Isabella wrote a fantastic post tonight.  Before you venture any further with this one, go read hers below.  I’ll wait here for you. 

Welcome back.  It’s really good, isn’t it?  She’s a funny lady and a very gifted writer.  I want to put that out there for the universe to take note of (and any passing editors or literary agents that happen to stumble by).  The specific conversation that she is referring to was one the three of us have had quite frequently the past 6-8 months in one form or another.  That big ball of Karma has bowled each of us over like lowly pins in that really hateful bowling alley of life lately.  Unfortunately, that wretched bowling ball nearly did me in a while back (almost 8 years ago.  Holy Cow has it really been that long?).  As I stumbled around trying to make sense of a senseless tragedy in a cruel and unfair world, I discovered Buddhism.  With the help of an amazing counselor who metaphorically smacked me around a little bit, I came to realize that the childish view that Westerners hold of fairness is a hindrance more than an aid.   At some level we all know this.  How many times are we told, “Life’s not fair”?  We tell it to our kids and we think we get it until real trouble arrives and the concept seems crushing.  We obey the rules, we do unto others, we try to be good people, but none of that means anything.  We all want to believe that there is some giant tally board in the universe that keeps score, but until a person lets go of that ideal, they are doomed to a life of frustration.

On that depressing note, I’d like to add a little levity.  I love writing.  Isabella loves writing.  Ava loves writing.  We are fortunate that the universe directed us to each other because it’s always a blessing to find others to share your passion.  I love these women.  They are good for me.  We will all work hard with a goal of publication and fame and a visit to Oprah’s couch (You are coming Ava so just hush up) but more than that, I hope that I continue to write even if I never get published.  I know that I am good at it, and it gives me pleasure.  Isn’t that all one can hope for from a life’s pursuit when so much is out there to bring you down?

So those of you out there typing away towards that goal, I’m cheering for you.  Enjoy yourselves and the people you bring to life.  The best part about writing is that you are “The Universe”.  You can make the bad people come to justice, and the lovers live happily ever after. 

Besides, what the hell do I know anyway?

I am sitting here tonight with my assistant.  I haven’t spoken of him much, but then he’s usually hiding under the bed in order to escape the attentions of The Idiot Dog.  The dog LOVES him, but his attentions are not returned.  In fact, the dog as all kinds of welts on his face and ears from loving my kitty too much.  The cat can take care of himself, but why should he have to exert the energy?

This fantastic cat of mine used to belong to My Honey, but three months of bed rest with each kid endeared me to him nothing nothing else could have.  He is a giant, ginger tabby with enormously long whiskers and eyebrows.  Imagine Andy Rooney if he was a cat – those ridiculous eyebrows only in white whiskers.  He also has feathers between his toes that extend about 1/2 inch from each foot.  That just goes to show you how little moving around he actually does.  He has very long hair and right now with the humidity, he looks like he’s been run through the fluff cycle of a dryer.  My favorite thing of all though, is his belly.  The hair there is curly and soft and he loves to have me scratch his tummy.

Right now he’s assumed a very sphinxish position on my desk.  He really wanted to lay on the key board, but unfortunately I’m using it right now.  He had to settle with laying across all the cards I have stacked up up here from my birthday.  Every time he moves you can hear one of the musical ones sing.  He did seem slightly put out when a cartoon started singing, “Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro….” (thank you, Dona) but Ladies Night by Kool and the Gang doesn’t seem to bother him at all.  Apparently, he’s a fan of 70’s disco. 

The Kitty has a little dance he does when he’s trying to get you to come back to bed with him.  He’ll sit in the middle of the living room, staring at you as only a cat can.  The minute you stand up, he jumps and turns in the air and runs towards the bedroom, all the while looking over his shoulder to make sure you’re following him.  He will do this over and over and over until you give in to his seductive dance.

In fact, I’m feeling a little sleepy now.  I think I’ll humor him and dance on to bed.  Good night, Dear Reader.

I have to show you readers the adorable birthday cakes that Ava made for me.  If you read through the list of My 40 Favorite Things she had requested I write up in honor of turning 40, you will recall that Lady Bugs were #37.  Would you look at how creative Ava is:

Aren’t these the cutest damn things.  Each one was a different flavor with a different cream fillings. 

Also noteworthy for remarkable creativity was my Sister-in-law.  She dedicated herself to trying to fulfill each of the items on the list.  There were gift cards for ice cream and books, a tiny elephant, ball point pens from Disneyland, a note pad from Hawaii, a great key chain and another pen with pictures of my family, and Oreos and Red Vines.  There were many, many things all wrapped in a “Tiffany” box.  She did really well and I giggled with glee as I went through the whole thing.  My absolute favorite item was a small capsule, that when put in water, will grow my very own pirate.  Isn’t that hysterical?  Thank you, Charlotte.

My Aunt, known in these comments as mysticmama, brought me potted pink and white tea roses in honor of The Sea Rose.  Cute, huh?

Isabella was thoughtful enough to get me a bottle of fiber.  God, I love her.

I had a wonderful birthday.  Thank you to all of you – and you know who you are – for making this milestone a memorable one.

Did you all hear the primal scream at 5:00 PM MST? That was when it happened. I turned 40. Apparently, I did not turn into a pile of ash, nor did a plague of locusts descend on the Southwestern Desert. I know, no one is more surprised than me. My Honey and the rug rats did very well, birthday wise. I was fed lobster and chocolate chip ice cream cake from Baskin Robbins. My kids gave me a very cute dress. It was a very good day. The best thing of all was a KINDLE!!!! My Honey got me a Kindle! I don’t know how he guessed that I wanted one. Perhaps it was when I forwarded him a link to the site, or when I made him sit on the couch and watch the promotional video about it, or when I said, “whatever else you bought, take it back and get a Kindle.” I think I cinched the deal with the PowerPoint presentation.

Anyway, I didn’t get any writing done because I was busy playing with it. I was a stalwart fan of books – I still am. For years I talked a monumental pile of smack about the inherent evil of electronic books. I couldn’t imagine a time when I would ever give up the simple pleasure of turning pages, holding a book in my hand, the musty, comforting smell. Not all books are available on the Kindle, but the ones that are cost much less than a traditional book. It holds zillions of books and it weighs practically nothing. I’m totally in love. With the Kindle and My Honey. Thank you, baby.

My husband is having a small scale existential crises and it’s all my fault.  I began a load of laundry yesterday before going to work.  It consisted of some of The Bandits underwear, his pjs and bedding (there was an accident) and because it was such a small load, I threw in a blanket that was covered with The World’s Laziest Cat’s hair. The blanket is maroon.  Do you see where this is going?

When I went to put the items in the dryer I discovered that the Cars sheets and Quilt were now pink.  The underwear is purple since they started out blue.  I have rewashed them in hot and then cold with several different varieties of soaps including Oxyclean and bleach.  Nothing – still pink.  I’ve since received another hint that I’ll go to the store and purchase tonight and try.  However, I firmly believe that The Bandit won’t care.  Well maybe a little about the PINK sheets but the quilt looks mostly purple because its base was blue to begin with.  Unfortunately, My Honey isn’t going for it. 

Pink is apparently unacceptable.  Not for a boy.  I’ve tried to convince him that it has been only recently that pink became associated as a girl color.  Throughout history, pink was considered too powerful for a woman to carry off.  If you’ll notice, the Virgin Mary is always shown in blue, it was considered the color of girls through most of history.  No dice. 

Apparently, he only likes history when it suits him.

So, I’m turning forty tomorrow.  I’m bouncing back and forth from wild jubilation (After all, it is my birthday and there will be presents!!) and despair (40? How did this happen?).  Those that know me are used to the manic way I approach birthdays.  I LOVE them and celebrate them with gusto, and generally those around me are happy to participate.  I bribe them with cake. 

My often repeated line I took right from telethons: If you saved just a dollar a day, and that’s not much to ask.  Just a dollar a day, you’d have $365.00 each year to buy my birthday present.  And if you combined your $365.00 with others, think of the fantastic present you could buy me.  My best friend from high school, dear Kurt (who turned 40 in July – HA! he’ll always be older than me) sent me a dollar several years ago and called it his first installment. 

This year, even though I’ll have a big party (Thank you in advance to Ava and My Honey) today and most of last week, I’ve felt very blasé about the whole thing, which is most definitely NOT like me.  My mom tries to commiserate with me (she is 22 years older – HA – another one who will always be older than me.  Things are looking up) but while I’m in this age induced melancholy, I think I mostly want to wallow in self pity.  I stare at gray hair and pout.   I look at budding crow’s feet and moan.  Songs from when I was in high school are now classic rock.  I accidently found some skinny clothes from fifteen years ago and wanted to jump off a cliff.  I have a picture on my dresser from when I turned 30 and Isabella and another friend took me to Las Vegas.  Man, if I were as fat now as I thought I was then, how happy I’d be.

Tomorrow the sun will come up, the day will have arrived, and my mom assures me that I’ll feel exactly the same as I did the day before.  Crap.

One of the writers in the Sister’s writing group posted this quote on our loop.  This is unbelievably insightful and true.

“Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.”
-Winston Churchill

So this skinny little blonde I work with has decided that she doesn’t like me anymore.  I know this is true, despite her protestations, because she came up with this “wonderful idea” and wanted to include me.  I work on the 4^th floor of an office building, and she decided that we should walk the stairs during the day, from the 1^st floor up to the roof, back down to 1 and then to our floor.  Just so you don’t have to tax your brain, I’ll tell you that is ten flights of stairs – 200 steps.  She has decided that we should do it EVERY HOUR.  Yes, in answer to your unasked question, she may be insane.  I’m going to contact her mother about it. 

So we did it once today at 11:00.  I took my cell phone in case I needed to call 911.  My legs are still wobbly.  She was ready to go again at 3:00.  I told her there wasn’t a chance in hell that was happening.  For God’s sake, I’m 40 on Wednesday.  You’d think she had more respect for the elderly, or the Queen, or something. 

Wasn’t it nice of her to include me?  I’m definitely calling her mother.

PS – I’m sure I won’t be able to write tonight because I’ll be having my legs amputated.

I had to say one of those things tonight that you never thought you would ever have to say.  Up till now, my favorite was, “We don’t put rice in our armpits”, said to Sassy when she was about 3.  Tonight, I approached My Honey with a full kleenex and said, “Look what came out of your son’s nose”.   The thing was, the item from his nose was not something one would expect, although, considering the source, I don’t know why not.  My Honey made fantastic steak sandwiches with mushrooms, peppers and au jus for dinner.  The Bandit asked me several times during dinner if mushrooms ever come out your nose.  I told him repeatedly, “No” even when he followed up with, “Ever?”  Stupidly, I thought it was more of an esoteric question, a general musing from a curious four year old boy.  We’ve teased him about potatoes in his ears and watermelons growing in his tummy from eating the seeds, so I thought this was a question along that vein.  After his bath he asked if I would look and see if I could see the mushroom.  My stomach dropped.  I peered in there and, indeed, there was something way in the back.  It was either a really large booger or a freaking mushroom.  Fortunately, all it took to extract it was a very dedicated blow of his nose. 

Dear Readers, this is why I have been struggling to get past Lord Dalton and Lady Olivia’s first kiss.   I’ll be way into a longing look, a sensual stroke of the hand, and all of a sudden I’m thinking of mushroom boogers.  Dear lord, help me.

So even after all the shenanigans from the previous night, The Bandit was very busy at Day Care.  I received a call from the Director that went like this:

Director: Will you please talk to The Bandit.  He’s not listening and every time we try to discipline him, he laughs at us.  (I know this scenario well).  By the way, were you on vacation for the last week or so?

 Me: No.  Why do you ask?

 D: For the last week, every time The Bandit gets in trouble, he says, ‘I can do anything I want and not get into trouble because my mom’s on vacation so you can’t call her.’ “

 Of course, for whatever reason they also didn’t call his father either.  When My Honey picked him up from school, no one asked him or told him anything, and the Director often wasn’t around to talk with anyway. 

Which is more remarkable?  The teacher that believed the four year old, or the four year old for coming up with the pretty creative lie?