A good friend of mine turns thirty this month. Oh, GASP! THIRTY! She sent out an email asking some of us what our favorite parts of being thirty were. It’s a really good question and I finally have the answer.
My libido, it has finally arrived.
There’s this cruel rumor that travels around the High Schools which touts that boys peak sexually at 17, women at 30. At 16 years old, it’s easy to laugh about because HAHA ON YOU! You horny little man! The joke, it is not so funny at thirty. Actually, it’s annoying. Or cruel. Really really cruel.
So I sit around with my girlfriends and we list out our five. “Your five?!” You’re asking. Yes, our FIVE. You know, the five people we find attractive and are giving free ride (er, pun not intended) to “do” by our spouses should we have the chance. I mean, doesn’t everyone sit around discussing their “Five”?
So, in no particular order (except it is in THIS ORDER) here are my five yummies.
Paul Rudd Just. Hot.
John Krasinkski Hello, he’s holding an iPod. I’m a fan. Also, I wish I was Pam.
I would add my son’s pediatrician to the mix but Mr. Flinger said it can’t be someone I know in REAL LIFE. Damn. Instead, I’ll just put on makeup to take him to his well baby check this morning. And that’s not sad. Not at all.
Who are in your five?
Our biggest window faces the only “court” in our complex. Across the courtyard are several town homes of which people occupy with other large windows. This lends itself to peeping. I happen to know there is a gay couple who live in the flat behind us and a police man who lives directly across from us. Or, maybe he’s a low-grade police man (read: security gaurd). Either way, for some reason, I feel the need to hide my third beer as if I’m in high school and the cops give a shit that I happen to enjoy a Sam Adam’s light every now and again.
jeeeze. It’s LIGHT for godsakes.
There is a cardinal rule that you do not blog drunk. Or if you do, you warn your readers. Because? This is what happens when you blog drunk.
I get horribly sentimental when I’m sloshed. So excuse me, I’m going to sit on the couch with my husband and look at pictures of our son’s first two months. And probably try to talk him in to making another baby.
Don’t let me.
I remember my mother once telling me she looked in the mirror and saw Grandma. I must’ve been about 10 years old when she informed me my life would way day come to a screeching halt and I’d find myself laying on the floor in front of our full length mirror bawling my mother’s eyes out. I didn’t realize it would happen so soon.
Maybe it’s because I just spent an entire month with her. Maybe it’s because I just had my second child, not too much younger than she had her second child. Maybe it’s because now I am the same age she was in all those family photos of my childhood. Or, maybe it’s because Erin said, “I never realized how much you looked like your mother.” I’ll blame my mid-life crisis on her. (You know i luff you, Erin)
*Impressed with my Mad Photoshop Skillz, aren’t you?
Not completely unrelated but coming shortly before today’s blast-to-the-past, I set up the website to accept private entries again. So I can talk about you? No. So I can talk about my post partum body, my quest to grow my hair out, and insanely boring topics like, “I went running today. I almost puked. It was refreshing.” You see, there’s this girl I see when I look in the mirror and it is not the one who is looking back at me now. It’s not the person with two children, graying hair, and a muffin top. It’s the girl who jumped out of an airplane once, who climbed a mountain, who used to want to live in a cabin in Alaska and grow her own
food. It’s the person who wanted to write novels and live on an island in the San Juans. It’s also the person who stood on a mountain in November and married her best friend almost six years ago. If only I was that weight again, the one I thought was just so horrible at the time.
So, if you’re interested at all in the quest to “Get My Body Back”, register and start logging in. Hopefully in the next few days or so you’ll start seeing posts with this icon to warn you of a long-winded boring post probably having to do with my uterus falling out of my hayhay again when I went for a jog. But most importantly, I’ll keep pursuing my own identity. Because one day, my daughter will look in the mirror and go, “Oh, my god, I’m my mother.” And I really want that to be a good thing.
*Wow, a lot of y’all want to read about my HAWT muffin top and the ROLLS MY GOD THE ROLLS. Also, I just tried on a pair of pre-pregnancy pants (uh, size twelve) that didn’t zip. RAUR. I’ll be activating memberships this afternoon. Don’t be totally shocked if you log in and don’t see a SINGLE thing change (except your name appear on the right under who’s on.) But in the next day or two you’ll start seeing some changes, some posts, and if you’re REALLY lucky, a before picture. And maybe even a picture of the number on the scale. Holy Mothah.
I find myself in an odd place in life. Having grown up in a church, raised with like-minded people who could recite the Apostle’s Creed by heart, there was always an abundance of people around. There was an automatic system for support, or “fellowship” as the churchy people say. I left the Catholic church for a more “progressive” church during college and found other like-minded people again. There was a social network readily available. But most importantly, there was some being in my brain, this “God” that I would speak to. I was never truly alone.
These ideals finally fell off, after a few years of questions and unsatisfying answers and even more unfortunate run-ins with “God’s People”, and I finally laid to rest the idea that God is there. I got married, I made children, I made friends outside the church. I always thought one day we’d go back to The Church, if not because of a belief in a supreme being, because there is a group of people with family values just waiting to be friends with your children. I thought this is exactly what I’d want for my children. I’d let them make their own mind up later, as adults, but it wouldn’t hurt to at least know the bible stories and eat the goldfish at Sunday School with other people their own age. You know, people that wouldn’t throw the F-bomb around like their mama.
A few more years passed and we moved to a new location. After being so fortunate to have found a few friends who shared our same values (namely, making fun of other people when drinking beer but also being compassionate enough to not do it to their faces. Ok, I jest. Well, unless you worked with us around the year 2000. ‘is all I’m saying…) I thought we’d never be THAT lucky again. I mean, what are the odds that you’d find some regular great people who didn’t attend mass every Sunday or ask you why you haven’t accepted Jesus in to your heart?
As it is, we did find some more people who are just like us. And again, they’re around during some life changes in our family, or in theirs, and during illnesses and health. And I find myself thinking how lucky we are. Lucky because I don’t believe in a Divine Hand who guides us to each other. Lucky because I don’t believe I have to have a faith to be a good person. Lucky because there are other people out there who love their kids but are able to say, “What the hell! (S)he is going to have a short life if (s)he keeps this up!” and everyone can nod because yes, of course, I’ve said the same things.
And still, sometimes, on days like today, when I’m running and my two children are quiet and there is peace and Lake Washington is gleaming in the morning sun as the mist rises off the Cascades in the place we worked seven years to return to, I find myself thanking something. Or someone. Or Whoever. Maybe it’s because old habits die hard. Maybe it’s because my body has created life but has never felt more alive than it did at that moment. Maybe it’s because in the entire whole wide world, I find people who I can share this life with, this very short and wonderfully mysterious life with and who are exactly the people I’d want to be around at this time. And I realize that there are people, those in real life and those I may never meet from the Internet, who have shared parts of me that nobody else ever has and they mean so much more to me than a room full of strangers singing the words projected on a screen in front of the congregation.
When I left the church I found all of you. I found my real friends. I found my own way, my own life, my own happiness. Once I stopped looking, I finally found belonging.
(another view here)
Thanks to everyone for their input. I went with a #1 modified A-line cut. Y’all know your stuff!
About once a year I get all “PPfffttt I hate my hair. I hate my body. I have nothing to wear and that bitch over there looks great in her A-line layered cut and I look like a mom!” Ok, maybe more than once a year. But I usually only post about it once a year.
This year is a little different. I’ve taken action! I’ve taken photos! I’ve uploaded photos to websites and tried hair on like a teenager with too much time on her hands! (How this is possible, don’t ask, because LB will tell you something about Sesame Street on a loop or some such nonsense, silly girl.)
And here I am as Jennifer Anniston. The resemblance is uncanny!
So, here’s how things are going down as far as I know:
That’s as good as MONEY. Hellzya!
If you decide to post it on your own site, let me know so I can link to you here. And if you decide to tell other people about it, lemme know so I can link to you and then brag to my husband that the Internet really is a nice place to hang out.
And, well, even LB thinks I need a makeover and coming from someone who wears yogurt in her hair, it seems like a bad sign.
Or! I can be Ellen Belkin, just a lot younger. Ok, a little younger. But less wrinkly thanks to my current sunless state.
(Please note I will not be a soccer mom because of this cut, oh, no, I’m already a soccer mom. I’ll be all actress like! Even if I am 100 years old)
I look JUST like her younger sister, don’t I?
(Post will remain as sticky until voting is over. Voting ends July 25th.)
P.S. Colleen, this is why you have two.
Time: July 15th 8:10pm
I honestly have no idea how people with two small kids blog. I’m not sure who LB is more jealous of, the computer or her new brother. Either way, any time I try to sit down and write something, let alone something remotely fun or spunky, her little world has some crisis and her brother magically starts screaming. It’s uncanny.
For the last eight weeks I’ve been posting in stages. Stage 1: Make up the title and click “Save Draft”. Walk away from computer to fix meltdown. Stage two: Write something and click Save Draft repeatedly in between a myriad of feeding/helping/entertaining/soothing. This stage could take hours or days. Stage three: edit and scan for punctuation and spelling. (I usually skip stage three these days.) Stage four: hit publish, have no time to actually respond to comments even though I read them, laugh or nod or want to say something oh-so-much like how much I heart you. Start process all over again.
So tomorrow, Monday, July 16th, I’m going to skip the “draft” save and hit publish every time so you’ll see this post get longer and more complete all day. I’m going to stop mid-sentence, hit publish, and time stamp each attempt at completing one entire post. So come back often, y’all. You’ll watch the post unfold before your very eyes. (ooohhh! ahhhhh! Where’s the popcorn?) I know. It’s earth shatteringly thrilling. Trust me.
time: july 16th 8:30am. typing 1 handed for this leg of post
The title of the reality post is something like “I’m an a$$” or “The unexpected roll of motherhood”. I can only say a$$ because I want to be able to check the box on the blogher ad network that says I don’t cuss. I’m turning over a new leaf here, to be more family friendly. I’ll see if I can do it.
LB interruption #1
There are parts of motherhood you can expect and parts that you can’t. I expected to be tired. I expected to change diapers and kiss booboos and make dinners. I knew I’d hear the words, “I wuv you mommy” one day and I knew that would make my heart combust. What I didn’t realize, was my new roll as the mama-a$$. Or, rather, the family donkey.
Picture to come on the next leg… LB interruption #2
Insert Playdate where I actually get both kids out of the house
OH MY GOD I’m boring the crap out of myself. This is why there is a Save Draft button, people. Because live blogging is NOT suspensful OR thrilling. It’s boring as hell. “I picked out the GREEN straw for LB’s milk today! BLAH BLAH BLAHBORRIINNGGBLAHBLAHBLAH Because for real? Having two kids? While I try to make it sound fun! and interesting! and oh-so-exciting with non-stop action! It’s really just “LB, don’t sit on your brother,” “How long has it been since he’s eaten?” “Should we go to the grocery store today or tomorrow?”
My brain is going to implode from the sheer excitement of it all.
So, instead of the post I was GOING to write, which turns out isn’t worth its weight in dry dog poop, let’s talk about when you find the time to blog. And if that’s not fun and inspiring, tell me how you manage the load o’ crap two kids requires. Because THAT was my whole point to this long-winded “why don’t you just MAKE YOUR POINT ALREADY” post. I feel like an ass. I mean, really.
21 guests here now.