41... and Done!

I was just reading over last year's birthday post... and, wow! I really sucked at turning 40!

What is it about that milestone that does so much damage to a woman's psyche?

As I ring in 41 this week, let's look back at the kind:cruel ratio that was my Year of Forty.

• The Quickest Mid-Life Crisis in History: I whined, complained and threw cyber-tantrums as I crested the middle-aged slope and fell directly off its cliff. It was a quick freefall and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about that world!" and went back about my regularly-scheduled business. I like to think that what it lacked in longevity it made up for explosiveness. Was it fair to the world? No. But the world survived it, so I'm over it too. 

• Finally Found a Home: The last thing on my "40" bucket list was to purchase real estate and be living in said real estate by the end of the year. Due to my stubbornness over price and location, it took me an entire year of house-hunting to achieve this final tick mark. (Not to mention, four different mailing addresses in the same amount of time. Believe me when I say that my year of homelessness is still confusing the local post office!) So, does signing the deed at the age of 40.8 still make the cut? It counts in my book! And, being stubborn paid off. I'm in exactly the location I had my heart set on and actually came in under budget, too!

• My Boobs are Playing Tricks on Me: It seems like much more than a year ago that I had my first breast cancer scare, but it was just last summer. Tacky as it may have seemed to some when I decided to share that journey; the conversations it started among friends and family really proved to be worth the embarrassing exchange. (Click link for a recap. To those who missed the follow-up, it was just a cyst in the end!) It seems most women at this age have had their "scares" and for someone who once favored male friendships over female, it really proved to me the necessity of the female-sisterhood. (Love you, ladies!) In other boob news, is there a once-a-decade law of physics that is keeping the bra industry in business?! It happened at thirty when the elasticity of the dermis began to betray me. New bra size! Must go shopping! And, here it is again at forty. Holy tit! As if gravity weren't enough of a foe, they've now decided to go running off in opposite directions! It's like each side is in a race to see who can reach my back first by the age of fifty!* And, of course, hello! New bra size again! This is getting old business is expensive business.

Somehow, this is the only Before/After depiction I could
find on my laptop!

• Lost Weight: I have always been cursed in the weight department. (By "American fashion" standards, at least.) I was a tall gangly child, who got called "String Bean", "Carpenter's Dream"** and the like, more often than necessary. (It's really not necessary to comment on children's body types. Ever. Or, anyone's, for that matter. Will the world never learn?!) Once puberty hit, I was hippy and bootylicious during the entire Kate Moss waif trend. Then, totally missing the boat on both ends, my body chose to revert back to waify twelve-year old proportions in middle-age, just in time to usher in the decade of the butt. I literally cried*** when that Meghan Trainor song was released because it was so catchy that I wanted to sing along, but in order to do so I had to call out "Skinny bitches"**** and lyrically agree that "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.♫" Which leads me to publicly present a challenge to today's pop stars. It's great to celebrate all body types! But, please realize that you can celebrate yours without shaming others in return. Hear that, Meghan? Nicki? Other girls whose names I forgot because I'm not entirely up to date on pop music?

• Lost My Filter: My filter has slowly been slipping away from me since my twenties. The decline has only increased in rapidity at 40. I probably cuss more than I should. I definitely give more unsolicited advice than I should. I fast-tracked from age 39 to 80 in my comfort level of thinking I'm old enough to not have to censor myself. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I do realize. On the upside, it's caused me take better care of my self-worth. If somebody wrongs me, I suddenly have no problem calling them out on it. Which is something I could have never dreamed of doing half-a-lifetime ago. Has it made me popular? Of course not! But, it's sharpened my true friendships and pinched off the ones that were sapping my reserves. Forty had no time for drama. And, forty-one's schedule is looking pretty booked as well. 

• Lost My Grandma: Forty was a terrible year of loss for my family. Both sides lost their last matriarchs. Not just that, but personally my biggest cheerleaders as well. Through all the sadness, I had the privilege of sitting with my Grandma in hospice during her last weeks on this earth. I received from her the best compliments of my entire lifetime and advice that I will cherish forever and ever. Though, it was exhausting, I still miss her every day and have never fully finished grieving over that loss. As my birthday draws near, I will miss that yearly card from her where she would underline in ink pen every word in the lame Hallmark poem that reminded her of me. And, I will forever regret every year that I was too lazy to call and thank her for thinking of me.

• Lost My Way: This year, I decided to be good. Again. Like, daily. Constantly renewing that pledge. Every morning, asking God for a clean slate and yet another do-over. I'm learning to not only speak more kindly, act more kindly and (most importantly) react more kindly. (Powder Keg Mecham, at your service!) I'm really focusing on thinking more kindly, so there are no judgmental or unfriendly comments rooted anywhere to have any chance of slipping out. This used to come so naturally for me, which means my heart must have slipped into an ungrateful place somewhere along the way. I have decades-old walls I'm breaking down. Bear with me! They were there for good reason, but I've grown too old and tired to keep holding them up. I've heard unkind things about myself this year. I don't want to produce that same kind of hurt in others. If I love you, I'll show it. If I give you a compliment, I really mean it. There's no sugar-coating. I'm too lazy to waste my breath like that. 

• Gave in to the Stereotype and Became a Fur Mama: Forty and single equals cat mama... Der! I absolutely adore this girl. And, she seems to tolerate me in exchange. (Although, she's currently glaring at me for having the light on this late at night and impeding upon her 22nd hour of sleep for the day.) Is it cheesy to say she completes me? No, just creepy? Well, thanks for keepin' it real. 

So, last year's post... What did I know? I was just a young 39.99 year-old when I wrote it. Little did I know 40 was bringing with it the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. If this trend keeps up, 41 may possibly leave me with whiplash!*****

But, seeing that I won't see another milestone for nine years is quite a relief. What's on my "50" bucket list, you ask? Let's just start with "Not Dying" and take it from there.******

No pressure this decade.

*Okay, maybe slight exaggeration on my part. They're still pretty cute for their age. Supported or not. And, healthy, most importantly!

**ie. Flat as a board.

***Disclaimer: Hormone surges may also be partly at fault for tears.

****Don't argue that the following, "...Just playin' , I know you think you're fat.♫" lyric makes up for this. No, we don't think we're fat. We're now just doubting our desirability thanks to your insensitive lyrics. Big or small, booties are soft to the touch... and that's what really matters. Trust me, I'm older and wiser. There's no need to cut others down to build yourself up. Lecture over!

*****Whiplash. Best movie of my fortieth year. Go see it!

******And, less footnotes. :)

Thoughts on Forty

I turn forty in exactly one week. How do I feel about it?

In a word: Depressed.

Now, don't try and cheer me up by telling me that "Life begins at 40", that "40's the new 20", or that at least I get to be a cougar now.

I'm not naive.

I know that life began at 00:01, that I didn't have these crow's feet when I was 20, and that since 40 year-old men go for 27 year-old women, so do the 27 year-old men! Duh.

No. What I get at forty is frequent heartburn, anti-aging face cream that makes me break out, to get hit on by solely the over-60 crowd (talk about an unwanted booby prize!) and nephews that are constantly asking me if I am a widow. (I think the evasive word they're reaching for is "spinster".)

I was recently reminded of an old blog post of mine on turning thirty. I was so excited to turn thirty, in small part, because I was still aging well enough to get carded at the movie theater and I wore that fact like a badge of pride.

The only time I get carded these days is when I'm buying cold medication. And, even then, it's only to check the database of known meth cookers. I'm never mistaken these days for looking 17, only for looking like a speed freak.

Well, I won't ramble on with further complaints on aging or gross you out with more facts on what happens to a woman's body at my age. I will simply conclude this post by offering the following advice.

If you happen to cross my path in the next seven days, take heed:

The wrong way to wish me a happy fortieth: If you think over-the-hill pranks are adorable, prepare to see some wrists slit. Don't worry, my life is not in danger. Yours is. If I'm handed anything with a picture of a gravestone on it, I will cut you. If you try to recite any "cute" poetry that begins with the opening line "Lordy, lordy...", I will cut you. If I receive any cards with that grumpy Shoebox lady on it, even if it's just an early Christmas card, I will paper cut you with the envelope in which it was wrapped. If a black balloon is inflated, next Tuesday, within a half-mile of my vicinity I will cut said person so fast and so deep that they'll risk death from drowning in their own pool of blood as much as from the loss of blood itself.

The right way to wish me a happy birthday this year: Nice cards that don't mention being over-the-hill or premature references to menopause. (And, I won't complain if there's cash stuffed inside of them.) Hugs. Kisses. Gentle pats on the behind. Balloons in any other color than black (see above) or pink (because I hate pink. In fact, I don't really want any balloons. I was just trying to leave the balloon option out there. In reality, what do you do with them once the day's over? Sit there and watch them deflate over the next week, as they slowly become the literal shape and texture of my 40-year old ass. Yeah. Definitely, no balloons!) Or, just a simple "Happy Birthday" with a smile will do. I will also understand a hurried mumble while averting the eyes after putting you through this post.

Or, you can just read the old blog post. It handled 37 alot better than I'm handling 40. And, then bring on the kittens!

Rite of Passage

This year-of-turning-forty is not without its rites of passage.

The latest, being my very own breast cancer scare.

[Usher me past the velvet ropes of womanhood.]

Probably half of the women I know that are my age or older have had at least one lump, bump, cyst or funky mammogram result that sent them into that multi-day tailspin until... dah dah dummm... RESULTS.

Yesterday, during a routine physical, my doctor felt something.

Now, my doctor is a chatterbox and what she felt caused a reaction I'd never seen in her. She stopped talking. Mid-sentence even! We went immediately from sharing our lack of plans for the holiday to her shoving my left boob in the same spot repeatedly while her chatty smile turned into an instant look of dread.

I didn't immediately catch on to the severity of the issue, so when I tried to continue the conversation, she finally blurted out that I have a lump.

I was stunned.

I had came in for a routine physical. I went from the high of being told we could skip the pelvic exam this year due to my previous year's shining results. We'd already covered the state of my family history, my GERD, my bum knee and I received new praise for upping my exercise routine this year.

All that was left was the easy part. Lay back, don't make eye contact and have a breezy conversation while my doctor feels me up.

She ended up taking my own hand and shoving it into my left side-boob, as if to wake me up to the fact that we were no longer talking about barbecuing on the Fourth of July. "Do you feel that?" she asked me. "Oh... yeah.. kinda," I lied. "I'm sending you for an ultrasound."

Her easiest appointment of the day suddenly turned into hushed conversations with the nurse as they scribbled in my file and crazily hurried together paperwork to get me into the lab as quickly as possible, while the nurse kept turning around to assure me how pretty I looked that day. (Ah, the sisterhood of women. Always able to deflect panic with a compliment, God bless us.)

The soonest the lab could take me for an ultrasound was to be this afternoon. All I had to do was stave off my imagination for one shortened workday before I could have answers and feel some relief.

Well, an office worker from lab called me first thing this morning with some news that she was obviously hesitant to share. The ultrasound tech had called in sick. I blurted out an, "OH NO!" Which she echoed in sympathy, "Oh no, is right..."

She then tip-toed through the rest of the conversation. I could practically sense her cringing on the other end, as if I had the power to reach through the phone line and choke her out. "I understand it's not your fault," I assured her, "but when is the soonest you can get me in? I don't care what day, how early, how late..." I found a moment to sympathize with her for being the messenger and promised myself that I would not bark at her in the manner that today's other patients must have verbally manhandled her with.

Next week. Thursday. Stupid "sick" lab tech. Stupid holiday.

My six hour wait for peace in a moment's notice had multiplied into a one-week-plus-one-day one.

Boy is my imagination is going to be testing me!

I realize this isn't usually the stage in which you share this kind of medical news. In fact, I wasn't going to share any of this publicly until I had happy results that I could turn into a hilarious blog post, typed with fingers that had been bathed in utter relief.

But, then I figured that God doesn't test us so we can keep secrets about it. 

Maybe not all women will experience cancer. The unfortunate ones don't have a choice. The brave of those ones build up the courage to share their journeys.

But,  there's also the rest of womankind. The "at least half of the ones I know" that can relate to the waiting. Good news, bad news, just hoping for the all clear. Most of them won't even end up being sick and needing treatment... but, oh, the crazy places your mind will go when you're caught up in the day-long and night-long distraction of not knowing yet.

Why should we be ashamed to talk about it? It's one of the neediest times to open up our mouths and vent.

So, for your entertainment (and maybe to pass Phase One of my "test") here is an overshare of some random thoughts that have passed through my scattered brain these last two days:

• Geesh, the first year I didn't bother with a self exam!
• I thought only big breasts got lumps.
• Why'd I go and pick the cheaper insurance plan at work?
• I'm house-hunting! I can't afford cancer right now!
• After the lab lady asked me if the lump hurts, I answered "no." After I obsessively poke myself in the breast all evening, "Ow! It hurts so bad!"
• Lumpectomy or mastectomy?
• With a mastectomy I could inherit an insurance-paid-for perfectly-shaped pair.
• Why does the medically bad boob have to be the physically cuter one?
• Should I start giving out free second-baseys so my real breasts can have one last thrill before they're severed and tossed in the garbage.
• Do they put the amputated breasts in the garbage can?!
• Should I photograph them before they're gone?
• Why do I immediately think I will be breastless in the near future?
• I'm sorry to my boobs, for always calling you small. You are not inadequate in any way, shape or form.
• This really isn't helping my mid-life crisis.
• Is someone going to make me do a three-day walk now? I really don't think I want to walk that far.
• Do I have to start wearing pink? I hate pink!
• I can't believe I was tempted to cancel my annual physical.
• Don't ever cancel your annual physical.
• I love my doctor.
• Why now?
• Why me?
• Am I dreaming?
• Should I really blog all this?

Well, too late now. I just did.

I'd love to end this post with "IT WAS JUST A CYST!", but I jumped the gun on this news and now we'll all just have to wait on the test and its results together. (Don't you love how I tangled you into my anxiety web?)

You don't have to act weird if you see me in real life. I'll accept all encouraging hugs. I welcome your own stories if you never had a chance to vent your own scare. I'll even understand if you avoid me altogether because this news made things awkward and you'd rather pretend you never read this. Fine, you never read this. You know nothing about my boobs. I can play along! When I'm in an awkward moment I overshare. I can definitely feel for those who don't.

Of course, I'm accepting all offered prayers. But, I'm not quite ready for unsolicited advice, so don't go there yet. 

And, please, don't bother my family with questions they don't have answers to. I told you everything I know so far and they're alot more private than I am. (Do you really think the men in my family want to acknowledge the existence of my breasts?) If you must talk about it, bring it to me only. 

My doctor tried very hard to convince me that I should think this is just a cyst. (But, she also whispered too much with the nurse in a panicked fury too closely to the exam room door...) I'm choosing to be encouraged by her hopeful prognosis. And, in my heart-of-hearts, I know she's probably right. She is the expert, after all.

Worst case scenario: I'm dying. But, aren't we all dying of something?

Bad case scenario: It's something and I'll need treatment. But, treatment exists. Praise the Lord!

Best case (and most likely) scenario: My doctor's hope was right and the worst that happened was that I entertained you all with my honest paranoia. 

Most bizarre of the benign scenarios: God just gave my breasts speed-bumps to deter fast men.

Don't skip your self exam this year. And be sure to make that yearly appointment!

House Hunting is a Load of Crap

Let me start off by saying this: HGTV is a network of liars.

House hunting is not as fun as reality TV would have you think. There's no half-million dollar budget, dry-witted realtor, miles of granite countertop, hickory flooring, river rock showers, nor a film crew to capture all the amusing hijinks. (And, those Property Brothers won't even give me the time of day!)

No. In reality, hickory floors are not in your price-point, your realtor never bothered calling back (probably after scoffing at the tiny commission your purchase would generate), and all highjinks so far involved are sad and not anywhere near worth documenting for posterity.

House hunting it stressful.  House hunting is bad for your self-esteem. And, it basically just makes you have to go to the bathroom in more repetition than you are normally used to.

As my regular readers and friends all know; YES! I currently live with my parents. 

Roomies since day one. Now, with bigger jammies and a newer paci.

But, what you may not know is that home ownership was the last remaining unticked bulletpoint on my "Before I Turn 40" bucket list. (Last bulletpoint! I am SO dang close!)

What you also may not know is that this year-of-the-big-4-0 happens to coincide with my parents sudden urge to downsize, once again, and become snowbirds. 

What you really don't know (unless you see me everyday, then you already know too much and will probably want to toggle back to Facebook at this point...) is that our current home sold in under four days and we all need to vacate the premises in less than five weeks having absolutely no place to go.

House hunting has moved into super-stress mode! 

[Pause writing for additional bathroom break]

I'd considered breaking a promise on the lease agreement for my storage unit, by sleeping there for a few nights/weeks/months, if need be. (I've kept enough promises in 39 years, I should be allowed a freebie at this point, right?)

But, the mad packing dash has changed the comfort level of my storage unit from this (above) to that (below).

(Although, I'm training myself to fall asleep in this posture as a backup plan.)

One of my other pre-40 bulletpoints that I did manage to pull off thus far was to "not get married".  No shit. That was an actual goal of my thirties. (As if I were having diamond rings thrown at me from every direction. "Stop trying to marry me handsome, intelligent, hilarious men! I'm not that kind of girl!")

The real reason for that "goal" was that I actually wanted to take that decade to explore my independence and straighten out some heavy financial, spiritual and familial stuff.  Made sense at the time, but was not at all considering the fact that had I only left that one goal off the list, I could now have a housing budget that was double in size (making that river rock shower a total possibility.)*

I can't blame God. We all know that He carves a much wiser path for our lives than we ever could. But, I will blame Destiny's Child in small part. "♫ The car I'm driving, I bought it! The house I live in, where is it?! ♫" Why'd you get us all worked up, ladies? This crap is hard!

Here's the state of my housing options as of this week's realty listings:

• The pre-forclosed condo that's in my dream neighborhood, but has been bank-owned for over nine months and is not yet listed for sale. (I'm waiting on the aforementioned realtor to look into the bidding possibilities and get back with me.) The comps for the neighborhood were raised with a recent sale this past week, which has caused the prices in the neighborhood to be suddenly driven up, which has only aggravated my stress-belly further. [Insert additional bathroom trip.]
• The okay-priced home that is, not only two lots down from the local sex shop, but also about 100 yards from where I saw a wino passed out in the grass with his paper bag last summer. (I wish I were exaggerating!)
• The newly refinished home that lies just across the city border. Priced a bit higher than what I have to put down and in a neighborhood where I've spotted at least three places where I could likely procure crystal meth. (If you are confused, that last point is a negative. I do not have any need for meth and am not likely to in the coming years.)

Sigh.

Well, if we can't classify it as being fun, what is a successful house-hunting experience? 

I guess it's just one where you eventually end up with a place to live in. After you've pooped. A whole lot.

Selfie Confessional

There's nothing more hilarious and head-shake-worthy than seeing a young person post one of those duck-faced selfies online.  Posted with the impression that the world will come to the obvious conclusion that they are so very sexy and mysterious. 

The giggling over-30s in the audience are amused by the fact that they look more silly than sexy and less mysterious than, well... somewhat congested and constipated. But, we let them have their fun.

Why?  Because, apparently, once we start cleaning out old picture files from our own hard drives, we also find ourselves in danger of unearthing some pretty embarrassing shots we'd forgotten about. (Yes, we.)

Some appear to be attempts at updating our profile pics, shots in the car are obvious results of our lunchtime boredom and there are usually several folders labeled "Test" which accumulated after we broke two, yes TWO, cameras in the span of 2011. (I'm still sticking with "we" here, folks!)

The glaring difference is that adults takes selfies for strictly grown-up purposes:

Because our caring Facebook friends would never forgive us if we let a sunburn go undocumented.

Because toenail polish changes are a must for the family album. We need at least 20 of these per year.

Because the world has no idea how adorably casual we look when reading privately in the backyard in our LBDs.

Because we grown-ups understand that a mirror alone can't be trusted when figuring out a new haircut.

Because sometimes we have to selflessly document dye jobs for blog posts.

Because sometimes we need proof that we're still as cool as the people on our t-shirts.

Because we secretly buy real fox tails up north on vacation and we'd like to keep the un-P.C. secret between us and our hard drives.

Because no one's going to honestly tell us that we don't look cute when scrunching up our noses.  We have to take one of these to find out the truth.

Because every adult is curious how their crow's feet hold up in EXTREME CLOSEUP.

And, because we're finally at that age where we actually are too sexy for the shower curtain.

When I Grow Up

I recently found my copy of Dr. Seuss's My Book About Me in the family basement.  My Book About Me was a popular Seuss-illustrated book, that most of us kids in the 1980's owned, in which you filled in the blanks about your life. 

It asked you such questions as how many doors and beds are in your house, how many buttons you own and what sort of noises you are capable of making (complete with checklist containing the options of "rooster", "dog", "cat", etc.  I checked off all of the options and added in "person", "robot", "cow", "duck", "horse" and "weirdo".)

There's a page titled "I Like to Write Stories: Here is one I wrote" accompanied by two lined pages for the child to complete their story.  On the first page I wrote, "MY Book about ME.   My book a bout me.  I ♥ Ricky Schroeder." On the second page I drew a self-portrait in which I'm wearing an orange shirt with the word "Cat" on it, blue jeans and brown shoes.

There are pages to trace your hand and foot on.  A page for favorite foods ("Peanut butter, chicken mcnuggets - only McDonald's, nachos, pizza, popcorn, etc."  All still dietary staples.)  A page devoted to drawing your hair, on which I inexplicably did this to myself:

 (No I didn't have orange hair as a child.  What I apparently did have was a lack of mousy brown crayons.)

There's a page looking into how you handle your anger.  It's titled "Sometimes I Get Mad at Some People" and provides a yes/no checklist.  I checked "yes" to sometimes getting angry and moved on to the section that's a psychoanalyst's dream.  The further options given are "I kicked someone", "I pushed someone", "I hit someone" and "I yanked hair".  I checked "yes" to all of the above, including a "yes" next to the box which states "I'm sorry I did it." (And, yes, my veins do contain Irish blood.)

Then toward the end of the book, is the "When I Grow Up, I Want to Be ________ " section, filled with two pages of helpful suggestions, in case you needed ideas.  I filled in the blank with the word "nothing".

Work was never an appealing concept to me.  I re-completed this book several times over my elementary school years, and eventually came to circle the options "T.V. star", "Frogman", "Writer", "Mother", "Artist", "Dog Trainer", "Millionaire", "Singer", "Cartoonist" and "Yak Trainer".   (I also scribbled out the options "Nun", "Burglar" and "Rabbi" with very deep no. 2 pencil markings.)

Thirty years later, and I still have no answer to that question.  In a week's time I will be joining the ranks of Michigan's unemployed as a result of the company I work for's need to close two of its smaller offices.  I will have seventeen severance-paid weeks to figure out this answer, or to at least find the nerve to reenlist in another soul-snatching job that simply pays the bills (as has been the pattern set in the twenty years since I've graduated high school.)

It's always interesting to look back at the goals you had as a child during these fork-in-the-road moments in life.  The hilarious choice of doing "nothing", certainly still seems appealing, though won't exactly make ends meet.  (Although my ever-ready hopes of the Publisher's Clearinghouse win does seem to fall both under the childhood wish of doing nothing and becoming a millionaire pursuit.  So, let's call that Plan B for now.)

T.V. star and singer should now be the choices scribbled out with deep no. 2 markings.  I have since come to terms with the fact that the good Lord graced me with the singing voice of someone who is simutaneously blowing a train whistle while trying to shoot peas out of their nose.

I'm not sure what the duties of a Frogman or Yak Trainer involve, and am no longer curious, so it's probably safe to scratch those options off of the list as well.  I never had children of my own, which places Mother out of the running.  Allergies that have developed over the years eliminates Dog Trainer. (Although, I'm pretty sure I never wanted to train the dogs, so much as just play with them and scratch behind their ears.)

Which leaves us with Artist, Writer and Cartoonist.  All still hobbies of mine.  Although, I haven't practiced drawing in close to a decade and I remain completely clueless on how to make a living at any of these things.  I'm also one of those fools that likes to keep hobbies as hobbies, as not to tarnish my love for them with deadlines and such.  So, I guess what this all means is that you'll probably hear of me back in another office setting some time within the coming months.

A seventeen-week deadline to figuring life out?  Yuck.  I think I'll try to have a little fun first and leave Dr. Suess with a big ol' "Thanks for nothing!"  Unless, of course, I come across an ad for a hot-tempered, robot-noise-making, peanut butter-eating frogman.  Then I'll know for sure that destiny is calling!

Inner Child 101

I'm beginning to realize why I get along with kids so well.  I loved being a kid and, well, I pretty much still have all the same interests and habits.

Here's a peek at my Inner Child Checklist:

• Children's Vitamins:  I still take one chewable Circus Animal Vitamin each and every morning.  Yeah, I tried the whole woman's multivitamin thingy, but I kept forgetting to take them.  You just swallow those.  There's nothing memorable about that!  I grew up on Flintstones vitamins.  They were the only drug addiction I've been afflicted with in my lifetime.  80's television marketing had me convinced that, if I took my vitamins, I'd become big, strong, fast and pretty much ripped.  I took this concept quite literally and one night I downed about ten Barney Rubbles and then punched my bedroom wall repeatedly, in anticipation for the Popeye strength that was sure to start kicking in soon.  Well, the anchor-tattooed biceps never did emerge, but I came to realize one sure thing.  That kiddie vitamins taste really good!  There's no way I'll forget to take that fruity mini-snack I get to enjoy first thing in the morning. Yum!  (And, this applies to all meds.  Why take nasty grown-up cold syrup when the kiddie grape option tastes so much better?  Read the back of the bottle, there's adult dosages on there as well.  It was meant to be!)
• Why untie shoes?:  I can't be the only one who still ties shoes loose enough so that they can be easily slipped on and off without the need to sit down.  I can probably count on one hand the number of tie-able shoes I own that can't use the slip-on trick.  But, I try not to buy shoes with laces anyway, if I can help it.
• Daydream, frequently:  Much too frequently.  My current fave is still the "Planning for the Publisher's Clearinghouse Win" one.  But, hero fantasies can also be exhilarating.  I remember after 9-11, having the recurring (day)dream of being on a hijacked plane while everyone around me is panicking.  I manage to calm everyone down, lead them in a prayer session and get down to brass tacks.  I trip one terrorist as he walks down the aisle way and slit another one's trachea with a Bic pen.  (All while yelling bad ass dialogue that I haven't quite scripted yet.)  My fellow passengers gag and bind the hijackers with pairs of pantyhose donated from an older woman's carry-on.  Then we storm the cockpit!  After we commandeer the plane, I announce over the P.A., "Are there any passengers on board who know how to fly a plane?  Anybody?"  Nope?  Well, I guess is up to me to figure out how to land this bird.  We restore connectivity with air traffic control and they walk me through a clumsy landing.  All the good guys survive and a round of ground-kissing commences.  U.S.A.!  U.S.A.! 
• Remember to still ask "why?" sometimes:  I don't like doing dumb things.  Especially for no good reason.
• The shopping cart waltz:

Jump to 2:15.  Yes, Anderson, I still do it too.

• Take the log instead of the trail: It's not always the shorter route, but it's usually funner!

• Smush the bread: I've always smushed my bread before I could take a bite out of any sandwich or bunned item.  It not only condenses things, but it also somehow give bread a better taste.  I can't be alone in this either, because now I'm able to purchase pre-smushed bread!

• Pick off the green things: Why ruin a good meal?
• Sometimes animals just are more important: It's easier some days to love the one who always wags its tail and is happy to see you, then to get along with the humans who bicker back.  I'm convinced that's why sometimes a pet's loss is harder to cope with than a human's in many ways.  Human relationships always contain a certain extent of complications.  There's always that harsh word that was once spoken eons ago, forgiven, but never be forgotten.  But, our relationships with animals are often the one true sense of unconditional love we've experienced.  And, that's why sometimes a purr or nuzzle can feel sweeter to the heart than a spoken word.  Kids get this.  I hope I'll always continue to as well.
• Sports are more fun with no rules:  I was always good at sports as a kid, but never enjoyed playing on teams.  I experience more joy when there's a lack of time limits, innings, or scores to keep.  And, sometimes made-up games are the best.  When my brother's family lived with us, we'd never laugh harder than when playing a improv game of Hit My Nephew With a Nerfball.  My brother and I would simply throw Nerf footballs around, trying to bean my nephew (who was around three at the time) while he ran circles around the backyard, cracking up.  My seven-year nephew once made an entire afternoon out of Block the Toy Box.  He stood in the backyard toy box playing goalie while we tried to toss every sort of ball we could find into it.  A ball in the box, we score.  A ball blocked, he did.  He's now a great defensive lineman on his peewee football team!
• Sing, Sing a Song: Don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear.  It's hard to stifle a song in the heart when it's raging to get out, so why try?  Singing is a sign of a joyful heart.  Kids make up songs about nothing.  I still do too.  Run out of lyrics?  Just sing about whatever it is you're doing, even if it's just laundry.  It's one of the quickest ways to trick yourself into a good mood.
• Sometimes a zerbert is better than a kiss: I heard once that a woman requires somewhere around a dozen touches a day to feel content.  That doesn't mean we need men playing grabsie at us all day.  Many times a five-year-old's zerbert will do just the trick!
• Avoid the grown-up table:  A visit to the kiddie table this holiday season will not only find you much less small talk, but way better silly talk.
• Laugh when something goes wrong instead of screaming about it:  Most things we scream about, really are funny when you stop and think about them.  Lighten up!
• Pigtails:  Any time, any place.
• Go. Out. Side.:  Now!
• And, never pass up a silly photo op:

Foods I HATE!

I always knew Anderson Cooper and I were soul mates. But, now he's officially confirmed it by admitting on his new talk show that he doesn't like to eat greens or drink hot beverages. 

I thought I was the only person who managed to reach middle-age without slurping down a cup of coffee every morning and choking down those salads that restaurants try to convince us are a required course of every meal.

In fact, I'll do Anderson one better and raise the ante by one pork chop, meatloaf and strawberry.

These are the foods that I despise:

• Pork chops - The grossest of all meats.  I prefer my pork by way of bacon, ham or hot dog.  I don't know which part of the pig is the chop, and from the tastes of it... I don't wanna!
• Meatloaf - Who ever thought to smush so much hamburger meat together and pretend that ketchup is its gravy?  Who requires meat by the loaf, when a patty topped with cheese and placed between two buns tastes so much better? (Or between toast with Parmesan grilled to the outside. Yum!)
• Strawberries - Their color is disturbingly radioactive.  But, it's their texture that remains totally unnecessary!  No food should feel like a cross between corduroy, Velcro and tree moss dragging across your taste buds.  If a strawberry sits on my plate, I can feel hives form just by looking at it.
• Hot beverages of any kind - I drink to quench my thirst.  Novel idea, I know.  I never understood what good could come from pouring hot, dirty, burnt-tasting water down your gullet and I probably never will.  (And, tea tastes just as unsanitary.) When I was a kid, I would resign to accepting the hot chocolate my mom would make for us when we'd come in from playing in the snow.  But, the secret is, I'd just scoop out the warm marshmellows while they were still somewhat crunchy.  Where'd the hot chocolate go?  Only the sewer system knows... and it ain't talking!
• Wet things on meat - Chicken tastes best when it's a plump, juicy, skinless breast baked at 400 degrees and maybe lightly salted.  Or, when battered and fried and clogging my arteries.  (I should go ahead and mention that I'll also accept my chicken in McNugget form.)  I do not like wet stuff on my chicken.  Don't try to gravy it, sauce it, or glop it up in any other such way and then charge me extra while I'm left with the inconvenience of having to wipe it all back off.  Chicken is good and delicious on its own.  Why try to mask that beautiful flavor?  Don't ketchup my hamburger or mustard my hot dog while we're at it either.  P.S. Hold the barbecue sauce as well.
• Any solid food mixed in mashed potatoes - If you mix your peas in your mashed potatoes you were probably dropped on your head as an infant.  This goes as well for the mastermind at KFC that decided we might also like our corn and meat mixed in them.  You are a grown-up.  You have moved past Gerber Graduates.
• Pickles - There's something pickle-lovers just don't understand.  When a non-pickle-lover finds that a pickle has been accidentally (or evilly and with full intention) placed in their sandwich they cannot "just pick it off!"  Once a pickle has touched bread or bun, it has tainted it.  Permanently.  There is no going back.  Tomato, this goes for you too.

So, I didn't see the full Anderson episode, but from what I previewed it seemed to be some sort of intervention looking for psychological reasons that Anderson is a picky eater. 

Awww, lay off him!  From one picky eater to another, we were forced to eat enough disgusting stuff as kids. We buy our own groceries, we make our own meals... now is the time to eat what we want.  If something is offensive to your palate, there's no reason to pretend.  Teasing your gag reflex is a habit you can leave behind at your childhood dinner table. 

Take a multi-vitamin and repeat after me:

"I will not eat peas, you can't make me eat peas, I will never be forced to eat peas again!"

Why?

Chew on This

As I age I notice my teeth slowly moving away from the perfect position my teenage braces had molded them into.  This means, I've developed "food catchers".  You know, those oddly shaped crevices created between your teeth as they twist back away from one another and come to work as crumb traps.  Chewed food can sit in any number of these spots for hours (or until fate shines upon you and presents with it a mirror.)

It stinks that I'm at the age that I have to check my teeth after every meal and every snack.  Little kids can sneak around for days without picking up a toothbrush, but their teeth still remain crumb-free and shiny white.  Lucky suckers.

Grown-up teeth vs Kid teeth

Food catchers aside, I have somehow lasted 37 years now without a single cavity.  Whatever God graced my teeth with in strength, He's deprived me with in color, though.  I have fluorosis.  It's the condition that causes spotty teeth that are never to be movie star white (unless you add together each platinum spotty spot and create a digital composite.)

I've read, ironically, that fluorosis is caused by receiving too much fluoride as a child.  Can you believe that?!  Shocking to any 80's child who had to gag their way through yearly fluoride treatments like I (our dentist's uncompassionate choice in fluoride flavor: Sour apple.)  They put it in our toothpastes, mouthwashes, even our tap water!  And, all to just cause my teeth to overdose on the stuff and have unruly color for the rest of my life.  (But, remember... No cavities!)

My cat even had pearly whites, for crying out loud.  And, I'm not even sure she was aware she had teeth!  With no toothbrush, toothpaste or dental floss to her name and an overwhelming precondition to munch on her own toenails, she got to bask in the favor of perfectly curled whiskers and glistening white teeth.

I'd like to bet my dog had whiter teeth than me as well.  Even after all that toilet drinking!  Although, as he aged it became the norm--from time to time--to find some of his teeth randomly sprinkled amid the family room carpeting. (Unattached to dog gums, that is...)  So, I guess I pull ahead of him in score there.  It's only fair.  I never had a fence-chewing habit.

As much as I tend to bust my own chops, I guess I'm glad mine seem to chew well.  Which I'm sure was the sole purpose intended at their creation.  Modern culture seems to no longer recognize healthy teeth as good teeth.  The trend has somehow moved from, keeping as many of your original teeth as hygienically possible, to chiseling out all of the above and replacing them with chompers that look like they came from a Mr. Potato Head kit.  And, people spend alot of money to have Mr. Potato Head's teeth installed!

People with properly functioning mouths pay someone to drill all their teeth down to nubs and leave non-tooth-materialed picket fences in their wake.  Not for any health reason, but just to make them that much whiter, straighter and larger!  This is a foreign concept to me because, when I want whiter teeth, I use MI Paste (a fluorosis thing) and whitening agents.  (Yeah, mine might not look like refrigerator panels, but they're not yellow either!)  To straighten, I endured my two-year sentence in braces like the rest of the middle-classed patient folk.  And, larger?!  If my teeth got any larger, I'd begin to grow rabbit ears!

But, here's living proof that people really do this:

And then, there's the people who walk into their dentist's office demanding, "Give me the 'Donny Osmond!'":

I can't imagine going to such extremes myself.  And, I find it quite humorous when I'm watching a movie or television show where the actor is playing a homeless person/pioneer/prisoner/cowboy from the Old West/castaway (Sawyer from Lost, I'm talkin' to you!), and they open their mouth to reveal a 21st century set of white Chiclets.  But, to each his own.

Better to wear Gary Busey's grin than this one!

Cheetos?  Meth mouth? Cheetos + Meth mouth?  You decide.

Girls Who Wear Glasses

You know what they say about girls who wear glasses? That we don't see very well.

There's a dreaded block of weeks that come out of every year.  It hits once in the Spring and once in the Fall when the weather changes and the new mold, pollen and ragweed is grown.  Allergy season.  The first few weeks of allergy season hit me hard and contacts are just not doable during these times.

There's always the people who will avoid me these weeks, because either: a.) My eyes are all red, swollen and dripping and they think I have pink eye; b.) I'm sneezing like it's a contest and there's money involved, so they think I'm contagious with something; c.)  My sinuses are swollen, I'm grumpy and I'm not wearing makeup, so they think that my paleness equals the flu and their flu shot hasn't kicked in yet; or d.) I'm wearing my glasses and they don't want to be seen with a four-eyes.

As an adult, I've come to terms with Allergy Weeks.  I was very vain in the past and was a glasses refuser for many a year.  If you don't remember my Back to School post, this was my first pair of glasses:

I wasn't diagnosed as near-blind until middle school.  Even though the schools gave us eye exams every few years, I had the worst time trying to see the blackboard and would have to pull the side of my eyelids out toward my ears to be able to see what that night's homework assignment was and I was known to accidentally try to open my neighbor's locker from time to time.  No teacher caught on until I was thirteen.  (Thanks public school system!)

Getting glasses opened a whole new world of near-20/20 vision to me.  My mom was amazed on our ride home from the eye doctors that first day of vision.  I marveled at the ability to read traffic signs (I had always wondered why they didn't make them much larger) and the fact that I could see the outline of every individual leaf on each tree. (I had always thought that, until you climbed up in one, trees were supposed to look the way every grade-schooler drew them. Brown stick with green cotton candy blob on top.)  The world was finally mine, because I COULD SEE IT!!!!

Then came high school. 

I don't believe a picture exists of me donning my high schools frames.  In fact, I made sure of it at the time!  But, rooting through some boxes in the basement produced the brown plastic glasses that made my life a living burning hell.  They looked a little something like this:

Now imagine that look on a younger, paler, less made up and greater eyebrowed fourteen-year-old whose-face-hadn't-filled-out-yet version of me and you can imagine my pain. 

I never felt ashamed of wearing glasses until high school. I was just ecstatic to finally be able to see up until that point.  Perhaps it all started when the female bully in my math class would torture me by having her friends call me "Goggle glasses" for almost every day of my geometry life.  When I'd turn around and glare to half stand up for myself (a move my older sister often used effectively on me) she'd howl, "Ooooh!  The look of death!  If looks could kill!"  If only I had the courage to ask, If  I'm in 9th grade and you're in 11th grade, why are we even in the same math class?"  But I didn't. 

One of her friends eventually did stand up to her one day (since my teacher never did) and said, "Why don't we just leave her alone?"  A few years later, after high school, that same friend delivered a pizza to my house.  I was wearing contacts and eyeliner and had come into my own by that age, but I noticed a vague flicker of recognition in her eyes.  She had a small look of fear that I was going to now chew her out for going along with the "Goggle glasses" chant her bully friend had wrangled her into.  But, I always chose to remember her as the girl who made it stop.  I never mentioned recognizing her but gave her a good tip, it was the least I could do.

From that year on I was Jan Brady.  Glasses were donned only to see the chalkboard, came back off as quickly as possible and then placed back on once a parent would emerge.  Finally, at age sixteen, I was granted a pair of contact lenses.  The heavens sang!

Contacts changed my life.  They somehow gave me confidence.  Then there was the boy, who supposedly liked me, and showed such affection by asking me, "Where's your glasses? I thought you wore glasses.  You have a 'glasses' kind of nose."  Yes, thank you.  I'm flattered.  You too can achieve such a nose by standing yours in front of every basketball and volleyball in gym class that comes your way.  Using this technique over the course of several years, your nose will eventually develop a shelf of a bump perfect for resting a pair of Coke bottle lenses. 

Then came the insecurity about the nose.

These days we have wonderful inventions like glare-proof coating and feather-weight lenses (my "glasses kind of nose" until then would throb under the weight of my thick prescription.)  Frames became smaller and trendier, and some people even wear them, despite their natural 20/20 vision, with clear glass in them for---get this--fashion! 

I don't mind wearing my glasses anymore.  But, only on a from-time-to-time basis.  There's still a small part of me that shrinks a little once the frames hit the bridge of my nose.  I find it harder to sit tall and make eye contact with them on.  I'm a little less witty and not a fan of the loss of peripheral vision that goes with wearing them.  But, I've learned over time that the glasses/nose/tanness of skin/clothes/looks don't make the (wo)man.  People eventually start being impressed by your personality and talents and all the rest of that stuff becomes backdrop.

I don't know how or when this switch is turned on, but I'm glad that it does.  If only we could teach the teenagers this trick.  If I only knew then what I know now, I could have steam-rolled that bully with sarcasm and had the whole class turn on her. 

But, I'm glad that I didn't.  I'm a better person this way.  Four eyes and all!