Halfway to 80

So here we are.  Can you believe it?  When I saw the birthday gadget at the bottom of the blog today I just sat here and stared at it.  Today is my birthday.  My 40th fucking birthday.

I woke up this morning in my parents' house in my childhood room (yes, I know how I got here).  It was nice to come downstairs and see them on this day of days.  We sat and talked for about an hour.  My dad made me oatmeal and my mom reflected on the pain I caused her lady parts on my way into the world.  I apologized to them (the lady parts).  We had some good laughs over our respective horoscopes.  Apparently my mom is going to have a "rustle in her hedgerow" this week, I think she's kind of excited.

This has been quite the year.  When I started this blog last fall I didn't really know where it would lead.  It has been quite a learning process.  The fact that many of you have been there since the beginning with me and have decided to keep coming back to listen to my nonsense is mind boggling, in a good way.  We are not alone in this world.

If you asked me today how it feels to be 40, I think my answer would be "surreal".  I don't feel 40.  Sitting here in the room I spent my childhood in I feel much like the same girl I did then.  The difference now is that I know myself so much better.  I think that is the gift of age, if you have the courage to be open to the knowledge.  We can learn.  We can change.  We can accomplish things that we never thought possible at any age.  Our language shapes our reality and when we change that script in our head some miraculous things can happen.

I think of all the things I've learned in my life and especially this past year, is that all that really counts is love.  Love of family, friends, life.  

I have lived a blessed life.  I am grateful for so many things and none of them are things.  Thank you for going on this journey with me.  Here's to the next 40.

I'm going to go drink tequila now.

I'm just a girl

So Gwen and I happen to turn 40 on the same day.  I was interested in finding out what we have in common, so I did a little research.  Here's a synopsis for y'all:

Gwen

Fashion Designer

Inspired by Japanese Culture

From California

Named after a stewardess

Catholic

Has 2 boys

Worked at Dairy Queen

Had 2 weddings

Known for her "midriff"

Can sing

Natural brunette

Me

Fashion Faux Pas

Took Japanese in College

Not from California

Named after a relative

Not Catholic so much

Has 2 boys

Worked at even more embarrassing fast food job

Just 1 wedding, father would have disowned or had heart attack.

Try to hide "baby hang"

No comment on the singing.

Natural dirty blonde.  Gotcha biatch!

Seriously Gwen, I hope you are surrounded by friends as wonderful as mine on your day.  

I feel fugly, oh so fugly...

Come on sing it with me now, "I feel fugly, oh so fugly.  I've felt bloated and zitty all day...and I pity the poor bastard who gets in my way..." 

It's been one of those weeks.  Did you hear the joke about how the supreme being of the universe decided to give women zits and wrinkles at the same time? Hahahahahahaha.....LMAOROTFGMEOWHP (that's me laughing my ass off rolling on the floor gouging my eyes out with a hot poker).

I'm a picker.  I can't, not pick.  It's an inherited gene (I remember the countless times my dad had to beat my mom off him in the bathroom when she was hot after a back-zit).  My poor four year old has the gene too so any tiny thing on his face becomes an open wound in about an hour.  You don't have to use too much imagination to visualize the state of my face, but of course I'll tell you anyway.

Here's a quick run-down of what we're dealing with:

Zit #1:  The Eye of Sauron.  This puppy is right where you guessed, smack between the eyebrows conveniently nestled in the first "1" of the "11"  of the furrow that also lives there.

Zit #2:  The Temple of Doom.  Left temple parallel to the Eye of Sauron.

Zit #3, 4 & 5:  Orion's Belt.  Right of the mouth.

Zit #6-10:  Apocalypse now.  Under the chin.  Just a big, bloody mess.

On top of the zits, there's a bad haircut.  Some of you have heard about this already.  The woman who cuts my hair seems to be getting 1 of 3 over the plate.  If I don't bring in the same picture of Eva Longoria EVERY time she does a little improv of her own - not good.  When I look in the mirror I'm alternating between seeing Florence Henderson, Dorothy Hamill, Hillary Clinton and if I have my glasses on, my mother.

So we've got the zits and the bad hair cut.  Let's throw in some bloating.  I feel like I have a full body, Dr. Scholls Gel insert under my epidermis.  And I'm not gellin'.  I'm yellin'.  Like a felon.  Serendipitously (for him) my husband is on a business trip so he will not bear the brunt of these conditions.  

My children may not make it through the week without irreparable emotional damage however.  Especially since my four year old just informed me I smell like eggs.

Thanks a mil Dougie Howser!

I had the unsettling experience last week of going to a new doctor that turned out to be younger than me.  This is no good.  HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?  I'm 28.  I will always be 28.  That's "my" age.  You know that age in your head that never changes regardless of how far your ass has fallen?

Part of my daily battle with aging includes all the stuff you're supposed to do to stay youngy like yoga.  Of course when you combine an addictive personality with yoga what do you get?  Vinyasa syndrome.  No, that's not really a thing, but I have it.  For those of you who don't do yoga, a "vinyasa" is like a push-up on steroids, because you do it backwards using the weight of your body as resistance.  Apparently I went a bit overboard with the vinyasa-ing and ended up with a really sore shoulder.  After a three weeks of rest, ice and going to the chiropractor I decided I had better consult an orthopedist because there was this squishy, sore spot on top of my shoulder that wouldn't go away.

So I go to the shoulder guy.  He bounces into the room all fresh and dimply.  He's blond, tall, cute (in a Dougie kind of way, not a McSteamy/Dreamy way) and YOUNGER THAN ME.  He does the doctor meet and greet thing, "you from around here, go to school here, etc.".  I say no, I'm actually from Oregon.  He says, "oh, are you a Duck?"  Embarrassing answer #1, "no, I'm a Beaver." Nice.  Of course Doogie McCutie also went to Notre Dame just for a little added humiliation.

So he does the exam, completely ignoring the lovely cami I had on under my granny sweater and sits down to give me his diagnosis.  I'm expecting an athlete's diagnosis.  Something along the lines of "tendinitis due to over-jockishness" or a "torn ligament due to extreme yoga-goddessness."  But that's not what Doogie tells me.  Oh no.  He looks at me with those sparkly, spectacle-free blue eyes and says with a smile "you may have a little arthritis in that shoulder." Ouchy Doogie.  Ouchy.  I humbly put my granny sweater back on and skulk out of the office giving him a thanks but no thanks on the offer of a cortisone shot.

Obviously I'm making light of this but it's actually starting to bother me.  My grandmother had horrible arthritis in her hands that kept her from enjoying many of the things she loved in life like knitting.  My father is an avid cyclist and just had a double hip replacement due to arthritis in those joints.  Is this really starting to happen to me now?  Exercise is one of the few healthy things in my life that brings me joy.  The shoulder wasn't the first, nor I'm sure the last, body part to fail me.  I don't run anymore because of pain in my knees and hips.  I do only low-impact exercise like spinning and eliptical machines for cardio.  It makes me so goddamn angry that I'm willing to do the work and my body isn't willing to come along.

I left Doogie's office and headed straight for the supplement aisle of Whole Foods to buy every gd root or wort I'd ever heard of that is supposed to help inflammation.  I bought turmeric, fish oil, ginger and some JointMD stuff.  I'll let you know how it goes or if I grow a third nipple.  If anyone out there has any other suggestions, bring 'em on!

Oh and that squishy thing?  It's a cyst.  Doogie told me that if it gets bigger, and I quote, "unsightly", that I could come back and he would reassess it.  Yeah, that's gonna happen.

Rants, Raves and Reality

I'm almost 40.  There I said it.  I'm in the twilight of my thirties.  Screw that, MY THIRTIES ARE ALMOST FUCKING GONE.  I will be 40 in 323 days and counting and I'm having some issues with it.  I don't mean to sound negative, but in my mind, 40 isn't the new anything, it's just 40.

I watch these amazing women around me turn forty with grace and acceptance.  They are better women than me.  I simply DON'T WANT TO.  It's not just about the surface stuff (although a shit load of it is).  Things are changing all around me.  My body.  My mind.  My children.  My world.  Some of these changes are annoying to say the least and on bad days downright terrifying.  

I biatch about all of this to any girlfriend willing listen, and if there's wine involved all the better.  Being able to vent and moan and snivel over a good Zinfandel (or a beer and a shot of tequilla) is life-giving for me.  I'm addicted to facebook and change my status so regularly I'm sure my "friends" think I'm a nut job.  That's part of the reason I've been thinking about writing this blog forever.  I blog in my mind constantly.  I also write stand-up comedy in the shower.  I have a new thought/idea/joke about every 1.23 seconds and am egocentric enough to think that someone else just HAS to hear about it.

So how can I bring all these phenomenon together?  The almost forty thing plus the need to overshare like I do with my girlfriends?  I can blog.  And maybe I can invite new friends to the blog n' bitch.  And maybe I can create a community of other mamas (mama = anyone hovering around the 40 mark and having some issues with it, even if you have a penis).  Who knows.

So here's what this blog is going be about:  My daily issues with aging, child-rearing, working, living, managing my anxieties (realities) and the things I've found that work for me (raves) and the shit that doesn't (rants).  Much of this blog will seem shallow, vain, whiny and trite.  It will seem this way because it will be shallow, vain, whiny and trite.  And if you don't like it, bite me and start your own blog (or just don't read mine).  But hopefully some of it will be useful, thought provoking, idea generating or at least make someone's day with a good laugh.  My dream is to have a safe place where friends can come to discuss all the stuff that's happening at this crossroads called forty.

It's going to be a big girl/big boy blog.  I like my four to seven letter expletives.  I'm bound to talk about my wee wah at some point.  In other words, read at your own risk.