Thirty. Nine.

Had my 39th birthday this past Labor Day. It was a lovely weekend, though I’d be pained to call it celebratory. Spent some wonderful time with my sister and her family, with my parents, with my inlaws, with my husband. It was fun. There were presents (a surprise) and cake (not a surprise.) There was lots of love and hugs and kisses. My family loves me, and I am more grateful than words can express for their kindness, patience, and generosity.

But (you knew there was a but) 39 is odd. Like an ill-fitting shirt that needs a little more fabric softener. It’s not hard like 29 was hard – there wasn’t a panic attack involved this year. It’s just melancholy, I guess.

There’s the knowledge that experience has bought, and hopefully a little bit of wisdom. But mostly there’s the feeling that you know less that you have ever known, except now you have a mortgage and a marriage and a job. I’m supposed to have at least some of this figured out by now.

And then you have your annual physical, where your doctor doesn’t mention the expiration date on your eggs but does mention that you get to have your first mammogram next year. Get to have. Like it’s a reward. And maybe it is.

But you realize that something subtle and powerful has changed. I’m young. But not young like I was a decade ago. Or maybe I’m younger. Though my knees will tell you different. It’s hard to tell, most days.

Most days that aren’t tonight. When I see can time creeping at the edges making its mark upon my flesh. Scratching lines on my face. Turning my eyebrows white. My eyebrows! I kid you not.

And now I want to bitch-slap time for being such an intolerable whore. Why the eyebrows? Why can’t time make my legs go bald instead?

Time is an asshole, that’s why. (Sorry for the language, Mom. Love you.)

Anyway. If you bump into me, do a girl a favor and don’t stare at my eyebrows. I know they’re turning white, but at least they’re distracting me from the other tortures of gravity.

But let’s not talk about all that right now.


After an unfortunate incident with a weevil infestation several years ago, I learned to seal every wheat-based item in my pantry. Everything is neatly organized in Oxo containers or Ziplock baggies. Well, yesterday it was almost everything, and today, it is absolutely everything.

What I did not know was that sugar ants can wiggle their evil little bodies into completely sealed double-strength Ziplocks. I don’t even know how they do it. What’s worse is that it took me several weeks of following ant trails to find out what was attracting them. And boy, were they having a right party.

It was like some gang of 6-legged frat boys raided my kitchen and ate everything they could get their little antennae on. Two bags of chips (sealed!) and two pounds of cashews (sealed!) And the fish food (also, sealed!)


I mean, I get it. It’s Texas. It’s hot as blazes outside, and inside, there’s A/C and water and dinner. But did they have to eat my cashews? Really?

All that was to say that last night I killed me some sugar ants. And now I have to go grocery shopping ’cause I’m out of cashews.

Stupid ants.

Up, Up and Away

So, I’m in Cheyenne, Wyoming, by way of Denver, Colorado, today. Some observations:

Massive B.O. should be considered a security risk. I have no idea how a man smelling so obscene would be allowed through security.

There should be a special First Time Flyers section in the airplane where the newbies can congregate to violate all the unspoken in-air rules together.

The Beechcraft 1900D Turboprop is officially the smallest plane I’ve ever been on. It’s unsettling to be able to see clearly out the cockpit windows from the back row. At least it was a short flight.

The Cheyenne airport is officially the smallest airport I’ve ever entered, and that includes Yakima, Washington, and Bend, Oregon. These little out-of-the-way towns really know how to frighten the tourists.

You can see for miles and miles out here. It makes me nervous.

Outrageous and Disgusting


So if a multinational corporation is slowly poisoning its customers, it can contribute to a cancer foundation (which will gladly accept the money) to alleviate their non-existent conscience from any potential culpability to the illness and death of the aforementioned customers.

Because KFC is “sensitive” to the health concerns of their customers. Sure, they’re sensitive. They just don’t really give a damn if their food slowly destroys the health and well-being of the individuals who eat their garbage.

I did not realize that fast food chains were run by the tobacco industry. But I’m not surprised.

Don’t Sit* so Close to Me

Warning: I’m about to over share. You might want to look away and read some other blog today.

Know what I hate? I hate it when someone takes the stall next to you when there are nine other EMPTY stalls in the bathroom. And then they decide to take a few moments to solve world hunger. While you’re working out the cure to cancer or pondering the meaning of life. Whatever. It’s uncomfortable. And disruptive.

So you know, try to remember the stall-buffer rule and give your new friends (really close friends, apparently) a little space. We all need a little space now and then.

*Replace the word “sit” with an appropriate rhyme.