And later, Sandra Bullock and I will be trying to find our keys

I knew that keeping up with my writing was going to be an impossible feat this summer. But, people, I’m happy to report I’ve exceeded my expectations. My ability to suck is far greater than I’d ever dreamed.

Yay me.

This week has been a particular challenge, with two kids in surf camp for five days. It’s impossible not to just relax on the beach, and sleep (translation snore until I startle myself awake, and wipe the drool stream from my cheek). Or to just sit under my umbrella and watch my gremmies surf. So my lack of posts should not surprise anyone. Including myself.


Can someone please tell me where this came from, so I can credit this most hilarious photo?

My inability to write is also a result of me mind-fucking myself over turning 49. Which if you’re keeping track, is actually the new 39. So, ya, there is that. And if you have the nads to scoff at this, and are one of those who isn’t old enough to have watched the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family as a first run, Friday night line up, then bite. my. ass. Some day, and sooner than you think, your tits will look like they’re pondering the pattern in the floor tile, and you’ll wonder why you’ve walked into the garage. And more often than not, you’ll wish you knew where the fuck your keys were. That totally happens to the new 39.

Yes, today is my birthday—me and Sandra Bullock. We were born on the same day in 1964. And I still think that girlfriend looks pretty damn good. For years I’ve kept an eye on her, and as long as Sandra is still looking good, I’m feeling ok about my age. So let me make a plea to you, Sandra Bullock. Please keep up the good work. And I’m going to need to request that you’re diligent with the sunscreen from now on. Because I’m counting on you, Ms. Bullock, to ensure the well-being of my aging self-image here. Ooookaaaaaay?  Thanks, girlfriend. I appreciate your fine efforts.

This is a short post today. Because I’ve got birthday fun to partake in. I haven’t damaged my children so badly yet, that they don’t want to hang out with me. So I’m going to go play some Minecraft. Yup. Life is pretty damn good.

So here I am, the new 39. I’m going to embrace this like a pissed-off cat, and make it my bitch.

Happiest of happy weekends to you all. And happy birthday, Sandra Bullock.  Give me a shout if you need help finding your keys. I totally feel your pain.

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38 Long is the new 38C

I’ve always been one of those natural chicks… never really saw the need for a boob job. It just seemed odd to me, having someone stuff plastic chicken cutlets into my body… let’s face it… mostly for someone else’s enjoyment. I guess they’re all they’re cracked up to be, when it comes to self-esteem. But my self-esteem has always been pretty low, and no amount of stuffing was going to help that mess. So it seemed like a futile endeavor.

I spoke out equally against any and all cosmetic procedures. In retrospect, I wish there was a way to reach back into time and slap a generous amount of duct tape over my dumbass mouth. What an idiot. Of course I didn’t see the need… with my perfect, unlined skin and perky tits. What a moron.


Photo: National Geographic

This month I’m having one of those year-before-a-monumental birthdays. I’ll save you the guesswork… 49. I’ll be forty-fucking-nine years old. What. the. hell? How did that happen? I remember being in my 20’s like it was yesterday. Ok, that’s a total lie. But I was an idiot then… we’ve already discussed that. So there’s honestly no need to remember that decade. I remember my wedding… that’s all I need from my 20’s. Well, wait a sec. It would be nice to remember my 21st birthday. From what I understand, I had a great time. But that’s not a memory I’ve ever had, nor ever hope to regain. I’ll have to enjoy the epic tales, and leave it at that.

Now as I look in the mirror, I’m seeing an old person. Who IS that? And why the fuck are her tits down there?! I’m beginning to wrap my mind around the value of cosmetic surgery. I’m not saying I’ll rush out and get me a set of Dolly Partons. But hey, ladies, now I get it. For the moment, I’ll embrace this new me. Yes. A 38 Long is the new 38 C. Ya. I said embrace it, not like it. I’m not on crack, people. They’re not quite to National Geographic standards. But I may have to do something about this. And don’t even get me started on the gravity vs. my ass war. *goes to do some squats*

Perhaps I’ll start small with this whole me vs. aging thing. I can’t see a photo of myself lately without fixating on what my husband calls my forehead vagina. Ya, you’re right. It’s very bold of him, considering I have control of his food supply. *evil grin* He claims it gives me character. Ya. Well so do my saggyass tits. But I’ll bet he’d be all over the idea of me getting those back to their former glory. *pffft*

I’m thinking for my year-before-the-monumental-birthday, I’ll see about getting rid of one of my vaginas. I’ll keep the useful one. I see this as a win for my husband. Right? Then perhaps next year I’ll start thinking about a hoister for the girls. Again, another win for my husband. And since his birthday is the day before mine, I suppose I can call it his gift, and still request that sweet convertible for my birthday. I can totally see this logic working in my favor.

They say that 50 is the new 40. I guess that means 50 is now the age that things really start going to hell in a hand basket? Alright then, bitch. Game on. I’ve got one more year to be the new 39. And then the war begins. Fuck you, 25-year-old me. I get it now. I totally get it.


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