You want kids? Test drive a puppy.

The culture of my neck of the woods is intensely family oriented, a trait for which I typically have no disagreeance. I may not completely “go with the flow”, but it is what it is and that’s okay. I support the idea of loving and enjoying the family you’ve got - and with my own few exceptions (of course) I’m with the crowd on this one. But here’s where I sort of break down the norm: The nature of local custom also extends to the continuing creation of families, implying young brides and young mothers. (In that order, mostly.) We’re talking 19-21 year old newlyweds. God bless ‘em. As a 27 year old single female without children, I’m outside the general demographic. On my 23rd birthday, one of my best friends assessed my situation by stating via birthday card: “This old and no boyfriend?! You may as well start collecting cats now… you’re destined to be the weird cat lady.” 

Well, desperation-based-cat-collecting isn't really my thing. I'm more a dog person anyway. I have two. 

Charlotte (Lottie) and Savannah (Nana)

And I tell myself that when other people MY age are talking about their blossoming family of 5, my modest family of 3 gives me some edge in those conversations. I can pretend it's comparable, right?  

"Oh? You're having problems potty training your 3 year old? That's too bad. My 2 year old has been trained since she was 4 months old... Have you tried rubbing her nose in it?" .... .... .... yeah, maybe not. 

So maybe it's just practice for the real thing? And my girls give me a lot of practice. 

There was one night, not too long ago, where I left one of my babies alone while mommy had a well-deserved night out with some friends. (I justified: 2 years in dog years is like 14... so she could handle herself, don't judge me.) I came rolling in around 2am to find my Savannah, and consequently my dining room, a bloody mess. (It was a blood bath, I'm not exaggerating.) She was freaking out, crying like a human baby. My kitchen blinds were demolished. I wondered, while trying not to pass out at the sight of her blood, if she was so distraught in my absence she tried to hang herself (I work with at-risk youth, it's how I'm trained to think), or if I had forgotten to feed her and she thought the blinds looked like a sharp-plastic version of a bone. Then, I panicked.  

I scooped up my puppy, threw her in the bath, tenderly bathed away the blood and gently pressed on her tummy to see if she would make those human-baby noises again. Having some sense not to call my vet at 3 in the morning, I called the first animal hospital's number I found, it was a pet ER about 50 minutes away from me -- I practically had my keys in hand, bound to break every speed law to get my baby some help.The lady on the other side of Pet-911 calmed me down so that she could understand me between my dry-sobs. I followed her instructions and was told I "probably wouldn't need to drive Savannah in... she probably wouldn't die before my vet's office opened the next morning." Which was a little comforting. I wrapped the now happy pup up in a towel and rocked her back and forth, really sobbing now. "If I can't take care of a puppy..." I cried, "how can I ever expect to raise a child?". Yes, the sleep-deprived, trauma-stricken, female mind will go there - every time. 

I called my vet's office and left a message for them to call me the second they were in. The next morning, or 4 hours later, Nana and I were in the small exam room with the vet who probed and worked his pet-voodoo magic. His diagnosis was cut-up gums and severe separation anxiety (apparently, a single mom who works 2 jobs is damaging to a young dog's psyche, enter: extreme guilt.) for which he said he'd call in a RX for an antibiotic and some Prozac. I joked with him "Prozac? Great, and what should I give Nana?" 

"How about a friend?" was his response. 

And that's where Charlotte (Lottie) came from. We rescued her from the local shelter... she's fun if you like dogs with by-the-book adoption issues. 

It makes sense, doesn't it? Because, if you can't take care of one -- get another! Maybe the problems will work themselves out! (Sarcasm?) We're just like any other slightly dysfunctional family: One of us is on Prozac, another wants all of your attention or none of it, and then there's the one of us who might be critically re-considering the whole desperate-cat-collecting thing. 

It's easy to spot (and be critical) of those people who should NOT be parents, right? I'm just a little distressed by the babies having babies these days -- so, I've come up with an ideal solution. I've decided that for every wedding I'm invited to, I'm gifting the newlyweds a puppy. I know, it's genius. Either it works according to plan and we rescue cute little critters WHILE saving a few children from ever suffering at the hand of ill-prepared parents. 

Or I'll never be invited to another wedding... nor will I be asked to baby/puppy sit. Ever. 

And that's what you call a win-win. 

The Groupon Disaster

Remember Sunday mornings as a child? When mom would slave over a hot stove to make burnt french toast and insist we all eat as a family? That’s when you’d bring in the Sunday paper and everyone would descend to rip away their favorite part first (personally, I was after the comics). Mom always ended up with the scraps, or what we felt were the boring parts: the coupons. That didn’t phase her though! She’d pore over those for most of the morning neatly clipping ads for toothbrushes, steaks, and baby wipes. She would sound so happy about saving .19 cents on deodorant, it was confusing.

I remember thinking as a child: “That must be what it means to get old. You have to enjoy the coupons.”

Now that I’m older and pay my own way in life, I totally get the high that comes from saving a few pennies. It’s like you’ve won something, beat “the man” at his own game, and you’re sneaking away with the best deal ever. This is what makes Groupon so addicting. But, tell me please, have you ever found any addiction without its dark side?

Let me tell you about the recent burn I’ve received from Groupon-ing to illustrate.

I may have mentioned that I work in an entirely male environment? Boys home, male employees, men therapist-bosses? Very little estrogen. To remedy the obvious heartache this inflicts, the other estrogen related coworkers and I like to “get out”, as often as our schedule permits, to rebuild/rejuvenate/relax. As work has been extremely tense of late, we decided to take part in a manicure/pedicure “deal” found via Groupon.

What we expected:

•           A semi-swanky salon with calming décor, and maybe a little Kenny G playing in the background.
•           Those really cool massage chairs with the foot tubs. I mean, if Wal*Mart has ‘em, shouldn’t everyone?
•          A rainbow of colors to choose from as far as nail polish was concerned.
•           A little peace and quiet while we let all of our work stress seep out into the hot water at our feet.
•           Nail techs that spoke a language we understood. (I mean this last part with the least amount of prejudice, I assure you.)
•           To walk out of the salon feeling like we could pull off the last few weeks of sandal season with confidence and pride.

Not asking TOO much, right? I mean, we were willing to give a little on the Kenny G thing.

What we got:

•           A ghetto salon inside a strip mall with filthy floors, questionable utilities, and Carly Rae’s “Call Me Maybe” (radio’s newest rape victim, I mean chart topper.)
•           Office Max chairs with vibrating pillows at the back, a plastic liner placed in what looked like crock pots that nearly burned my piggies off.
•           7 Colors of nail polish.  5 of which I’m sure were part of my collection at home.
•           The entire, extremely detailed, scoop on the nail techs’ co-worker whose boyfriend just landed himself in prison (again) which was a source of huge distress for her. Same missing coworker has it tough because she has $16,000 in medical bills – THIS because the aforementioned boyfriend BROKE HER FACE.  As a BONUS we learned: What a hip piercing is, and how you get one. (Because one of the present nail-chicks was uncomfortable while her “skinny pants were munching her hip piercing”), And the other nail-chick’s husband has monkey feet.
•           Nail techs who spoke English, but made me prefer I didn’t. (See above)
•           One of the worst looking manicures/pedicures I’ve ever had.

I don’t feel like my standards are really that high either. My first ever pedicure I walked away with a flesh wound. I stepped into a hot tub with a shiv that took out part of my big toe, freaked out the Asian fellow assigned to my feet who immediately doused my toe in alcohol causing me to utter (for the first time ever) the glorious “F word”. At which point the small Asian man said “We do you manicure instead”. Even THAT manicure looked better than the paint I’m staring at in horror as I type this. One coat of copper, obviously smudged, cotton STUCK to the still sticky top coat—and I PAID FOR THIS!?! I think my co-workers 7 year old could have painted my nails better!

It was while I was browsing the Wal*Mart health and beauty section for polish remover that I really discovered I had been had. The money I thought I saved with the Groupon I was now spending to correct the error of my ways. No savings. I had actually lost. My ugly penny-copper nails were a painful reminder that sometimes saving a few pennies  just isn’t worth it.

-Mag

Cheaters never win … Ever.

I’m 27 years old. I have 3 diplomas which hang on my wall at home, I know how to budget and account for my own finances, I know how to spell words that sounded like magic spells when I was  5, and I know how to drive a car. This vast amount of knowledge would make a younger version of me stop and stare (what can I say? I was easily impressed as a child). But! Younger me and I had something in common, as far as knowledge gaps go, until just recently.

We both believed the state of Alaska was an Island... you know, completely surrounded by water. Like Australia or Hawaii. - - - I say this last bit to illustrate the fact that at least I know what an island really is, which perhaps makes the above obvious falsehood just that more tragic.

Oh, but I know the truth now. I had a conversation with a friend who plans to make a trip, by car, to Alaska in the coming months. When he told me, I just stared at him incredulously.

“What?” he said, confused my by disbelief.  

“You’re going to DRIVE to Alaska?” I said.

“It’s not THAT far. We’ve driven farther.” he said.

“Is there, like, a bridge or something?” I asked, seriously.

“What are you talking about? A bridge? I’m going up through Canada, I do have to cross the border there’s no way around that… no bridges.”

“No, I know that. But what about the water?”

“What about it?”

“How does one DRIVE to an Island?!”

“I’m going to Alaska. It’s not an Island”

“It’s not an Island. Like, at all? Seriously?” (Okay, maybe I didn’t completely understand the whole “island” thing after all)

“Seriously. It’s attached… to Canada. Are you just playing? Did you really think it was an Island?”

“Noooo. Pff, no. …… Maybe.” 

And while my friend nearly peed himself laughing at me, I tried to explain myself.

“But! All of the maps! They just have Alaska floating off in the middle of nowhere!” I nearly yelled at him.

More laughter.

“Seriously. Most people get there by boat though, that’s why they have cruises there!.. Right?!” I was pulling at straws here, I knew I was wrong. Oh so very wrong. Alaska was not the Island I always believed it to be.

“How can you really be this old and not know simple geography?” he asked between tears

And then I realized why, I was being punished by God. Because cheaters never win. Ever.

“I cheated on my geography quiz in 5^th grade.” I said sheepishly.

“What?”

“I cheated.”

“You… cheated. Well, clearly. How did you ever graduate grade school?” his tone was mildly offensive.

“Shut up. I really wanted to go on the 5^th grade campout. I had to pass the ‘50 states’ quiz to go. I had failed it once before because I just don’t study. So I just kept the study guide in my desk and peeked at it when the teacher wasn’t looking.”  (And how Mrs. Petersen never caught me is beyond me.)

“I don’t know what to say to you right now. I don’t know which is more unbelievable: The fact that you cheated or that you really thought Alaska was an island.”

It was the only time in school I ever cheated. And I really do think God is punishing me. I can just see him up there, shaking his head in disappointment, and pointing his finger downward at me. “You may never know geography now." He'd say. "You will be cursed to look like an idiot all your life, but especially when your friend wants to drive to Alaska, all because you cheated. Choice and Consequence, my child.” 

You know, I really do stink at geography. 

I wish I never would have cheated. 

Dancing: Episode 3 "Game on!"

 

You know those activities you do, where you can let your hair down and be you? There's something for everyone --- Enter: NASCAR. 

Dancing is for me, what driving around in circles is for that guy with the dual-beer-hard-hat. The endorphin-release is addicting... and can somewhat cloud my judgment. For me, it's times like these that maturity becomes less necessary. With that disclaimer in mind, I'll explain a couple of the games we tend to play while dancing. 

That's-What-She-Said Game:

You're familiar with the pop-culture antics of  Michael Scott (The Office)  and the "That's what she said" tag, right? Same concept applies. Should you find your mind recognizing a what-could-be sexual reference, you shout "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID" -- and here's where the game begins; if you are not the originator of the thought you have to quickly touch your nose... The last player with a finger to their nose loses and is then forced to make a sex noise. Those are the rules.

You can learn a lot about a person playing this game. And I'm not just talking about their dexterity. 

It gets to the point that everyone's minds have been brought down to the same level, and you may as well keep your finger on your nose. I've laughed myself to tears too many times to count. You'll find that the game is about done (but even more fun to play) when you hear one of your friends say: "What? Guys! That one doesn't even make sense... UUUUHHHHH Heh Heh Heh Oooooo!" (MAJOR brownie points to you if you just read that last paragraph out loud to someone.)

Give it a try with your friends. Enjoy!

My Team Game:

This game certainly extends beyond the dance floor for my closest girlfriends. The funny thing is I can’t really explain the rules of sport since I’m still in the process of constructing ‘my team’…. Then again, you could say creating the team IS the sport.

The goal is simple: Create a dream team. That is, the best of the best in every category. You want to make sure your team can kick any other team’s butt - at anything and everything. And that's it. 

Let me explain what playing the game looks like;

We (the aforementioned girlfriends and I) go dancing all the time, right? Walking into a crowded club with easily a few hundred people, it becomes almost necessary to start calling dibs on potential teammates. You see a good looking fella? You call "my team". And he's on your team. Easy win! You see an awesome dancer? No sweat, just beat your friend to the punch by vocalizing "my team", another easy win. ... Simple, but fun. 

In the reverse (or you could say "defense") you can also play the same game like this:

Say you are flying home via a crowded airport... see that one guy's nasty ponytail? Snap a picture to send to your girlfriend with the caption "Ponytail: Your team"... All calls are final, so she can't argue. The most gratifying of wins? Just bid that guy, the one your age who you caught checking out your grandma's pink-plaid tush, "your team". No need to feel offended that your silver-jean-co clad rear didn't grab his attention, just gift him to another team. One less handicap for your team gives you an advantage! 

The teammate doesn't have to agree to the draft or trade. Actually, very rarely do they know they've even been selected. 

The game has become particularly brutal between me and one of my best friends. (Remember Judy?) The competitiveness stems from our unnaturally similar tastes. We tend to go after the same guy, every. freaking. time. ---  "My Team" has saved our friendship, and probably our lives. 

And besides, we know you're a little bored with all the  "Team Edward" or "Team Jacob" nonsense.

Anyway. It's all fun and games. But just remember, if life really is a team sport -- you certainly want to be on MY Team.

-Mag

Toenails and Tightie-Whities have no place in the work-place...

(For effect: This was meant to be posted on/around Halloween.)

   

There is something to be said for having "Cooth". One of grandmother's greatest fears was that I would grow up not having any, and I know this because on a daily basis she would find reason to ask me if I had it. She was as persistent with this line of questioning as she was about making sure I always had on clean underwear. I could never fully understand her fascination with my possession of some strange Scottish coloquilism or the state of my panties..... That is, I couldn't until recently.

At a work event over Halloween I met the embodiment of my grandmother's worst fear in the form of one of my clients. He certainly lacked any Cooth, and gave me first hand knowledge about the state of his undergarments in one of the most traumatic experiences I've had in my office to date. 

To begin my story, it's worthy of note that the unfortunate placement of my office situates me very close to the office bathroom (which gives me uncomfortable perspective on the bowel patterns of my coworkers) and it is this fact for which I blame the run-in I had with Mr. No-Cooth. 

He had approached me looking for a gym bag he had sent in with his son earlier that morning. This isn't unusual, we will do searches in the large bathroom adjacent to my office when our residents come and go from the facility. I told him that the bathroom was currently occupied, but that we would look once it was open. 

"Great." he said, "I am pretty sure my socks are in there. I'm on day 3 with the ones I'm wearing right now - I really could use a change." 

I just stared at him. 

Not that there wasn't like a million- or exactly 3- things going through my mind at that exact moment though.

First; WHY would this man be wearing the same pair of socks he left his home state with, when I KNOW he'd been checked into the hotel down the street for 2 days? ... The same hotel that is conveniently located near a Wal*Mart..... They sell socks at Wal*Mart.

Second; WHY would you share that kind of information with a stranger? What could possibly be gained by disclosing the status of your socks in casual conversation? ... Was I supposed to feel pity? Was I supposed to feel a bond of closeness because, at some point in life, surely everyone wears the same pair of socks for 3 days in row?... Clearly my conversation etiquette has a few gaping holes if there is an obvious way to react and converse in this situation.  

Third; (And maybe this was my overactive imagination) I immediately started to smell the nasty-man-corn-chip smell that usually accompanies men's gym bags and college dorm bedroom carpets. ... With this thought, I was tormented with the onslaught of instant nausea. I had to brace myself against a wall to keep from hunching over the trash can. 

The smell had little but dissipated when the bathroom became free and he retrieved the gym bag. The next thing I knew he was sitting down, AT MY DESK, and changing his socks. I stared at him in horror. I was only half aware that he was talking to me, saying something like "I just hate to put on dirty socks after a shower, it feels so wrong!". I really don't remember much of what he said, as most of my attention was focused on holding down the bile in the back of my throat, until I heard him declare "Look at those toenails!"... To this day, what continues to baffle me is his tone of pride behind that statement. 

And, y'all, I couldn't help myself. I looked. 

That hue of green has denied me of any appetite for split pea soup.... forever. Enough said.

Once his socks were replaced, I saw him gather in his hands the clothing he had discarded on my desk - including the corn-chip smelling socks... only there was more than socks. I distinctly noticed the blue and yellow line that don the Fruit Of The Loom waist band. I couldn't believe it. The man had the audacity to place his questionably clean tightie-whities, on my desk!! I had no idea where they came from, and I didn't want to know. I was far too absorbed with the thought of sanitizing my entire work space with Lysol, and creating ways to avoid crying myself to sleep at night. 

It was days before I could fully describe the horror of the situation to my coworkers and friends, and it came to me as I made the connection in my mind between those years as a child when my grandmother demanded an answer to the question "Ain't you got no Cooth?" and Mr. No-Cooth's actions that morning.

I was sure my grandmother rolled over in her grave. And maybe his grandmother too.... and every other self-respecting, cooth-reminding, ever-loving grandmother that ever lived.

Truly, there is something to be said for having Cooth. 


-Mag

I've Got No Strings (iGNS): Pilot Episode

You know that feeling you get when someone starts to tell you about their up-coming trip to Australia, and how it's going to be even better than their trip to South Africa (where they got to attend a few world-cup soccer matches) -- and how even though you kinda hate soccer and never really have the ambition to leave the U.S., you find yourself thinking "I hate people like that!" out of jealousy?

I've never actually felt that way.

At least, not for more than 60 seconds. 

It takes me about that long to remember I'm often accused of being "people like that". I may not make my way over seas, but I put a lot of time and miles into other destinations. In fact, my recent disappearance from this scene has been due to 5 separate get-aways I've had since May. My domestic traveling has made for several great stories, many of which deserve their own posts  - -  which brings me to another instalment of a soon-to-be-fave series. This one I call: iGNS.


I have always loved the song from Disney's Pinochio, "I've got no strings". Especially the 3rd verse - It's like it was written about me! Herein lies the significance to this series' title: 

I’ve got no strings so I have fun, I’m not tied up to anyone.
They've got strings but you can see,
There are no strings on me!

So without further adeau, Episode 1: Road Trip to Nowhere (Pilot)

About a year ago now, myself and 2 friends met up for dinner to catch up and talk about the woes of working and dating. Much like we all do, we vocally fantasized about the idea of running away. Just picking up and leaving. No forwarding address, no saying when we'd return.  The only difference between this night a year ago and every other night like it? We were 95% more serious than usual. 


One of my friends, Judy* (*name changed for the sake of protecting identities of the innocent)  had previously created a bucket list -PLUG: I highly endorse these!- and one of her goals was a trip to nowhere... to just get in the car and drive. No plans. No destination. Just explore. This seemed like a perfect fit to our wild ambitions of running away. So with our new resolve, we decided a time to meet up a week later, which we did. We had pillows, blankets, junk food, Twinkies (which are their own classification of junk food), iPods, and a something that could only be described as "insanity", so we hit the road. We had no idea where we were going, we just picked a direction (North) and drove.


We spent the most exhilarating 55 hours on the road, ever.  These are the highlights;


5 hours in;  



A little of our excitement had started to wane, especially as stomachs started to growl. (Twinkies weren't very appetizing in that moment). We decided to stop for food. In the first "big city" we came to we found a random car show at a local burger joint. We ate the greasiest of burgers - all the while oogling Mustangs and their owners. I was tempted to place money on a hot-wheels race they had set up for kids, but thought better of it and walked away. With full stomachs our status quo had been restored, and we were on the road again.


11 hours in;



We had gotten a late start in the day because of work schedules, so it was close to 3am when "the wall" started to hit. You know "the wall", the one that literally shuts your body down without permission? Makes you start to maybe hallucinate? Yeah... we were seeing spaceships (Later, in the daylight, we discovered these were turbines). Clearly the wall had affected all three of us, so we stopped at the first hotel we found. A Motel 6, now endearingly referred to as "Hooker Motel". ----- Why Hooker Motel, you ask? Because we were NOT hallucinating when we sent in Dee (*also innocent and staying that way) to pay for the room and watched as two young ladies left two young men in the parking lot to go pay, in CASH, for TWO rooms, only to watch them separate and "check in" minus luggage. Also. I'm pretty sure this was the most disgusting hotel I've ever stayed in. The lady behind the bullet proof (STD proof) glass promised she would give us the room that "didn't smell as weird" (AS weird? wtf?) In fact, since the room had a smell, she wouldn't charge us the $3 extra dollars for the 3rd adult, but she just couldn't discount the mini fridge in the room, so she tacked on $3 dollars for a fridge that only kept my luggage from the lice (crab) infested carpet... I was too tired to catch on that I was being screwed (no pun intended) out of a good deal here. I'm telling you, I was afraid of venereal disease just by association. We slept, if you can call it that, for about 4 hours then left - never to return. 



19 hours in; 

Judy has connections with a major league baseball team in the next big city we found, and was able to get us some free tickets which usually makes my male friends drool with jealousy. We were situated right behind home plate, about 10 rows up. I had a nice view of the batters' bum... and given my lack of interest in major league baseball, that's about all I chose to watch. While we were at the game we met up with some other connections we had in town. Locals. And we asked for a little self guided tour.



21 hours in; 


We found ourselves walking through a HUGE open fish market and swap meet. It was amazing to watch fish fly, smell different varieties of fry break, and hear hippies play Ocarinas-- it was almost sensual overload. But. I would say the most fun to see was this incredible piece of vandalism/art in a alley below the market. For years people would dispose of their ABC gum (c'mon, you know, Allready Been Chewed) on this wall in this alley. What resulted was about half a city block, 20 feet high, speckled in every color and flavor gum imaginable. Of course we had to leave our mark! I posed for a few pictures which have since been the controversial topic of conversation among other friends. (Okay, maybe I "kissed" the wall! Big deal!) But I will tell you the same thing I tell those nay-sayers! I would definitely risk herpasyfulitis (<herpa-seffa-litus> that's herpes, syfullous, and hepatitis, rolled into one) to touch the wall again. But maybe my judgement is just a little skewed after having stayed at the "Hooker Motel"....? *Shrug* -- Oh well. 




... TO BE CONTINUED. 


In the next episode! --- The trip to nowhere is continued with; A town made famous by a book, Gun shots at the Norman Bates Motel, The most beautiful beach on the north west coast, Waterfalls from my childhood, and more on Twinkies. 


++ Please comment your interest in seeing this series continued. 


-Mag

A day all about me

((Writers note: The following was a victim of blogger's crash - it was supposed to be posted May 12. Most of it was lost in the fall-out, but "take two" isn't so bad... I guess.))


I was born at an early age. (<= My favorite "dad joke") --- I was a perfect, pink, alien looking thing with 10 fingers and 10 toes and a bow glued to my head. I was precious. And since that blessed day in May (26 years ago) people have celebrated my birth at regular intervals.

Typically the celebration is an annual event, but as I was my parents' first child, my first year had a few extra milestone birthday parties. The newness of life they had created was exhilarating to them, and they felt it important to recognize my adeptness to growing and aging... Due to lack of context, things like my aging from one month to two months (therefore doubling my life experience to date) seemed celebratory. I find it very similar to teenagers in relationships who celebrate anniversaries monthly, again due to a serious lack of context. But! To each their own. It's as great as any other reason to make a cake and set it on fire.


More than the cake was the parties though. When my parents celebrated my 6 month/half year birthday they made half a cake and other “half” portion themed treats, wrapped my presents half way, let me play with half-inflated party balloons, and sang me half the birthday song. The neighborhood was invited of course. It was legendary. And all this for a 6-month-old who looked like a chubbier version of the same baby they celebrated a month prior. You can imagine the kind of birthdays I’ve had to live up to. The bar was set many many years ago.


I’m certain my parents have often wondered if they’ve created a monster. (To clarify; the birthday parties are the monster, not me.) I've done everything from pinatas and tail pinning games, to camp-outs, to orchestrating an all out birthday-cake-in-the face food fight. (Yes, it was epic.) It's gotten to the point now that I have birthWEEKS vs. old fashioned birthDAYs. ... At 26, I'm a little exhausted as I think about how my birthdays have evolved.


Maybe it's my new-found "old age", but here's what my being reminiscent of old birthdays has helped me to discover;


At age 6 I would beg and plead with my parents to let me plan my own birthday party. I was more creative then. More enthusiastic. At age 26 I resort to dropping hints (beginning in April) in hopes that someone else will just surprise me, and plan my party for me.  


At age 6 there were cute little invitations, sent weeks in advance, when people understood the phrase "RSVP". -- At age 26 we create facebook events or send a mass text message to everyone in our contacts list, maybe 24 hours prior to the event, counting on at least 25 out of 100 showing up. 


At age 6 it was all about the themes and decorations (which would correlate with the invitations, by the way). Banners, streamers, balloons, the works. If any of my 6 year old friends came without a tiara, they were scorned. At age 26, there's no decorations. No theme. If someone were to show up in costume, they'd not be invited back. Ever. 


At age 6 I knew everyone at my birthday party. In fact, I would invite my entire class on the simple truth: more people = more presents. At age 26, there's no gifts... And I'm really trying to figure out how I know that guy in the corner...


At age 6 a birthday card from grandma would suffice. At age 26, I have this compulsive need to log onto facebook 50 times in one day to see how many *friends (*people I haven't seen or spoken to since my LAST facebook birthday) remembered me and took the 10 seconds to draw up some original form of "Happy Birthday, hope its a good one!"


At age 6, maybe it's just me, but the "happy birthday song" seemed a little peppier, more bouncy. (Again, maybe this has something to do with a level of enthusiasm?) At age 26, it's all we can do to make it not sound like a ballad gone wrong. Very wrong. 


At age 6 blowing out the candles wasn't a difficult task. At age 26 I just pray that one breath, minus spittle, will get the job done. 


At age 6 I would shamelessly eat birthday cake and ice cream, lots of ice cream. At age 26 I chew on ice chips and imagine it tastes the way I remember cake to be. Even birthdays can't excuse my obsession for calorie counting. 


At age 6 party games were simple, fun, and innocent. At age 26, without the Xbox or Wii and a few "hard drinks", we'd be bored out of our ever living minds.  


At age 6, there were party favors. Pencils, noise makers, stickers. At age 26.... if I can't remember who the guy in the corner is, how am I supposed to remember to buy party favors?! 


At age 6 I avoided birthday spankings like the plague. At age 26, I've got my special undies on hoping this year the spankings are a little more erotic. (After all, in the words of Gaga; 'if it's not rough, it isn't fun!')


You see what I mean? .... Birthdays are different so now, that's for sure. 


I have concluded that there is at least one thing that hasn't really changed though. I'm still really adept at this aging thing. In truth, it can't be stopped. I'm going to get older, I'm going to continue to grow. But, I have to say, I think I'm doing it rather gracefully -- 


So, here's to me. Grab a piece of cake on fire and eat it in my honor, I'm happy to share. 


Happy Birthday-MONTH to me!  




-Mag




*This post is dedicated to B and J who picked up the hints, invited everyone (including the guy in the corner), and provided the drinks. Thanks for making 26 rock - so far! Love to you both.