Adult Fail

As a kid, putting up the Christmas tree normally involved an hour of bending endless wire branches into odd angles as my parents shoved each prickly arm into the tree’s base. Inevitably my sister and I would lose interest as my mom struggled to wrap limb after limb with white twinkle lights. We would sneak away to avoid the monotonous prep work, only to miraculously appear when it was time to hang ornaments. (It’s called “strategic bladdering.” It is also the reason why I always seemed to have to pee whenever it was time to clear the table after dinner.)

Years later, as a thirtysomething, I’m on my own to lug holiday cheer up the basement steps and wrestle my own artificial Douglas fir into submission. However, modern times have eased the process. A thousand blessings to whomever came up with the idea of pre-lit trees. Instead of individual branches, I only have to shove three shrub sections together. No wrapping of individual lights around each bough. Just a new holiday tradition: violating all electrical safety codes and holding my breath that, when I plug the last strand in, the tree will light up. This year, I say a prayer to baby Jesus and  wedge the overloaded extension cord plug into the wall. The lights pop on and the tree springs to life. I send a mental fist bump up to the heavens. If the tree had stayed dark, I would have opted to go lightless. I'd  play it off as some sort of trendy subversiveness. Non-lit trees are all the rage, you know, I’d say to guests as I handed them a craft beer and they stared at my dark symbol of Yuletide doom.

Since getting the tree in a locked, upright position feels like a cardio workout, it’s time for a snack break. And that’s when I remember something. And the evening goes from good to great. 

I run to the refrigerator and open the door. There it sits, in all her circular cardboard glory. I breathe, “hello, gorgeous.”

I have Brie in my fridge.

Do you eat Brie? If you do, do you remember the first time you tried it? Somehow, I had missed this particularly culinary treat until I was well into my thirtieth year. I recall seeing it at dinner parties in my twenties but it always left me perplexed. The innards oozed out of the rind.  Honey or nuts or jam spackled the top. Pear slices and pieces of bread surrounded the perimeter. I didn't even know where to begin. What’s supposed to be eaten and what’s just garnish? I still thought cheeseballs were the height of dinner party sophistication. This thing was entirely out of my league. I gave it a pass and moved on to the safety of cheese cubes impaled on tooth picks.

After years of avoidance, I finally tried Brie at a friend’s house. And. I. Couldn’t. Stop. Eating. It. Why — WHY — did I sidestep this for so long? It’s melted cheese and bread! Add bacon and it’s my personal holy trinity. I must have dove into that glorious circle of gooeyness twenty times. I dipped. I drizzled. I delayed dinner so I could continue my attack. After dinner I made up reasons to go back into the kitchen so I could snag another bite, offering to take everyone’s plates to the sink. ONE plate at a time. I’m strategically thoughtful that way. 

Needless to say, the next time I bought groceries I scavenged the supermarket aisles for Brie. It took me a few trips but eventually I found it. Turns out that Brie isn’t by the blocks of sharp cheddar or the individually packaged slices of American. Who knew there was a whole other section of dairy over by the fancy bread counter.

I had managed to stave off the temptation to immediately eat it, so there it sits in my refrigerator, ready to join the decorating festivities. I wait the obligatory fifteen minutes as it bakes, contemplating the fact that longing really does make the heart grow fonder. As soon as the timer beeps I take the warm, oozing Brie and French bread out of the oven and place it on to a wooden cutting board I now reserve for cheese presentation only. I pour myself a glass of wine and bring it, along with Brie and Co. into my family room. I set the culinary delights down amidst the clutter of Christmas on my coffee table. 

Now this is how you deck the halls.

As I sip and munch, I think about how, merely ten years ago, my pre-Christmas run-up was very different. I was still in college. I lived in a crowded apartment with six roommates. I used a bathroom that had one shower and two toilets. I was bemoaning some project in my accounting class and arguing with my landlord about the gas smell coming from our furnace. Now here I am, sitting on a couch — not futon — decorating my full sized — not sixteen inch tall — Christmas tree as I nosh on Brie — not Cheez Whiz — and drink white wine —not flat Sprite.  I’m sure my college self would scoff at how lame and old the scene looks. It is the most banal picture of grownuptitude a kid can think of. 

And, you know what? Instead of feeling uncomfortable or fake, as I feel about many grown-up things  -- taxes, networking events, checking into a hotel -- this time it feels fantastic. 

It’s official. Getting old kicks ass.

After a few more hours of stocking-hanging and decoration-placing, the transformation is complete and I clean up for the night. I wash the dishes and cork up the wine. Almost all the Brie is gone so I drop it in the trash can under the sink and head to bed. 

The next morning, I wake up at 6:30 per usual. (Another road sign on the way to Old Fartdom.) Ready to embrace another day of adult awesomeness.

And something goes horribly wrong…

I live alone. I’ve lived alone for around eight years at this point. Roommates can be pleasant at times but I’m a creature of solitude at heart. I’m like an old iPhone. My battery only lasts about five hours before I need to be plugged into a room by myself and recharge. Living alone is perfect for this disposition. 

The downside to living alone is that you start to lose a bit of common sense.  Everyone has ideas for behavior that they wouldn’t do if other people were around to see it. Then you live alone, and you lose that impetus to self-edit. Eventually, things start going a bit off piste. 

Take, for instance, the five second rule. You know, the widely held belief that, if you drop a piece of food on the ground, you can still eat it as long as you pick it up within five seconds of impact. Of course, there are parameters for this rule. It usually only extends to dry, solid food. Anything sticky is immediately ruled out because inevitably some lint or hair will stick and ruin it.

But then you live alone. And the parameters of the five-second rule start to expand…

I wake up the morning, turn on the Christmas tree, and go into the kitchen. I stare inside the refrigerator, looking for something to eat for breakfast.

Hmmm …. what to eat….  … hmmm …  eggs? …. nah, I’d have to was the skillet…. Maybe yogurt? … oh, okay, that expiration date was last year not gonna happen … hmmm … nothing in here sounds good … you know what does sound good is Brie … man, that Brie last night was amazing… I should have bought two when I was at the store … I bet there was still some left in the rind …. I wish I hadn’t thrown it away last night… what a waste … I could be eating it for breakfast …I could always go to the store … ugh … then I’d have to put on real pants … not gonna happen … but that Brie still sounds really good … I wonder ….

That’s when I hear the siren song calling out to me from the cabinet under the sink.

I could skip to the end. You likely know what's coming at this point. But, just for kicks, let me take you through the journey. The journey of contemplating whether or not you should eat something out of the trash.

Stage 1: Denial and Isolation

I open the cabinet door and pull out the trash can. There lay the remaining carcass of the Brie from last night. Normally, anything that passes below the mouth of the trash can I consider dead to me. But, in the morning light, the trash can suddenly transforms into an extra large Tupperware container. And there’s no one here to stop me from considering this as a viable option. So I continue to consider it.

Stage 2: Pain and Guilt

Why in the world did I throw this away? Clearly it still had potential! Just look at all the cheese drippings on the side alone? That’s enough to cover three pieces of bread, easy. And geez, it  looks so good. 

Stage 3: Anger

YOU IDIOT! RIGHT NOW YOU COULD BE EATING BRIE IF YOU HAD JUST TAKEN THE TIME TO REFRIGERATE IT YESTERDAY? YOU DON’T DESERVE BRIE.

Then again, what should it matter? I really want it. How dare societal conventions prevent me from having what I want? Any why? Just because what I want spent twelve hours in a trash can? I set my thermostat for 65 at night. That practically makes my entire house the refrigerated section of the grocery store.

Stage 4: Bargaining

Okay, in my defense, the Brie is the only thing in the trash can. I wouldn’t even consider eating it if there was other rubbish in it. The trash can liner is basically just like a white version of plastic wrap. Sure, it’s a dairy product that has been at a relatively cool room temperature overnight. But isn’t cheese better after it’s been aged? Really, the Brie should be BETTER because it sat in the trash can overnight.

Stage 5: Depression and Loneliness

I can’t believe I’m considering eating something out of my trash. I’m pathetic. I’m alone. This is probably why I’m alone. I’ll always be alone. So really, what does it matter? There’s no one here to judge me.

Stage 6: The Upward Turn

Really, why am I fighting this? This could be a good thing! And plus, earlier this fall I ate a few bites of that egg-and-cheese croissant sandwich that had been left over from the morning tailgate and baking in a hot car while I was at the game. I felt fine. This wouldn’t even be as bad as that risk.

It should be fine if I warm it up. 

Plus, I’ll warm it up in the oven, I’m not an animal.

So yes, I do the unthinkable. I dumpster dive in my own trash. I reach down, peel the Brie rind from the bottom of the trash bag, and toss it on a baking sheet. Which brings us to the final stage.

Stage 8: Acceptance and Hope

This will be just fine!

...I wonder what other perfectly good food I could have eaten out of my trash over the years?

(In case you’re wondering, it tasted delicious.)

If Only This Was Fiction

Documentary File Footage. Friday morning. October 2014. 

Somewhere in the administrative wilderness...

"Hello, this is -- "

"DID YOU HEAR?"

"What?"

"The Internet is down! I can't work on anything!"

"Oh, yeah. I saw Josh earlier, he said something's
wonky with the servers. They're working on it."

"Who?"

"The IT department. They said it should be hit or miss.
Hopefully it's back up after lunch."

"They can fix the Internet? The whole thing?"

"... well, yeah. They're IT."

"Oh wow. Okay. I didn't think they could."

"You don't think our IT department can fix our internet connection?"

"Oh, I know they can fix OUR website. 

I just didn't think they could fix all the other websites."

"... wait. When you say 'all the other websites' what do you mean?

"You know, like the Internet."

"Like the World Wide Web."

"... so ... when you said the whole Internet is down,
you meant ... like .. THE WHOLE INTERNET."

"Yeah."

"I severely doubt that the whole Internet is down."

"Oh, no, it is. That's what it said."

"What what said?"

"The email I got from my computer guy down the hall."

"You got an email ... that said .. that the entire Internet is down."

"Yeah."

"Well, for starters, I don't think that's what he meant.
I think he meant just our university's server."

"Oh no, he meant the whole thing. Here, I'll forward it to you."

"Okay, that brings me to my second point.
You got an EMAIL saying that the INTERNET is down."

"Yeah."

"If the Internet is down
-- like, the whole thing --
how could he send you an email?"

"It's email. Email is different than Internet."

"...Is it, though? "

"Well of course it is."

Gorge-ing Out

Warning: This article takes a turn into some blue territory. Nothing racy, but since I know some of my aunts read this blog on occasion here is your heads up. On a scale, I would say this post is rated Aunt Carri. Definitely not Aunt Rose. Aunts Rita, Alice, and Helen: I'll let you judge where you fall on that scale.

***

I’m not an “I love nature” kind of girl. I’m more of an “I love nature in theory and want people to think I love nature in practice even though I avoid it at all times” kind of girl. Things like camping and hiking always seem charming in the abstract. Babbling rivers bubbling by. Leaves rustling and fluttering to the ground. Birds perching on my shoulder to chirp harmonies to the tune I’m humming, then fluttering away. I blame Disney and the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy for my unrealistic expectations of nature. In reality, that river will fester with mosquitos and flood footpaths. Leaves will fly up in your face and give you a heart attack. And those birds? Robin and bluebird will sooner drop a deuce than a tune on that shoulder of yours.

That being said, sometimes the urge to appear rustic and easy-going overtakes me and I find myself  heading out for a hike. Hikes are manageable, much more so than camping, which I’ve never actually done. (I have stayed in a heated, amenity-filled cabin. I do not claim that as “camping.” I have some sense of pride.) If I plan my hikes right, I make it back to my car about fifteen minutes after I start itching for central air and carpet. 

There are a few flat, basic footpaths around my town I walk on occasion. But when I really want to wallow in my appearing-to-be-one-with-nature, I head to a nature preserve about an hour outside town called Clifton Gorge. For my birthday this summer, I decide to take the day off work and visit ol’ CG. It had been months since had last headed out to see it. The last few weeks have been stressful and I always struggle a bit with my birthdays. I am in desperate need of fresh air and a perspective recalibration.

For those of you with dwellings surrounded by natural wonders, you may not find this particular nature preserve all that awe-inspiring. For those of us with lives forever tinted with a suburban beige, in a state as flat as a pancake? CG is freaking gorgeous. Not like, oh-how-charming-there-are-some-trees-out-here-between-interstates beautiful. Like, good-lord-not-ANOTHER-waterfall beautiful. Like, it’s-incredibly-isolated-and-yet-if-I-was-murdered-in-these-woods-I-think-I’d-be-okay-with-it beautiful. I mean, check this out:

Am I right?

CG also isn't like the run-of-the-mill hiking trails found around my town. Those trails are normally beaten dirt paths through sparsely wooded spaces and flat, limp meadows. The trails at CG are different. CG in the summer emanates that brilliant, vibrant shade of green you only see on the celluloid. It’s like the entire preserve comes with an Instagram filter. Some paths narrow and gnarl close to the river, passing by fallen logs that tempt you to tiptoe closer to the rushing water’s edge. Other paths rise upwards, stretching wide and welcoming you with space to walk, to feel the air move and the moments pass. Leaves canopy the ceiling so tightly that  sunlight beams have to fight to pierce the shield.  Waterfalls polish massive, mossy rock cliffs. ranches and stems lean in and keep the trail cozy. It’s like nature is hugging you. (I know, that sounds obnoxious, but there isn’t a non-corny way to describe it.)

As I park my car and head down the short walk to the start of the trails, I’m both excited and soothed by the day ahead. I never quite remember what direction each trail wanders or where certain viewpoints crop up. I only remember the peaceful sense of centeredness that settles in along the trails. Choosing the more rigorous route, I walk down the steep staircase into the floor of the gorge and begin winding my way along the path beside the river. The rush of water provides a steady soundtrack, blocking out most of my thoughts. At first, my mind fights it, trying to race. After a few minutes I slip into a rhythm of steps and focus almost entirely on placing my feet and moving forward.

GC is the perfect place for comforting solitude. No need to force cheerfulness. The gnats flying in my face don’t care if my hair falls flat or if I have armpit stains. They aren’t armed with papers to sign or phone calls to return. They can be swatted away. Everything about CG is refreshingly offline.

And that’s not all. Not only does it feel like CG is the best version of nature, I feel like the best version of myself IN nature while I’m there. When I’m hiking — oftentimes stumbling — along the trails, I feel outdoorsy. Half a mile in, I think, you know, I might try out eating vegan for awhile. The night before, I ate three chicken quesadillas with Taco Bell sauce packets for dinner. And I microwaved them. This, my friends, is the transformational power of CG. After the fourth waterfall, you think about giving up cheese.

I also suddenly think I look great. The summer humidity makes me sweat like a middle-aged man who eats too many Cinnabons and never takes the stairs. But I am not clammy. I am dewy.  Like an ethereal wood sprite in a Cover Girl marketing campaign. Maybe it’s the lack of reflective surfaces.

I should point out it’s only when I’m actually at CG that I feel this at ease with. I lose it as soon as I hit the highway on-ramp. Apparently my zen is location specific.

A mile into the hike I try to convince myself not to experience the view around me in pixilated form. After pondering which Instagram filter best brings out the whitecaps of the rapids, I notice a crane flap out of shot. I had been staring at the bird for a full minute and never noticed it through my camera display. After that, I vow to put my camera away. Just be in the moment. Don’t give in to some urge to artificially capture everything. Enjoy the sights. Move on.

I also get hypocritical. Five minutes after I miss spotting the crane I walk past a woman using her flip phone to take a picture of a rock. Humph, that lady is totally missing the point of this. Jesus, try being present for once. City folk…

Okay, so maybe CG doesn’t bring out the actual best version of myself. In fact, CG may just be my on-again, off-again boyfriend. When I’m here, I pretend to be “nature girl.” Who I really am is a knitting homebody who gets nervous walking into bars and prefers an evening of DVR’ed Sex and the City episodes while eating microwaved quesadillas with Taco Bell sauce.

Then again, on this particular trip, CG reveals that it is not what it seems to be at first hike. Sure, when everything is shiny and new all you see are the grand vistas, the endless trails, the wooden footpaths wandering through undisturbed flora.

Then one day, on a hike, you look down.

And you see a penis.

Okay, not an actual penis. A crude sketch of a cartooned penis, etched into the mud of the trail.

But still, a penis.

I try to shake it off, get back to my zen status of transcendentalism and hippie freedom. But once you see a penis on the ground, you can’t help but look down and try to spot more.

And oh, there is more to see.

This particular part of the trail is flat and easy-going, with mud recently baked firm. Some hikers must have spotted the forest floor when it was more malleable and said hey, free canvas. Let’s make our mark.

Some of the drawings and messages are just doodles or spirals, some are smudged by footsteps. But the ones I can decipher start giving away the artists’ demographic. Take for example, the next message:

CALL FOR A GOOD TIME.

Classy. Clearly we’re dealing with snot-nosed, adolescent street youths here.

I spot another etching. This one actually gives me some advice:

TURN BACK.

Hmm. Those previous thoughts about being totally cool with being murdered in these particular woods come back to me in an entirely different light.

A few strides later I eye the next message:

I heart boobs smiley face.

At this point I throw my no-picture rule right out the window. Forget Zen. This is no longer an exercise in being present. This is a documentary. Exhibit A:

I hit a stretch of repeating patterns: tawdry comments that certain youngsters find scandalous interspersed with warnings of “beware … don’t look up … turn around or else…” Then the forest comment thread shifts in tone. The lovebirds must have wrestled the stick away from the perverts and alarmists because now valentines sprinkle the trail. Name plus name equals 4EVA. Hearts encircling initials. If only those kids knew that the odds of longevity were better for the mud imprints than their relationships.

Then I spot this gem:

I heart no one.

BOOM. Found my high school self, fifteen years later. Maybe CG is some type of time warp that introduces you to the mental state of your past.

Five strides later:

Dylan sucks.

Hmmm. Maybe the aforementioned “I” does in fact “heart” someone. Someone named Dylan. And really, ladies, if we are being honest with ourselves, who wouldn’t have fallen for a guy named Dylan in high school? I bet this kid has hair drapes like Rider Strong and Leonardo DiCaprio circa 1996.

Next, out of nowhere, tons of circles with five-point stars pop up everywhere. Apparently the Wiccan member of the group cast a spell to get the stick and went hog-wild scratching pentagrams everywhere.

And then, finally, this gem:

Now we aren’t even writing sentences. What is this, Dirty Pictionary?

And, please, put a little effort into it. What is that thing? Yet another one-eyed willie? A pacifier? A pile of poop? Is Joe supposed to have transformed into whatever that thing is? Or is he supposed to go get it? Or put it down?  WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY, DYLAN? USE YOUR WORDS.

You know, I came to CG to get away from the humdrum. To spend time in a calm, peaceful, isolated spot. To reach some romantic notion of a higher plane of consciousness. And here I am, two miles into a hike, being sucked into a Facebook comment thread right here on the forest floor. Maybe that’s what CG actually does. It just brings you back to your most basic self. People who love nature? They probably spot some type of rare fungus popping out of the prairie grass. Me? I’m going to spy the high school burn book etched into the mud. No amount of granola in my knapsack can mask that. At this point the messages fade out and only unadulterated trail spans forward. I decide I’ve had enough nature for one day. The waterfalls are nice and all, but I have what I truly came here for. While things may be stressful right now, it could be way worse. I could be in high school. I could be surrounded by the most beautiful sites, see a stick, and have the instinct, you know what this trail needs? Boobs. Not being Dylan? WAY more comforting than any existential one-with-nature-ness. 

A few days later, back in suburbia, I head out for a run in my neighborhood. It’s a stretch of sidewalk and pavement I have pounded regularly for months. Same uneven sidewalk blocks. Same scorched frog carcass three strides from the fire hydrant. Same middle school punks taking up the entire sidewalk and forcing their elders (me) to sidestep into the goose poop grass to avoid their weird lacrosse net/stick apparatuses. 

My runs never end in a triumphant burst. I just huff and puff along until my legs give out. I also have an unbelievable talent for stubbing my toe on the slightest bump in the sidewalk and go sprawling flying-squirrel-like onto the pavement. When my face hits cement, I call it a day. It has been a month since my last skid-out so I know I’m due. I spend the last part of my run looking straight down to spot any potential hurdles. A few blocks away from home, I spot something written in the cement. Great. Probably another lewd comment. Is no malleable surface safe? 

This message is different. It isn't suggestive or crude. It's simple and heartfelt. My mind races to imagine the backstory. Every version is moving, tender, touching, and kind. It stands in stark contrast to the messages I walked over in the mid of CG. It feels wrong to stumble across this sentiment carved into the sidewalk by a water pipe cover. If any message should be draped across a beautiful vista, it should be this one. Then again, finding messages like this one in unexpected places in some ways adds to its meaningfulness.  It will live on much longer than the scrawls in the dirt. The next strong storm will wash those scratchings away. This one will weather storms and snowfalls. And even after the concrete cracks, the message should continue.

I stop and take a picture.

Balderdash

I've walked this earth for three decades, assuming that those baggy, breezy shorts I wore in middle school were called, "Cool Lots." Just recently, I discovered that they are actually called "culottes." I feel this is something I should have picked up earlier in the game. Now I'm questioning everything. Were those high top sneakers I wore not L.A. Gear, but instead La Gear?

Naturally, to verify this new discovery of mine, I check the Wikipedia entry for “culottes.” Yup, sure enough, there are my childhood shorts.

Side note: I really can’t recommend this Wikipedia article more. It really doesn't disappoint. I had no idea that one clothing item could have such significant historical context. Most of the entry describes culottes in the context of the French Revolution. Then, in a transitional jump that even Evel Knievel wouldn't have attempted, it goes from Paris during the Victorian Era immediately into the Mall of America in the 1980s.

I do challenge the accuracy of this particular Wikipedia entry in one aspect. Wikipedia posits that another phrase for culottes is the skort. I’m no sartorial archivist, but I’m pretty sure my sixth grade closet had a one section for culottes and one section for skorts. Sure, a pair of culottes can transform into a skort with the simple addition of a front skirt panel. But then the article of clothing would would cease to be culottes, would it not? Culottes and skorts are entirely distinct subspecies of the genus Unattractivus Rumpus Coveragus. Culottes are unabashedly direct. Spacious thigh room? On it. Breezy leg openings? Don’t mind if I do. High rise? Hell yes. Culottes look at the world and say, “See these pleats? I DARE you to find a camel toe.”

Skorts, by comparison are all about deception. They provide the same movement but do it behind the scenes. A curtain across the front prevents the world from seeing the magic taking place. That is, until the skorted individual walks away. Then everyone’s like, ahhh, so THAT’s how she could sit cross-legged with so much confidence. I feel so misled...

Compromise: maybe there is some overlap. But I think we can agree that it’s like the law of rectangles and squares. All skorts are culottes, but not all culottes are skorts.

Some other errors I only recently picked up on: the phrase “for all intents and purposes.” I used to say “for all intensive purposes.” Which still kind of works, when you think about it. But then, on second thought … nope. I’m just an idiot.

My most unfortunate misunderstanding had to do with the word “scatological.” It kind of sounds like scattered, right? Using my foolproof powers of deduction, I determined that, since those two words sound alike, they must be in the same linguistic ballpark. Scattered means spread around and disordered, so clearly scatological refers to something being randomly structured in terms of logic. (Again, “logical” is right there in the word.)

I didn't use this word a lot, but I used it off and on for years. YEARS. It wasn't until I had the following conversation with my co-worker that I discovered what I had actually been saying:

All this time, I was been referring to things as being … poopy. 

I immediately went to my office, shut my door, and mentally rewound the last few years, scanning for any memory of using that word. At the committee meeting with the executive dean? In front of my freshman seminar class? When I was talking to the priest at my grandmother’s visitation hours? On that date with the cute guy at the zoo? How many times did I confidently describe something as “having to do with feces” in front of these people?

In a horrifyingly ironic twist of fate, a few years later I did wind up in a work meeting that I could accurately describe as scatological. But that’s a story for another time.

Another example of definition ignorance: this afternoon I was typing an email to a co-worker about a situation where a student thought that he had the right to do whatever he wanted in a class. I typed, I mean, it’s like he thinks a letter from his coach gives him carp blanche to do anything.

Oddly, the spell check function didn’t recognize the phrase “carpe blanche” and didn't have any suggestions for a correction. Hmm, since it’s one of those fancy foreign phrases maybe there’s an extra e at the end of “carp” or something. I retyped “carpe blanche.” No dice. I decided to Google it.

Carte blanche. Not carp blanche.

Apparently the French phrase translates to “blank card” or “blank cheque.” Ah, yes. The ability to write a blank check makes way more sense than the ability to steam cook a fish.

Aaaand, just like with the culottes, all problems start with the French...

New Post Coming Soon

So I had a lull in work during lunch today and thought, hey, I should check and see when my last post was. I figured, maybe three weeks ago.

Sweet Moses...

I haven't posted anything in three months??? How is that possible? I have certainly had some random thoughts bouncing around in my head for the past ninety days. Is this what happens when one turns thirty? I apparently can't remember to write anything down. Going to bed at 9:30 isn't helping with the late night creative writing process, either.

I am currently staring down at a countdown clock to the end of the work day and the start of a glorious three-day weekend. Surely there has to be enough time between mowing, weeding, painting, car washing, concert attending, laundering, cleaning, eating and sleeping to write something down.

In the meantime, to celebrate the start of the season, here is a picture of a walrus as a football player.

XXX

In one hour and forty minutes, I will be saying goodbye to my twenties and hello to my thirties. Everyone seems to have their own personal Scary Age. The number that seems impossibly far away until it’s staring up at you from the top of a cake, in a blaze of fire and glory. Go ahead, shut your eyes. You cannot ignore that many candles.

In my very unscientific poll, thirty appears to be the Scary Age for a large percentage of the population. People younger than that age balk at the number. “You’re going to be THIRTY??” Their eyes widen in disbelief and horror. I’ve gotten that a lot during the past month. On the one hand, I should probably take their shock as a compliment. Their senses cannot resolve the conflicting information they are receiving: their eyes tell them  I’m a vivacious twentysomething while their ears hear me say the word, thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirty...

On the other hand, it may just be that I dress inappropriately young. Which is probably the likelier answer. One cannot enter one’s thirties with a wardrobe comprised of Old Navy yoga pants and Target tank tops. Or CAN they …

Then there is the other side of the demographic spectrum. The people who see the the road sign for Exit Thirty as a speck in their rearview mirror. I work in an engineering department at the University. Which means I work with a lot of individuals with a lot of years under their high-waisted belts. Perfectly nice people. They are great at sharing thoughts on financial planning or whether Mad Men accurately depicts what life was like in the 1950s. You would think these people would have some perspective on how insignificant turning thirty really is in the scheme of things. I mean, some of these professors lived through the Dust Bowl. (I’m trying to say that I work with some old farts. Is that coming across?)

But even these wizened, ancient beings raised a bushy eyebrow in my direction all day yesterday. “Turning thirty, eh? Ooooo, that’s a big one, isn’t it? How ya doin’?”

Um … doing just fine? I have cake. I have lovely gifts and cards from coworkers. I have a check from my grandma and an overflowing shopping cart at Zappos.com. All in all, a pretty good day at the office.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t realize that turning thirty was such a big, BIG deal. Sure, NBC devoted a whole plot line on Friends to Rachel turning thirty, but I thought that was just a Jennifer-Aniston-debuting-a-new-haircut thing. Rachel was never a model for appropriate emotional maturity. (I still adamantly believe that Rachel was less psychosocially developed than Joey. Who summarizes a relationship in an eighteen-page letter, FRONT AND BACK, and expects someone like Ross to actually read it? YOU WERE ON A BREAK.)

Nineties sitcoms aside, I thought most jokes about thirty-turning were pretty much sarcastic. Apparently not. I’ve had multiple people ask me if I am okay -- oh yeah, I’m fine -- and then really … am I okay -- see, now you’re just starting to freak me out -- followed by an empathetic nod. I’m just turning thirty. It’s not like I killed a kitten. (Which I have done. Technically it was kittyslaughter, not kitty murder, given the lack of intent. But that’s another story for another time.) I’ve made it twenty-nine-years-and-three-hundred-sixty-four-days without dying once. Shouldn’t this be a happy occasion?

I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m not freaking out more, given everyone’s concern. Here’s what I’ve come up with: for me, turning thirty means that my age is finally catching up to my lifestyle. I’ve been living the life of a thirty-or-older-year-old since I was fourteen. FINALLY, I can knit earnestly and not just ironically. No more hipster slouch hats. It’s all granny squares and house slippers from here on out. My obsession with all things Riverdance just makes me culturally aware. My early bedtime is not pathetic but pragmatic. I can openly enjoy watching PBS shows. Hell, I may leave them on my DVR. No need to immediately delete them to avoid the shame of some house guest accidentally scrolling through and seeing them. I’m thirty. Public television viewing is to be expected. I no longer have to stand in a store’s underwear section for ten minutes, trying to decipher whether the string bikini or the low-rise hipster is less wedgie-inducing. No more VPL (Visible Panty Line) shame. Now I can walk right to the granny panties, grab the highest-rise brief, and march towards the cash register, silky bloomers flapping in the breeze like Old Glory.

 

Oh beauuuutiful for fuuuuull coverage..

To be fair, I do anticipate some downsides. I now know that anyone I work with aged twenty-one or younger will immediately view me as the old fart of the office. Security alarms will go off if I set even one toe into a store like Forever 21. Even concerts will eventually slip away if I'm not careful. For now, with the right lighting and eye makeup I can pass for an older-but-not-old fan. One that is seasoned. Knows exactly what side of the stage has the best viewing opportunities. Knows that the drinking bracelet goes on the right wrist, not the left. But it’s a fine line between hip adult and hip replacement.

(One refreshing anecdote: at a concert earlier this month, the lead singer from Relient K talked about how he took turning thirty hard. Like, rock star hard. Nice to know that, behind those tight jeans and leather cuff bracelets, even musicians can have a "what have I done with my life" moment. And are old enough to remember that Friends  episode.)

To be fair, there are certainly things that I wish were different about my life. Things that I had accomplished or done better. But I don’t think that adding more time would have really help. I am a creature of habit, risk-aversion, and resistance to change. (Increased self-awareness being another benefit to turning thirty.) Someone giving me a time traveling machine would be a huge waste of a science-fiction plotline. The only thing I could see changing is that maybe -- MAYBE -- I would kill house centipedes a few years earlier than when I finally did. Which was last year. Other than that, my guess is that thing would have pretty much been the same.

 

 

 

 

Sure, there are bigger things. Relationship, travel, job promotion, kids. Those would be nice things to have in the right set of circumstances. And I have great examples of friends and family with those plot points in their life story at thirty.  But I also see a lot of examples of ones that aren’t so sunny. Even the ones that work aren’t perfect. Take today, for example. My mom, sister, and niece came down to spend the day. We had a perfect day of chatting and eating and shopping, but most of the day was spent scurrying around after the little one. I know that I’m biased, but my niece is almost painfully adorable. Big blue eyes, blond hair in curls, a smile that takes up her entire face. She’s so cute that it almost makes me jealous of my sister. Almost.

Because, as my angelic little niece smiled and spun around my living room… suddenly she stopped.

And stood there.

And shivered.

And dropped a deuce.

And my loving, patient, sleep-deprived sister had the honor of taking a deep breath and changing that diaper. Whereas my role as Aunt-In-Chief was to laugh hysterically and document the whole thing (except the diaper change) on video.

All in all, I’ll take what I have: family, friends, health, home, job, basic cable package, jumbo-sized Nutella jar. Not a bad way to start my third decade! Here’s to enjoying the next seven years until I hit my own personal Scary Age: Thirty-Seven! (It’s late thirties AND it’s a prime number. I don’t know why that makes it worse, but it does.)

And yes, after spending the last two nights out, I am too tired to do anything tonight on my actual birthday. So I am reading through lovely cards and notes and posts with birthday wishes, writing this post, and enjoying a fine dinner of white wine and Twix bars. THIRTY KICKS ASS!

I Got Nothing.

Hello, Internet perusers and people who accidentally wound up on this page after trying to Google recipes for toast!

Sorry for the dearth of blog posts recently. I was on such a roll of posting stories during the start of the year! And then, sadly, I've reached the barren wasteland of the annual calendar. It's technically spring, but the city where I live is still taking hits of the snow- sleet one-two punch. The days are getting longer, but it's so cold that I hurry into my home after work and don't emerge until the next morning.

Upside: nothing particularly embarrassing has happened to me recently.

Downside: nothing particularly entertaining has happened to me recently.

Translation: When my life is going along swimmingly, I have nothing to blog about. I successfully made a crock pot recipe without stirring in any volcanic ingredients. I partied it up last month with Bachelorette & Co. without incident. The closest I got to anything mildly entertaining was when the student checking IDs at the bar wound up being a former student of mine. Or when a particularly bubbly member of our party decided to give my number to some guy who was hanging out at our table. On the walk back, when I asked for some more information (like, you know, his name) she replied, "... maybe Mike?"

Great. So now I have to dodge calls from unknown numbers in case it's Maybe Mike on the other end of the line.

The next day, the fog of the evening lifted and some other details emerged. My friend still wasn't sure about his name, but she definitely remembered some other details. Like how he was banned from that particular bar/shopping center a few years ago for littering. Well, that and the fact that he was caught in the men's room with a female companion. But he definitely didn't get arrested until he tossed a Mountain Dew bottle onto the sidewalk.

It's been a few weeks and Maybe Mike hasn't called. Which was relieving at first, but now feels mildly insulting. Um, really Maybe Mike? You're tossing this slice of fierceness aside? This is your Mountain Dew Incident of 2009 all over again ...

See? It was work just stretching that story THAT far. Luckily, most of my awkward interludes pop up with the tulips so there is hope on the horizon.

************************************************

Update.

Okay, I recently had the worst day of work in my career. And I mean, the worst day I've ever had AND the worst day I will ever have. Nothing particularly tragic. Just disgusting. We're talking, Threat Level Retching. It is so far over the line I don't think I can even write about it.  (Yet...)

I take it back, Universe! I love it when my existence is one yawn-inducing expanse of beige! Don't pepper my path with any more insanely bizarre stories that require me to breathe out of my mouth and just hope that death takes me quickly.