The Great Kick-Off

My dirty 30s started in a rather mundane way. I dragged my now older and wiser self out of bed at 8AM on a Saturday morning to go get my eyes checked at the optometrist. Wooo-hooo! Exciting, no?

The doc was a really cool lady. The receptionist was late so the doctor and I chatted as I filled out all the forms. Turns out she put herself through optometry school at the age of 39 and as a single mother of four after her doctor husband ran off with a younger woman (funny how you can learn so much about a person during a thirty minute appointment!) She saw from my medical forms that today was my birthday and handed me this pearl of wisdom ,"All that stuff about women aging like a fine wine is absolutely true. Sure... there were times where I felt like spoiled milk. But if you stay on track with what you want in this world, you will only get better. Always worrying about others' needs above your own will spoil you. So it is really up to you whether you want to be a fine wine or spoiled milk."

Hell yeah, sista!

As the perfect punctuation for this lesson, the girl at the front desk finally came slinking in thirty minutes late just as the doctor was walking me back up to the lobby. Bleary eyed and sullen, the girl was not a day over 22. The doctor and I exchanged a knowing look as the receptionist tried to clear the fog enough to process my insurance claim. On my way out the door, I glanced over my shoulder to witness the doc escorting the receptionist in to the back room, presumably for a come-to-Jesus meeting. Yup... we have all been there. I caught my reflection in the window and it revealed a knowing smirk that only a wiser and more self-assured woman can have. Welcome to my 30s! May they be like a fine wine rather than a glass of spoiled milk.

Operation Crazy Old Southern Lady

I love her more than my luggage!

I am done whining (for now at least) about my passage in to my thirties. Although I realize it will be awhile before I can fully attain crazy old lady status, I am taking my thirties as an opportunity to get just a little more cranky and bitter. Consider it my decade of taking baby steps towards my ultimate goal. In order to do so, I need to clearly outline what makes the little old crazy Southern lady tick.

1. She needs to be Southern - duh! I am currently living in the southern edge of the DC/Northern Virginia metro area. Below the Mason-Dixon, yes, but hardly what I would consider the south. My upcoming move to coastal North Carolina will remedy that. Onward to the land of Cheerwine, pulled pork sandwiches and being able to smoke my Virginia Slim Menthol Light 100s anywhere I damn please.
   
2. She needs to dress crazy - Crazy old ladies look like they dressed themselves in the dark. Polyester pants, wide-brimmed straw hats with heavy ornamentation, housecoats, muu-muus, overalls, plaids mixed with florals. All this madness can be traced back to the fact that they really don't give a damn anymore. While I am not ready to trade my knee-high boots in for gardening clogs just yet, I am ready to start wearing things simply because I like them. Being a slave to the fashion magazines and what my friends are wearing is for my twenties. I am going to start dressing for me now.
3. She needs to go for social outings at her church, bridge club and salon - I am pretty sure I would burst in to flames if I walked inside one, so church is out for me. Don't know how to play bridge or bunko... yet! I am down for the salon if I could ever find a stylist that I really like. I just need to find a place where I become a part of the local color. Knowing me, it will probably end up being a bar. Baby steps here, remember?
4. She needs to have a signature drink - I've seen the old ladies stick to the classics on this one (martinis or Tom Collins) but it really cracks me up when they get more exotic and order up a Pink Lady, Singapore Sling or Alabama Slammer. While I have been known to guzzle anything in the joint, my go-to drink is a Captain and Diet, with the occasional Bloody Mary. Must... find... better... signature... drink!
   
5. She needs to be cranky and share her opinions at full volume to whomever will listen - Actually, I am already halfway there on this one.
6. She needs to shop at the Piggly Wiggly - It was good enough for Miss Daisy. Check that box...there is one just down the road from my new place.

Welcome To The Island: Dwayne Johnson

I've had an unnatural crush on Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson for years; and I can place the blame for this squarely on my ex-husband. The ex had a white trash streak that encouraged his love of wrestling. When he turned the TV on for the latest Smackdown or Rumble in the Desert or what-not, I took to throwing myself on the ground and wailing protests. Wrestling is all fake! It is just a sorry excuse for a man's soap opera! It has low production... oh my!... hellllloooo there... who is that bronzed, tattooed god of a man with the wayward eyebrow who keeps talking about him cooking something and laying the smacketh down?

I'm not sure exactly what a "smacketh" is but I think I'll take two right on my candy ass!

Thankfully, my crush had the good sense to high-tail it out of wrestling and start making some movies. Granted, they are usually the type of movies that I hide behind my Masterpiece Theatre DVDs. He might not win an Oscar anytime soon but who cares? The man is great eye candy; and he seems to have a pretty good sense of humor about himself. He can raise that eyebrow at me any day.

From Roaring 20s To... Dirty 30s?

I am currently staring down the barrel of my 30th birthday. And it is a short barrel. Very short. As in, 4 days from now short. As much as I'd like to hold my head high and claim that I am embracing a new decade with grace and pizazz, truthfully I am looking forward to spending this birthday curled up in the fetal position, guzzling vodka and ignoring calls from so-called friends phoning in to taunt me.

"But Maggie", you might ask, "aren't you the one who can't wait to turn in to a crazy old lady?" to which I will gleefully cackle affirmation. But 30 isn't crazy old lady territory yet. I still have another 20 years before I can bust out the hats adorned with birds and feathers or wear a fur coat over a housecoat with gardening clogs. Since I am on the subject of fashion, allow me to make a clothing related analogy: Your 30s are like a black V-neck sweater from the Gap. Sensible. Practical. Necessary. But freaking boring!

Your 30s are when you are old enough to know better. You can jump up on a bar and start dancing when the mood strikes you in your 20s... or even in your 50s, because who's going to argue with you then?

This seems to be the decade about getting your shit together. Get married (or remarried) quick... it might be your last chance. Hurry up and pop out a few kids before your eggs shrivel up. Land that promotion before some snot-nosed kid fresh out of college steals it. Quit throwing your money away on rent and buy a house. Invest your money because retirement will sneak up on you. Let some grass grow under your feet. Settle down. Grow up.

When I was 23, I worked with a woman who refused to celebrate her 42nd birthday, choosing instead to refer to it as the 13th anniversary of her 29th birthday. I thought she was being silly at the time.

Now I understand...

Dirtbag Alert: The Angry White Guy Edition

Meet Roy Den Hollander, Angry White Guy

Hollander is currently suing Columbia University for the abolishment their namby-pamby women's studies courses, claiming that it is unconstitutional to use government funds to preach religious beliefs. What religious belief?, you ask. "Feminism"! (His use of apostrophes...not mine). Feminism is now an option for religious preference?... shit... if I'd have known that, I would have had that stamped on my dog tags instead of the boring ol' No Pref.

His other case, where he took on the plight of the poor male who is forced to pay bigger cover charges at clubs on designated ladies' nights, is still pending. In addition to being a douchebag, Mr. Hollander is also a lawyer who specializes in male discrimination cases. His entire law firm is dedicated to "battle the infringement of Men's Rights by the feminists and their allies".

STFU, Mr. Roy Den Hollander!

I have absolutely zero sympathy for The Angry White Guy. All their whining about how minority special interest groups are ruining the world with their liberal agenda. Yeah... it must be really hard for the white man to get by these days. My heart breaks for you all. Not only do men hold the majority in every sector of business, government and industry in this country... but then they have to shell out $10 to get in to a bar. The horror!

What really cracks me up is that ladies' night really is for men anyways. The entire concept of ladies' night it to lure women in to the bar for the guys. Why isn't there a mens' night? Because the men are already there. This isn't a case of discrimination; it is an example of simple capitalism. The demand (created by men) for more women in bars and clubs is met by these establishments creating a lure for women.

The Angry White Guy prides himself on being an old fashioned, take-charge, no bullshit type of guy. He idolizes John Wayne. He wishes we could all just go back to the time where women were ladies and men were real men.

So, I ask you this, Angry White Guy: Would John Wayne throw a hissy fit because he was asked to pay $10 to get in to a club while his date only had to pay $5?

Hell no! John Wayne would man up. He would slap down a $20, tell the door attendant to keep the change while calling her honey and pinching her on the ass.

Newsflash to all Angry White Guys out there: you can't have your cake and eat it too. Either be a crybaby or be a real man. And real men don't whine... or sue!

Dear John Letter To My Sofa

The moment I saw you, I had to have you. I had been shopping all day, having hit up four other furniture stores in the fifty mile radius. As a last ditch effort, I stopped by a store close to my place that was known for its marked up prices. There you were... in the back of the store. Someone had already bought the loveseat and chair, so you were in the group of mismatched furniture. Burgundy chenille fabric, modern design, super comfortable... I was already in love before I even saw your $500 price tag. With no hesitation, I slapped the plastic down and bought my first major piece of furniture.

The other love of my life hated you. The ex swore you were too big for our living room. He hated how your sleeks lines contrasted with all the hand-me-downs and bargain furniture that filled our apartment. He continued to sit on his ratty old loveseat that he had saved from the dumpster at work while I languished on my new purchase. Quite the love triangle we made!

Needless to say, you lasted much longer than he did.

It has been seven years. You have seen me through some great times. You followed me on the journey from California to Virginia. I found room for you in that oddly shaped living room in my first Virginia apartment. Thousands of miles separated us while you were in storage and I was overseas in Ukraine. After transferring all my worldly belongings from storage in to my latest apartment, we were reunited again. I jumped on you with glee and rejoiced in the sense of familiarity you brought. Six months abroad sitting on uncomfortable rented Eastern European furniture made me love you even more.

You have provided me with comfort. You have welcomed so many of my friends and family. You have seen me at my best and my worst. You have seen me grow up.

But the time has come for us to part. The move to North Carolina is a new chapter in my life... one that you will not be taking with me. A recent trip to a furniture store showed me that I am looking for something different. We have simply grown apart.

It was a sad day when I dropped you off at Goodwill this Sunday. My first adult purchase was being carted off for some other person to find comfort in. I hope your new owner treats you well.

I do miss you. My new couch won't be delivered until Wednesday. The living room feels so empty without you. But even as I sit here on the floor, I know that I have made the right choice.

With fond memories,

Maggie

The Diet Diaries

I have been on almost every diet imaginable. Most are giant wastes of time. I hate the entire concept of dieting. This girl likes her groceries. Once upon a time, I could eat all that I wanted to without really worrying about buying bigger pants. Not anymore. It's like my metabolism saw my impending 30th birthday and decided to give me a nice "Fuck you!" as a present.

Slim Fast sucks because I truly believe that meals should be chewed, tasted and eaten... not drank. Atkins was great in its hey-day but the market for it dried up. When low-carb was all the rage, you could "cheat" safely. There were low-carb versions of pizza, pancakes, chocolate and chips. Now all you can find in the grocery store is the low-carb ice cream and the sorry excuse for bread. I tried to do low-carb again earlier this year but had to quit after I almost killed a co-worker at lunch for his french fries.

Faced with a trip to the Bahamas last year, I broke down and ordered the Nutri-System plan to shed some pounds pre-vacation. Yuck... I had better tasting food out of MREs during my army days. In addition to tasting like something that came out of an E-Z-Bake Oven, the stuff was expensive before you added all the supplemental groceries they don't tell you about in the commercials.

After cycling through diet after diet, I decided a few months ago that I would just try to eat healthy and watch my portions. No prescribed meal plans, no off-limits food, just healthy choices with portion control. Still working out a few times a week. Hell... I even started to incorporate some light jogging (Anyone who knows me well remembers that I swore I would never run again post-Army unless being chased). Great plan, right?

I got on the scale this weekend and saw a number I hadn't seen in a long, long time... and it wasn't a good one. This is serious now. No real plan of attack just yet but I haven't consumed over 1000 calories a day since Friday night. My blood is a toxicology nightmare with all the Hydroxycut I have popped. Sensible? Not at all. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Does this make me a pinko communist?

I have to own up to being completely underwhelmed with the Olympics. In fact, I haven't actually watched a single event. I see the medal count whenever I go on Yahoo. I might catch the occasional clip or two watching the news.

How very unpatriotic of me, I know.

In my defense, I've just never been much of a sports fan. Sports is the one section of the newspaper that I toss to the side without even opening. Fanatical sports fans who paint their faces and get in to bar fights over team rivalries are like aliens to me. I managed not to attend a single sporting event at Purdue during my time there. Pre-game parties? Yes. Tailgating? Sure. Big Victory Celebration or We Lost Now Let's Drown Our Misery parties? Absolutely! The actual game itself? Not a chance in hell.

In an effort to get more rah-rah for Team USA, I dedicated a whopping ten minutes to watching Olympics-only news.

Members of the New Zealand soccer/football/whatever-the-hell-you-call-it team take off their shirts and perform some kind of mating ritual even after getting their asses handed to them by Belgium. That's kinda hot actually... maybe sports aren't so bad.


Hey... weightlifting. That could be cool! I like it when muscular men make funny grunting noises.


Oh sweet Jeebus! Is his elbow really supposed to bend in that direction?!?!? It's friggin' backwards! OUCH OUCH OUCH!!!

Screw this... I am going back to watching Bravo. Nobody gets hurt on Project Runway or Shear Genius.