may taste like heaven, but you sure don't look like it.



Item #5: Poppyseed ANYTHING. Hey Seedtooth, you may think they'll tell you, but they won't.



Item #6: Booze. No conclusive evidence discovered. Still testing.

And THAT'S what could happen...

So my husband and I were in the local QFC the other night and as we were walking down the bread aisle, we saw this little girl pushing a cart with her younger sister hanging off the front. Just as we passed them, the older girl jammed the cart into her sister's stomach, and as the screaming toddler flew off the front, her sister said "And THAT'S what could happen."



Once I got done laughing and holding my bladder so I didn't have a clean-up in aisle 4, I realized that the sassy youngster may be onto something truly remarkable. Just imagine a perfectly socially acceptable idealology where you can not only show people what DOES happens, but what COULD happen.

I smile thinking of all the possibilities....



Or....



And even better...



Bet that little girl didn't know what she just started...

JOB+DOGS = CRUELTY

Last night, my husband and I pulled up to the local grocery store enveloped in a cloud of familial satisfaction, marital bliss, and puppy gas. I unsuspectingly left my husband behind to sit with the farting fluffies while I ran quickly inside to grab some garlic bread and some fab cab, a decision I would later regret. I had left my love alone and vulnerable to a venereal viper in the guise of a middle-aged meddler with too much time and too much money, her ears ringing with Jesus jazz and her eyes seeking to pass undue judgment. She stealthily approached my innocent amour, her pink velour sweatsuit giving her presence away with the steady "swish swish" of pudging thighs that had seen too many days of coffee cup scotch and not enough pilates.

"What adorable dogs! Are they yours?" Her voice poured over my poor pets like cheap whiskey and parlor perfume. My husband responded in the affirmative, to which she responded "BOTH of them?" Politeness quickly morphed into impatience as my spousal unit searched her prescription pupils for some semblance of sense. Yes, Witty Wendy, BOTH of them.

"Do you both have jobs???" Curiosity mixed with a mild sedative of incredulity leaked slowly from her plastic patchwork pout. Yes, we BOTH work. Hubby was getting close to shutting down this side show of subliminal sanctities.

"So...you have TWO dogs AND you BOTH WORK???" Her squinty lids and squatty body postured itself in a clear position of disapproval. As my husband responded once again in the affirmative, she simply flicked her wrist and dismissed the last ten minutes with a simple "Well, CUTE puppies." And with a rhythmic swoosh, she passed quickly through the automatic doors, the sharp stench of silent condemnation only dulled by the air conditioned store.

When my husband relayed the stinging story to me, I was immediately thrown into a parody of pissy, declaring her acrimonious accusations completely unfounded. Who does she think we are? Barbarians??? She undoubtedly comes from the "dogs need 500 acres of pristine wilderness and a lifetime supply of raw moose flesh to be truly happy" school of thought. Sorry lady, we have a two bedroom apartment and an unlimited amount of love. Guess that puts us at the top of the SPCA's kill list. So instead of going back into the store, finding Judgy Judy, and Tanya Harding her Juicy Coutured bootie, I decided to channel my resentment and dismay into art.

So this is probably what was flashing through her bourbon drenched brain when she was mentally surveying my family's "sad" situation through our picture window:



And this is how it REALLY plays out EVERY SINGLE DAY:



Poor puppies.

The Bleeding

So today my husband asks me why I'm so tired, to which I respond "None of your damn business get out of my face get me some cheese I need a nap DON'T TOUCH ME!!!!" It sounds mean because anyone that knows my husband knows he's ridiculously nice which makes me look even bitchier when I have these outbursts, which in turn makes me cry a lot because now not only am I a horrible person that belongs in an Afghan torture hut, but I also have a vagina that hates me and is leaking large quantities of my own life source from my body and making me retain more water than a hippo in heat. Though my sweet spouse is definitely adjusting to my radical behavior after living six years within hitting distance, I felt it might be helpful to draw some diagrams that might better illustrate the effects of the severe hormone roller coaster of hemorrhaging that is PMS:

BEFORE THE BLEEDING:



THE BLEEDING BEGINS:



I must have done a good job, because he didn't have any questions.

We Got the Beet

I've come to the conclusion that the beet is a widely underestimated vegetable. As I was walking back from the gym, grimly contemplating my lunch options (meatloaf Lean Cuisine, which I believe is also used in a number of torture techniques at Guatanamo), I passed by the Market Fresh salad bar and thought, what the hell, I could spice up my day a little with some limp spinach and crown-cracking croutons. I threw a little mixed greens in my take-out box, (it doesn't matter how many times someone explains it to me, I still don't understand why they're called mixed greens when one of them is quite obviously purple. Am I the only one who sees this???) and then I noticed these little french-fry cut wedges of bitter goodness. BEETS!!! I haven't had them in a while, but you don't have to be a genius to know that a little ranch dressing and some beets could make Chuck Norris weep tears of iron and other metallic substances that will someday be bottled and stored in a geographically sound location to be accessed only when fighting a world-wide epidemic of alien attacks. At this point, I'm actually halfway through this magical box of nature's treasures, and I have to say I am still enamored with these wonderful little miracle veggies. And now I'm over it. (Really though, did you think I was going to write an entire post about beets? With everything else that's newsworthy about today? Mexico won Miss Universe and Ann Frank's favorite tree blew down for God's sake.)

I'm beginning to realize that I am not the only one who deems my job to be a veritable black hole of mundaneness and double-sided copying. I first came to this realization when I was on the phone with Twin Sister the other day, who is also a Drunk-Canoer-Saving Sunken-Boat- Insurance-Fraud-Auditing Port-Loving Water Hero with the UNITED STATES COAST GUARD. (you like the all caps? I did that just in case this blog ever gets into the wrong hands and the only thing standing between me and the business end of a taser and 5-10 in the brig for leaking government secrets that I didn't know were secrets is my unwavering loyalty to the U.S. Military) So I was giving Twin Sister a brief run-down of the sheer hardship that is my work-life, i.e. broken fax machines, computer viruses that are disguised as computer viruses, staple shortages and other corporate horrors that are far too graphic to mention, when suddenly she interrupts me and says "Oh hey, sorry about your day but I gotta go. Someone just reported that a state ferry is on fire." I barely got out an "Ok but just a sec cause I was going to tell you that the whole conference room mix-up got worked out and it's fi....ok, bye!" And at that moment, it was all quite clear. If I were to put my current employment situation into a mathamatical formula, this is how it would translate:

MY JOB+EXCESS ENTHUSIASM+LOVE FOR LAMINATING ALL THINGS LAMINABLE =
SIGNIFICANT DRAIN ON COMMERCIAL RESOURCES/NOT A GOOD TOPIC AT SOCIAL GATHERINGS

And to further cement the validity of this conclusion, my husband calls me AT WORK in the MIDDLE OF THE DAY to ask me to look up educationally enhancing factoids, like with what apparatus will Evel Knievel's son be attempting to jump the Grand Canyon, or if "batter back" is the definitional equivalent of "batten down" or "batter up" to which I reply "I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M AT WORK AND I HAVE IMPORTANT STUFF TO DO BECAUSE I'M A CONTRIBUTOR AND IMPORTANT STUFF IS MY CONTRIBUTION!!!"
But we all know the truth. Your job can be valuable in many ways, but it's definitely not a life-altering position (like saving burning ferries) when your significant other deems it appropriate to have you find the clinical terminology for "a phobia of ants." Which is called myrmecophobia, in case you were wondering.

In other news, H-Nubs has been nagging me to enroll him in agility courses. He has this dream to participate in the Frisbee Dog World Championship and be the first Aussie to beat a whippet. The cost of the agility course combined with the fact that Henry has the attention span of a hummingbird on speed at a carnival, generates a surefire "no" 100% of the time. Yet he keeps demonstrating his frisbee skills every chance he gets, most of which he taught himself out of a "Frisbee for Aussie Dummies Whose Sisters Would Rather Eat Wheatgerm and Cat Vomit Than Play With Them on Any Given Day" manual, and elaborates on how rich we'd all be if he won. (Nubbins equates wealth with peanut butter dog biscuits and smoke-cured bull penises, which we would be knee-deep in if he did indeed win.) I keep reminding him that I've been winning at this game a lot longer than he's been playing it, but then I am always met with a pleading glance from those big brown eyes and a big goofy smile, to which resistance is practically futile.



Well played Mr. Nubbins. Well played.