Friday, March 6, 2009


So, I'm turning 30 on Monday, and I'll say right now that I'm not feeling the stress of losing my 20s. But I dunno, should I be? The youth! The wild nights! And some other things!

I'll try to think this through, then, because I'm not one to miss out on a chance to sink into a depressive state. Come with me, then, as I take a journey back in time, back to the days of my sordid blogging past and recall some of the more publish-able things that occupied the days of my twenty-something years.

The good and the bad, then, my dear we go:

(In no particular order, of course, other than the order of me going from what I think is funny, and then maybe some of those other things that maybe are funny too, and so on.)

  • Well, naturally I've got to start with marriage and two (!?) kids. I can't even turn that into a joke because, well, that'll bring me toward starting to talk about poop and I've already vowed not to. So check one in the pros column. And this all happened in the past 3 or so years, so kind of fall into the more transitionary years.
  • Then, of course, there was the life and death of my other blog(s)--that which shall not be named lest I want to be fired, arrested and perhaps divorced retroactively*. This probably deserves some discussion. I got to interview great bands (Hello Wolfmother! How's the Grammy? Oh, and of course matt pond PA! Oh wait, is that restraining order still valid? Maybe I should play it safe...), met some amazing friends (Ok, one. The others turned out to be outright strange and terrifying.), and made lots of money wrote for pleasure, met with that publishing house/literary agents got a business card from some PR dude that didn't even have his name on it, and learned how to design websites type strikethrough in html.
  • I finished college, taught in the ghetto of Baldmore, got another (less life-threatening) job that bored the crap out of me (that's better than having to work hard, isn't it?), moved into my parents' house, spent loads of money I didn't have, and drank myself into a stupor whenever possible in as many cities as possible (Hello Gina! Nothing says St. Patty's Day celebration like trying to help raise money for some dude's marathon--in a bar? at like, midnight?--by stealing his sign and then having him forcibly take it back. Am I right, or am I right?).
  • Living in an apartment with my now-husband beneath a guy named Alan who loved to shout profanities at both his girlfriend and us (through the walls) equally. This was replaced by living in a small house with a shared driveway next to neighbors who had chickens--and a rooster--and also loved shouting profanities, but this time at their children (who shouted them back).
  • Moving twice while pregnant. Twice. That's all that needs to be said about that.
  • Then of course there's the learning to be a mother without letting neurosis win. And without getting institutionalized. And without getting divorced. Remarkably, everyone's still alive and kicking!
So, I don't know. There's lots more to add there, but doesn't it look like I should be embracing the next decade of my life? Kissing those sordid 20s goodbye?

I don't know for sure, but as I sit here typing, I hear some Spanish over my left shoulder.

What? Have we gone back to the days of the chickens and roosters?

No, of course not. Rather, as if hinting at what my 30s will bring, I'm now googling Arriba because my son is shouting it as he hurls his phone on a string toy (seriously, who invented that thing? have they at least update the dialing contraption?) over the arm chair and towards his 3-month-old brother's head.


Now, on the phone: "Arriba? Arriba. Ok. Here we go." He hangs up. "Arriba! Climb, CLIMB!"

Pushing the phone up the side of the chair, he looks at me, pauses and lets it fall to the ground. "Oh, no! [the monster lady!] ARRIBA!"

If googling spanish words that my son has taught himself is what it means to be 30, then I'd be a damn fool not to embrace it. (Of course, not before I indulge in a day of wine-tasting first.)


*This, of COURSE, is a joke. My hubby knows all my deep dark secrets and loves me even MORE for them.


  1. hee hee, i love it! "Arriba? Arriba. Ok. Here we go." a man on a mission! a mysterious one at that.

    are conversations like that really so different from the late night, drunken proclamations voiced or overheard in bars all through your 20s?

  2. well put! if you ask me, 30 is the new 20 anyway (probably always has been) and the stories are only going to get better. let's make some new hilarious memories to talk about when we're 40 :)

  3. Andale! Andale! Arriba! Arrrrrriiiibaaaaaa!

    I hear one word in a blog and my mind immediately jumps back to Speedy Gonzales on Looney Tunes. I'm not sure if this is pop culture overload, or if I just started comparing my mental state with your two year old.

    I could whip that into a bit o' wisdom I think, but I doubt you really need it.

    Here's to thirty, my sister, and tell every cad that dares say "over the hill" or some similar crap that all it means is you have the best damned view in the world.


  4. well put! if you ask me, 30 is the new 20 anyway (probably always has been) and the stories are only going to get better. let's make some new hilarious memories to talk about when we're 40 :)