I'm Worth a Million in Prizes

Here is the painting Stinky made me for my birthday. She wanted to paint me flowers because she knows how much I love them, but the first photo she looked at was of fireworks. So, she painted a flower that looked like fireworks. Perfect

In 15 minutes I will officially be fortymuthafuckinfour years old. Shit, yo! That seems really really old when you look at it on paper. Luckily for me, it doesn't feel that old in the real world...Or whatever world it is that I live in.

I know people who get sad on their birthdays. I'm not one of those. I tend to celebrate it as long as I can. As far as I'm concerned, finishing every year is a HUGE fucking accomplishment. And beginning every year offers the prospect of another wonderfully ridiculous adventure.

I think if someone had told my 22 year old self that in that many more years, I'd be a single mom with two teenage daughters without being anywhere close to having a boyfriend, I'd feel sad about that.

On the other hand... If someone had told my 22 year old self that in that many more years, I'd still be running and bike riding and finally like myself and be comfortable in my body and my own skin, I'd be happy as hell. I'd have no idea what that would feel like, but I'd know I'd want to get to that place.

So, here I sit, careening dangerously close to 44. I'm in kick-ass shape, I know what to do to make myself happy, and I actually do those things. I have a job that's just fine, has great benefits, and gives me tons of freedom. I have two amazing daughters who actually respect me and think I'm almost as funny as I do. I am set and ready for action to deal with the wonderfully ridiculous year that awaits me. I am one, lucky, lucky fortymuthafuckinfour year old girl.

I've Had the Blues, the Reds and the Pinks

Here is a metal sculpture done by one of the artists in the Radillac movement and currently on the Radillac farm.

So, a friend of mine found herself suddenly single last Summer after a 13 year relationship. She is discovering that a lot has changed since dating in her twenties and is often feeling extremely frustrated with men. Since I've been single for many, many, many years (for the most part) I've been through about every annoying stage of trying to find a guy I could be happy with in a committed and healthy relationship...Except actually finding that guy, I guess.

Anyway, we spend a lot of time talking about guys we know* and trying to sort out what they say from how they act. Usually, we end these conversations by using our blanket, "Boys are dumb and so are we for trying to date them..."

On Monday night, Stinky had some other girls over and their conversations sounded sadly too familiar. At one point her friend was saying, "It's so dumb. He doesn't even like her. He even said the only reason he hangs out with her is because she's hot and easy."

"Gross," said Stinky. "I hate guys."

"Word. All guys are stupid," Stinky's other friend said. "We should just go T.P the houses of all the guys we hate!"

At first I laughed in my head, because apparently nothing ever changes. Then I stopped and thought, "Heeeeeeyyyy. These girls have an excellent point." Wouldn't we all feel so much better if we just went over and egged and TP'ed all the boys who have annoyed us and lied to us in the past year? I think it would be the best way to get over all the bullshit. I am absolutely sure we'd feel instantly better.

I did a little emailing with some of my girlfriends about how funny that prospect would be. We kicked around which guys might deserve this special treatment and mentioned Mr. B.. Granted, it would be an hour drive but might prove worth it. My girlcrush answered back that she would be all for it, but then very wisely noted:

p.s. when you're no longer 15, tequila is required for a project of this magnitude

I think the middle of Summer is the perfect time for a tequila induced road trip. Don't you?

* Please remember. I'm not talking about all guys - just the ones we know.

All These Lines on My Face Getting Clearer

Here's a photo of me in my twenties. So much attitude. So much bullshit.

What funny business this aging thing is. For the most part, I'd take being in my forties over my twenties any day. Sure, those lines are no longer so fine, and I can't bend at the knees without a loud, cracking protest from the place where my cartilage used to be, but it's an easy trade-off to finally be able to relax and like myself.

There was so much angst and unhappiness in my twenties. I would be paralyzed by what I used to call restlessness, but now know was something more akin to self-loathing. I felt threatened by almost everyone. I dressed in such a way and wore more than enough black eyeliner to let people know they wanted to avoid me. I hated you first and best - whomever you were. Gawd, how tedious I was.

Here is a photo the Dexter took of me dancing last month. So little shame. So much dorkiness.

I still see glimpses of my former self. Like this evening when Coadster asked me to go to her AP Government study session, so she could get extra credit. My immediate gut reaction was to go find my black leather motorcycle jacket and sit in the back of the class, surrounded by my invisible wall. To be honest, I did sit in the back of the class, and it took me a minute or two to warm up to finding someone who shared a similar political term. We had to match up terms, and the students then would write a sentence with them. The kid who's term went with mine, was a bigger dork than I was and his dad was totally pleasant. He now worked at ACT but had previously worked in the same office where I'm currently employed. He had seen me running down Rochester Street before. His wife arrived and she was also very nice. I suddenly remembered I wasn't an angst ridden freak anymore. I looked and acted (you know, for the most part) like a middle-aged mom. When did that happen?

When I was younger, I never thought I was enough of anything, and I dated guys who helped instill that in me. Now, my friend Ed jokes that I'll never meet a guy who likes me as much as I like myself, and it just might be true. Thank god I'm old.

The Potential You'll Be, That You'll Never See

Here is a window, or maybe a vent, with bars on it.

"Holy shit! He's a player. I've never thought of him that way before, but now it makes sense. I've always thought of him as a dorky, funny guy, but that's his game... Even in high school," she said and took a drink. I had already figured it out, the hard way, and took a drink myself. I'd actually just texted him as much. I had accepted my responsibility in having been played, but also, in a fit of bitchiness, gave him props for believability. Props 2 u, I had ended it.

And so it was done then. No more false hope, no chances, no more "maybe he just"...Or giving him more time to work his shit out. For all I knew, he didn't really have anything to work out. It was just his schtick, or part of his game. It was how he played the ladies...And judging from my reaction to him, it worked. I've always been a sucker for the victim routine. Tell me your sad story and I will empathize and try to help you.

I'm getting better. I'm recognizing it sooner and moving on...Eventually. It's why I texted him that last time. I didn't want any loose ends for him to work or unlocked doors for him to try and open. I also wanted to let him know I was on to him. There would never be another opportunity for him to assure me he wasn't trying to mack, and then do just that.

Aren't I the one who's always saying it's okay to make mistakes, as long as you learn from them? So, I'm learning, (very slowly, maybe) and trying to be better about ending things, instead of leaving them open, just in case someone gets their shit together. Maybe I should text myself too. Props 2 me.

It's Not Enough, It's Just a Habit

Stinky went to the show choir concert and all she brought me was this blurry photo.

So, here's what went down. On Friday I was feeling just a little wonky. I did my thing, I took care of the girls' needs, I went out and had fun, but I was just a little off. On Saturday I woke up with a bit of a headache, and was exhausted, but I bucked up and took Stinky to basketball. Then later took Coadster to show choir rehearsal and tried to pick Stinky up from basketball, but she wasn't where she was supposed to be and I forgot my phone. I drove home and called her. She said her dad was coming to get her. Then I ran to find a bowl to throw-up into.

Yup, I got sick, sick, sick. I also had a fever and the chills and I would have been ever so grateful had you stopped over to shoot me in the head, thank you very much. I kept thinking that at some point before Coadster's performance, I might get better. At around one o'clock, Coadster called me to see if I'd bring her some lunch. I started driving and then had to pull over, open the door and barf. I did that almost every block on the way to the high school and back. It was puketastic!

Once I got home, I told Stinky there was no way I was ever going to be able to sit through a two and a half hour performance. So, she called her dad to see if he could drive her and then called a friend to sit with her. I definitely did appreciate my ex-husband on Saturday. You heard it here, folks, and you may never hear that again.

I felt so awful I had to miss Coadster's show. Then Stinky came home and said the choir director had the same thing and had to leave before the first show was half over. He was the accompaniest, so it was harder to do without him. I started feeling better around 10 o'clock at night and I took it easy on Sunday, but that flu definitely kicked my ass while it was raging.

Now, we all know what I had. Let's take a little look at how I could have contracted it. It may have just a little bit to do with this very, very, uh, funny thing some of my friends and I do when we're getting our photos taken.

We stick our tongues out like we're licking the person standing next to us. It's best if you can pull it off, so the person you're with doesn't know you're doing it. The other guy will be all smiling and sweet, while you're next to them acting like an idiot. My friend Brooke and I were getting our photo taken two weeks ago, and I stuck my tongue out toward the bottle I was holding. After Brooke saw it later she said, "Hey, you were being dirty," and she swatted at me.

Sure, it's a barrel of fun, but it never occurred to me how unsanitary it could be. Thank god I'm not a germaphobe. Will I stop from now on? Probably not. It's too much fun to see the other person's reaction after they find out. Besides, I've already had one bad cold and the stomach flu. I'm thinking I just fulfilled my sick girl quota for the season. Wish me luck on that one.

Music Can Be Such a Revelation

Here are three pics of the same thing, just closer and closer up. First we see the metal locker looking things from a distance.

So, this afternoon I got hit with a migraine. I hadn't had one for a while and I think their absence made me cocky and not nearly cautious enough. I ignored the signs until it was too late, and then, BLAM! Next thing I knew I was practically running home from work, so I could take my meds and lie down long enough to let them work. I'm lucky because I have meds that work. Yes, I missed running at the rec building tonight because of my brain pain, but after an hour, I was able to get up and make dinner and clean my kitchen and bathroom and take Coadster to jazz choir practice and listen mostly, but sometimes do a good job pretending to listen to Stinky prattle on about basketball practice and what dress she wants to wear to the Winter formal and her plans for the weekend. And for all that, I'm thankful.

Then closer.

I'm also thankful that my migraine hit me tonight instead of tomorrow. Want to know why? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. On Friday, not only is my girl crush coming to town, but Poptart is coming to visit from Chicago. I am so excited for those two to meet and to bring Poptart down to The Dublin to join in all of our shenanigans. I know she'll fit right in.

I'm not sure what the whole plan is, but whatever it is, it should be fun. On Tuesday night, my friend J. instant messaged me to ask me if I left a karaoke machine on her porch. I told her if I had a karaoke machine, I would keep that damn thing for myself. As far as I know, they still don't know who left it, but I'm sure we can put that thing to good use tomorrow night after we get home from downtown. I'm just going to share a little secret with you right now. I've never done karaoke before in my life - ever. I don't know why, it's not like I would ever try to avoid it. I think karaoke has just been avoiding me. It probably knows how obnoxious I can get, and it doesn't want to encourage me. I'll let you know if karaoke and I finally hook-up this weekend.

Then, even closer still. I don't know why I'm so fascinated by different perspectives of the same damn thing, but I am.

The last time Poptart came into town was two years ago. She just happened to show up on the weekend where Coadster had her first show choir performance in the afternoon and then there was the What a Load of Craft show at the Picador and The Santa Crawl all over downtown. She even stayed on Sunday and went with me and the girls when we chopped down our Christmas tree and then went with to see our cheesy girl movie. Sadly, this weekend won't be quite so action packed. Although, Poptart is good at giving and taking drunken dares when we go out, so I know we'll still have a blast.

And your weekend? Does it include drunken dares and karaoke, or are you above all that?

They Never Said Your Name, But I Knew Just Who They Meant

What do you know. I'm actually doing the Saturday Scavenger Hunt thingy. And on time even, I think I do deserve a medal. The word this week was chosen by Evil-E at Random Crap. he chose the word black. Since I love contrasts, I can't show you black without putting something white up against it. I took this photo of a bulldog sitting outside of a record store on Haight Street. He was sitting on a black rug against some black stairs, so it makes him look like he's in a studio or something.

So, yesterday was busy. I took a half day off so I could go running in the perfect weather and then take the girls to get school supplies and then get everything ready for Stinky's end of the Summer sleepover. As usual, it was more tiring, but also much better than being at work.

Last night, all the kids left to play night games at a park. I think I've mentioned this before. They all get together and play kick the can and ghost in the graveyard and these elaborate games of hide-and-seek and I think it's pretty damn cool that kids still do that stuff. While they were gone, I ran downtown for a bit to say goodbye to my friend Rachie who got her first librarian gig at that one university in the UP of Michigan that already claimed my most awesome blogging neighbors last year. Stupid, bad, friend stealing school.

During my walk home, I got a call from the Hitandrun guy. I've decided to change his blog name once again. I understand it's annoying, but this is the last time. I swear. I figured I'd just simplify things and call him MR. B. In real life, I usually address him by his last name, as do most of his friends and his last name starts with a B., so it even makes sense. As you all know, that's not something I do very often - make sense.

So, we talked and Mr. B actually asked me questions about myself and even wanted to know my opinions on parenting and shit that no other guy I know has ever cared about. Of course, it wasn't all business, or else I'd get bored really quickly. We also had this conversation:

Him: I've been working nights, so I go in at midnight and then get home and get my son and fix him food and then maybe get three hours of sleep in before I go back to work. Starting September, though, I'm getting a new job where I'll start working days, so things should be a lot better.

Me: Cool. What's your new job?

Him: Well, I'm gonna be Donna Summer's personal assistant.

Me: Wow. Really? Will you get to wear a gold lame' pantsuit to work?

Him: Of course, and body glitter too.

Me: Lucky.

There's Always Something Happening and it's Usually Quite Loud

Well, kids. We're finally back from our travels. It was a great trip, but long and not exactly relaxing. I would have done things a lot differently if I had gone without my girls and if I had had a lot more money, but overall, I'd say we did a hell of a lot for the time and monetary restrictions we had. The post tonight will be a mostly photos and a general overview of the trip. I'll try to go back and recount things on a day to day basis in the next few posts. For now, this is what you get:

I finally got to go back and visit my beloved redwoods. And just to prove how much I love them, here's me hugging a big-ass tree with my overly long monkey arms. My friend K. texted me on my trip to tell me that she learned in yoga class that really long arms were a sign of generosity, so maybe they're not all bad.

While we were in King's Canyon, the girls got to hang-out inside a hollowed-out, downed tree. It's on its side and look how tall it still is.

We even met with my aunt and uncle and cousins and got them to take a photo with all three of us in it. That never happens, because usually one of us has to take the pic.

Oh, and just so you don't think I forgot. I took a cool action shot of a hot surfer guy at Half Moon Bay. You know I'm always looking out for my favorite girly blog readers...And I'm sure you'd do the same for me, right?

Mostly, what we accomplished on this trip, though, was some serious dorking-out. We dorked-out on the beach at Carmel.

We dorked-out at Hyde Pier in San Francisco...

And we dorked-out at the arcade off of Hyde Pier. Here's Stinky beating the arm wrestling machine. Although, I think using both hands might just be cheating.

We didn't even need to, (I think the hats said enough) but we gave it 110% by making the dumbest faces we could muster when we were on Pier 39.

And, finally, we truly out-dorked ourselves by posing with comedians at the wax museum. Seriously, if I had any shame whatsoever, even I would be embarrassed at this display of wanton dorkiness. It's a good thing I don't huh?

(Come Tomorrow) May I be Bolder Than Today?

So, hey. Guess what? It's my birthday on the 16th. I'll be recycling some old photos just for the occasion. As far as I'm concerned, you can never have enough old photos on blogs. If any of you want to feel free to post pics from your childhood or your parent's childhood, I promise to make a big stinking deal about it and oooooh! and aaaaah! all over them.

So, here's me destroying my sister's doll at one of my dad's studios. I'm not sure how old I was, but even then you could tell there was no hope of me ever growing into my cheeks.

Here is a photo of my mom and my oldest sister.

I am now the age my mom was when she died. It's weird to finally get here. I have no idea how my mom would have aged after this point, but she looked way better than I did at any other age, so maybe she isn't the best aging marker for me. My mom didn't have me until she was 33, which was pretty old in 1965, especially when we lived in Mormontown Arizona where all the other moms had their kids before they were out of high school.

I was my mom's last baby. Her blood pressure was out of control even at that young age, and she was basically told that if she had any more children, she could die. Hey, so I broke the mold, so what? I will say that I was very lucky to have my mom as long as I did. I'm sure you won't be too shocked when I tell you that I was one of those overly sensitive Cancer children who's feelings were constantly hurt. My mom used to say things like, "Here let me do it. That way I can't yell at you if it doesn't work out right." I loved that, because when I was young, I thought I was the only person in the world who made mistakes, and I would stress about it and there was my mom admitting that she did too.

Here's me at my dad's studio when I still had red hair. As I recall, this was taken shortly before he disappeared. I also have a vague memory that my dad threw me a surprise birthday party when I turned 4 and he would have been gone about a month after that, but you'll have to ask my siblings. They're older and remember that time better. I have a hard time sorting out the things that really happened back then, from the world I created in my head. In other words, I haven't changed a bit since I was four...Except I don't have quite as much red in my hair anymore.

Here's me when we lived in Alsip, Illinois. I think I was eleven here. (Please try hard not to be jealous of my denim wrap-around skirt) It must have been about a year after my mom died. I like to call the time after my mom died until I turned eighteen, my Dickensian years. No one called me Pip or Oliver and there was no Miss Havisham or Artful Dodger, but there were plenty of other similarities. The one thing I can say about those bad times is, that in comparison, my life now is almost perfect.

Every year I say that I'm so much happier than I've ever been, but I'd like to stop aging right here. Then I get another year older and things are that much better still. It's not so much that bad things have stopped happening to me, it's more that I'm getting so much better at dealing with them and putting things in perspective. Plus, I'm not nearly as hard on myself as I was in the past. So, now I'm thinking that this whole aging thing isn't so bad and I might as well just find out how much better my life can keep getting. Forty-three? Fuck yeah. Bring it on.