A Message to the Girls of the World

I’m thirty, which to some of you is painfully old (like your parents) and to some not too bad. But one thing is certain: I’ve experienced a lot of stuff in these thirty years, despite you thinking perhaps we old folk don’t get it (we do).

Being a grown up is both enjoyable and adversely terrible. Like, you can take naps, but it’s kind of frowned upon by some, and if you take one too late or too long, your body clock is thusly screwed up for the next month. And you have to pay for everything, which let me tell you is a mega bummer. Your mom isn’t around to clean the house, so unless you’re fine with living in squalor, you have to clean it. Every week. Dishes: the bane of our existence. Even with a dishwasher, trust me. They’re just always there no matter what.

PAP smears suck about as much as you assume they do. The key is never have sex and then you can get one every three years (I’m kind of kidding but also kind of not because seriously no one likes to go to the OB/GYN). Sometimes you just don’t want to wear a bra, in which case don’t. You’ll find that home becomes wherever the pants aren’t — they’re the first thing to come off, and I don’t say that in a crude, sexual manner. I mean it in an “Adults hate to wear pants” way.

Don’t let yourself go when you get married. I’m not sure if this is a myth or reality, but it seems to happen all the time (I started to let myself go on the honeymoon, which God bless my husband for sticking around this long). I don’t mean to stress about your weight or your hair or your makeup or your clothes, but trust me: you feel better about yourself and your day when you’re clean and are wearing real clothes rather than sweats. Leggings are real clothes, I kid you not. Invest in several pairs because they’re like sweats but not. If you find a guy who wants you to always have long hair, ditch him.

Image  courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

I’ve put Husband through the ringer with all my many hairstyles, and there have definitely been some he hated. Guess what: he didn’t divorce me, and he still kissed me when he got home from work. We may have come to an agreement that such hairstyles won’t make an appearance again forever awhile, but in all reality, I wasn’t particularly crazy about them either (don’t tell him. He’ll get a big head.)

If you find a man who makes you forget yourself, tells you what to do, makes you feel lonely, hates the things you love to do, doesn’t support every single hobby you ever try out, even the lame ones everybody knows won’t work out — if he seems to only love you conditionally, if you can’t fart in front of him, if you’re worried about what he’ll think when you take off your makeup and slide in your night guard, HE. IS. NOT. THE. ONE. Look, I get it, you’re hardwired and built to have a companion all the days of your eternity, so you just wanna be with someone all the time and snuggle. I got married about six years later than I thought I might in high school (high school Mary was really eager and hopeful), and I’m glad I had to wait. It helped me weed out the idiots and hone in on exactly what I didn’t want, so when I met Husband, it was quick and painless.

Men can still be as awful as boys and teenagers, and there’s something inherently worse about that because they’re grown ups, so they should know better. Chances are, they were raised by their mothers to become gentlemen, and they just missed the mark. Heartbreak is inevitable.

Enjoy making out now because when you get married, it’s basically never going to happen.

If you want the cookie, eat the damn cookie. I went a stretch counting calories and measuring my food, and sure the end results were freakin awesome, but I was truly miserable the entire thing. Just remember: portion control. Eat what you want, just a little less of it as you get older. Because trust me when I say you’ll turn 23, and your metabolism rate will give up the ghost. Exercise in the way you want to — if you hate running, then seriously don’t run. I mean, really. Life is way too short to spend a portion of your day in the gym doing something that makes you unhappy (even if it’s making you chemically overjoyed. Endorphins aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.)

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Money will get tight at some point in your life, unless you marry an heir/heiress who is just independently wealthy. Being forced to live budget-friendly will help you out for the rest of your life, even though it feels awful at the time, but DO NOT under any circumstances, buy store brand cheese. You can save money elsewhere — cheese is not the place to do it. Same goes for butter, unless, I suppose, you’re allergic to lactose. I’m so, so, so sorry. Cheese is what will get you through every single hard time, so splurge a little. Buy the Tillamook.

Even when you’re a grown up, you’ll be able to sense when people don’t like you. Don’t let this deter you — be nice, always, and surround yourself with people who think you’re as great as you think they are. Find others who laugh at all your jokes, like all your Facebook status updates, and go to all the movies your husband won’t (chick flicks, documentaries, based on true stories, dramas, Jane Austen, etc. If it doesn’t blow up, he’s not going to want any part of it.) Sometimes adults form mini cliques. It’s just a human thing.

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

This will become easier the older you get. I promise.

Despite what a lot of people say (and I assume they do this to snow themselves and everyone around them), sometimes people have pretty perfect lives. Their houses are big and clean, their cars are nice, their kids are well-behaved, their marriages are great. Don’t let anyone else’s life affect yours. It’s an attitude thing, you get me? If you want a happy life, be happy, and things will work themselves out. You might be thirty years old, living in a condo you’re renting that has mold along some of the windows and an upstairs neighbor who floods your laundry room and entryway. You might really suck at vacuuming and dusting, and you might drive modest cars because that’s what you can afford. Doesn’t mean your life is any less perfect than someone else’s. So applaud the frenemy who started her own blog, the one who got married at a big venue, the one whose husband makes $150k/year. We all need to stick together and help a sister out. It’s cool if their lives are different from yours. Different never means better or worse. Ever.

And remember:

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

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Hell Week

Hell week: The week leading up the opening night of a theatrical performance. (source: urbandictionary.com)

I’ve been through several hell weeks as a performer. Hell week is aptly named because it’s, you know, hell. You’re opening in a week, your set is finally finished, you’re in costume, you’re obviously off book, you’re running the show and running the show and running the show and running the show, and it hasn’t even opened to the general public.

We complain about hell week, but we love it.

But I had a very special type of hell week beginning this Monday that was completely unrelated to performing, and I have not loved it, not one bit. It started early Monday morning, when I woke up with Husband (for whatever reason) and decided to watch a little TV. I heard what sounded like water rushing down the pipes, but I didn’t think much about it because often when the upstairs neighbor showers, we hear it. But it sounded pretty loud, and that perturbed me, especially after looking out the window and seeing nothing but sun and blue skies. I walked into the laundry room, where I heard the pitter patter of small water droplets hitting the dryer, creating a small pool of water on the linoleum. But it was louder than just that, and I turned with trepidation towards the closet housing our water heater and furnace.

It's raining all up in here.

It’s raining all up in here.

This picture doesn’t really do justice to the horror I was met with, but I can’t upload video. Suffice it to say … it sounded like I was in a rainforest. Except I was in my condo.

Obviously I ran upstairs and banged on the neighbor’s door and rang her bell ad nauseum, but she was gone, and I was left with a lake seeping out her door and building up in my own condo. Long story short, I called the landlord, I called the Husband, we had a party, and things are getting back to normal.

Good.

Good.

The thing about getting a flood fixed is that it’s about as inconvenient as the flood itself. Because they have to do things like rip up your carpet and remove the soaked padding and take off all the baseboards and vent covers and move your washer and dryer (and potentially dent it during the process) and drill holes in your wall and ceiling and then remove the drywall and place industrial-sized fans all over the entryway, hallway, and guest bath that will literally drive you crazy. The dehumidifier will make your house freakishly hot. The cat will be unhappy. And it’ll last a few days — it will. It’ll be Thursday, and they’ll just be starting on replacing your wall, and you’ll probably hate life.

My questions are: will they clean up the dust and mess all over everything? And will they fill the holes?

My questions are: will they clean up the dust and mess all over everything? And will they fill the holes?

So that happened.

And then on Tuesday morning around 1:00 am, Husband woke me up from my fantastically deep sleep (thank God for sleep aids) because sweet, old, deaf, blind kitty had a seizure. I’m not really equipped for things like that, just fyi, and my anxiety and depression kicked into full throttle. I’m pleased to report she’s doing better and hasn’t relapsed since, but that hasn’t really stopped me from being on edge, worried that something else might happen.

Kitten face. She has a kitten face, you guys.

Kitten face. She has a kitten face, you guys.

We knew when we adopted a 15+ year old cat that things could happen. But I was living in blissful fantasy, assuming she’d magically regain her vision and hearing and live another ten years, knowing all the while that we just love her to death.

Also, weight gain like I’m preparing to hibernate for the winter.

She Really Wasn’t Good at Math

Hey remember that time I had a flight to Portland leaving Salt Lake City at 6:05, and then I somehow decided that scheduling my ground transportation should result in my arriving at the airport at 5:45?

Yeah so that happened.

I’m not entirely sure why I thought that was a good idea when I used the trip planner on the UTA website, seeing as I’d have to get myself to the terminal from the TRAX stop, check my bag, print a boarding pass, go through security, and then get in line to board. Perhaps that afternoon I was feeling especially ninja.

Image courtesy of blendswap.com

Image courtesy of blendswap.com
Oh look, I was only at 55%.

So I got into the car to drive myself to the Frontrunner stop and suddenly I realized I had a bad, bad plan. But I was in the car and my flight was leaving at 6:05 with or without me, so the only option I had was to drive straight there (which I didn’t even do — seriously I followed the signs and took a rather roundabout route) and park in the economy lot (with money I don’t actually have — hey Husband. You’re looking pretty handsome. Every day of your life).

My best friend told me to consider the positives, namely that I realized my mathematical fallacy before getting on the Frontrunner, and after all, there is never enough money, so I may as well stop being upset about it. For the record, I hate it when she’s right.

An Adventure in Powerwashing

This morning while I was trying to have a leisurely day at home, wearing my favorite old man cardigan and my favorite too-big sweats, my TLC and Lifetime Movie Network watching was interrupted by the sound of powerwashing outside the condo complex. And then outside my front door.

Before you start judging me too much, it wasn’t like I was watching Honey Boo Boo. I have nothing to say about the Lifetime Movie Network. It just kind of happened, guys, and I’m unashamed.

But that’s not the low point of my day. I’d say under normal circumstances, it probably would be. But I combined my laziness with juuuuuuuust enough kitchen cleaning to seem as though I were working hard and being a productive member of society. And when I thought about how I could wait yet another week or so to purchase an outside broom or take care of the mass amounts of cobwebs in the doorframe (although they were really apropos for Halloween, so THANKS A LOT, outside cleaning people, for de-festivizing our home), I was pretty pleased and grateful. I daresay I was almost excited when I told Husband all about how things were beautiful and sparkly clean from our front door to the … rest of the world outside our complex. That’s a lot of ground they covered. I mean, I’m assuming because I still haven’t actually gone outside. The natural light. It makes me melt.

But when Husband left home to return to work post-lunch, I stepped onto the entryway mat and that’s when I realized something was not right.

First of all, it was kind of wet. And if I were to choose one thing I really hated above everything else, I’d have to say it’s being wet for no good reason. So I naturally looked down to figure out what was going on. I was about ready to blame Husband for dragging in random water, but then it occurred to me.

Photo courtesy of the powerwashers.

Door insulation. Not so hot.

I will say there haven’t been any other indicators that the door insulation wasn’t that good – after all it takes all my body weight to close the door and we remain very warm. And I suppose it might actually be fine, except in instances of people spraying it down with a powerwasher. But that doesn’t help me feel that much better about puddles of filthy water festering around my entryway and laundry room. That’s yuck.