A compact tale, 13 or so years in the making.

On the solemn and momentous occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of my birth, my friend, herewithin these blogparts known as "Harvard Barbie," announced that we would celebrate by drinking wine and then visiting the Clinique counter for a makeover, because I was all grown up, apparently, and should stop wearing Bonne Bell. Which was not altogether accurate, because at the time, my beauty routine had graduated to the very sophisticated CoverGirl mascara and cherry chapstick, but whatevs.

So, I dropped off my newly-acquired husband with Harvard Barbie's sort of broken-in husband and their infant twins, a twelve pack of microbrew and off to the mall we went.

I may have mentioned my disdain for malls.

And shopping.

And all things girly.

And pretty much anything that has to do with malls or shopping or all things girly.

Proving how dearly I love Harvard Barbie.

Also, at the time, I had a little mantra going of "VPx33" or, VP by 33. I was on a fast track and was certain that if I did everything just so, right down to the eyeliner, I'd be a Vice President at the company I was working before turning 33 years old. I figured a night out with my oldest homegirl would be fun, and if I looked all professional and shit in the process, then BONUS, the only hazard would be I'd be VPx32. Which would suck because it doesn't rhyme but I was willing to take the risk.

In any case, HB and I had a fab evening at the mall, complete with appetizers and copious amounts of Merlot and then we made our way over to the white-coated ladies at May D&F for my official entre into grownupness.

I cannot be sure, but if I had to venture a guess the woman who denounced everything about my appearance was 22. She smelled like Marlboro Reds and TransAm seats. (But in a nice way.) She had acrylic fingernails and hoop earrings and was shocked - SHOCKED I tell you - that I didn't wear eye shadow.

It went something like this:

Clinique Girl: (in between chomps of Wrigley's Big Red) You have really great eyes. So, you like brown eye shadow, then?

Me: Ummm. Thanks, and I don't think so? I don't know. I mean, I don't wear eye shadow really much since like, um, prom.

Clinique Girl: Wow. Huh. That's like totally weird, because your eyelids are totally like sparkly and have like brown on them.

Me: Really? (Leaning into hand mirror) Oooooh. Yeah, that's smeared mascara. I was rubbing my eyes because my friend here and me just had like, beaucoup Merlot.

Clinique Girl: (empty stare)

Me: That's like francois for "buncha wine."

Clinique Girl: Ew. Whateverrrrr. (chews acrylic nail)

Me: So... would another color be better?

Harvard Barbie: What about this awesome lavender?

Me: Would it cover up smeared mascara?

Clinique Girl: Yeah, maybe.

Me: Sold.

Today, 13.4 years later, I was digging through my very grownup makeup bag looking for cherry chapstick and I find this.

No damned wonder I'm not a Vice President.

This might be why people in other countries think we're spoiled.

Behold my younger son. You may remember him from an earlier post where we had to staple his head shut.

We call him Pete, which is totally not his name, but it really fits him, so we go with it. Sometimes you just name your kid the wrong thing, that's all. This picture was taken four years ago, when he was six and on a golf team with a bunch of bigger kids. I was dropping him off for a tee time and he noticed this sign.

My older son, being of extremely ethical character like his father, would've seen this sign and been worried that he shouldn't play. My younger son, being of my character, thought it was awesome that we were breakin' the rules, man, and thought we should document it with a photo. This will probably not serve him well in life - I'm trying to teach him that it's generally better to hide the evidence - but for minor infractions that don't include incarceration and/or fines, I like to play along.

Last week, he played the same course where the photo was taken, but this time instead of just nine holes like he's used to, he played all 18 for the first time ever. It's a long course, and he was out there in 90+ degrees for about five hours.  Afterwards, we went to celebrate (because I always favor celebration over dinner making) at our local watering hole.

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation ensued.

Pete: I am STARVING.

Waiter Guy: You're not starving, Pete, you're hungry. Kids in Africa are starving.

Pete: Yeah? Well, did any kids in Africa play 18 holes of golf today? Well? Huh? That's right. I thought not.

At least he's not shy.

Two stories that seem completely unrelated until you realize they both are good examples of my social ineptitude.

Last week I attended my 25th HS Class Reunion, which sounds so official that I capitalized it, but really, it was 6 people at the tavern around the corner from my house. (My high school? Not so big.) Also - because the other 30 people in my class were busy last weekend, we're having another reunion in August. Huge schools with hundreds of kids only need one, but we're special. Not special like short bus special, just special like, oh forget it.

Anyway, while I was there I was talking to someone that the last time I talked to her I was wearing two pairs of scrunchy socks, Esprit overalls, plaid Keds and a blueberry-scented Swatch Watch. She's got 4 kids, the oldest of which is 14. And female. And she home schools them, so they're always at home. When she told me this, I laughed and said, "Wow - that must be fun - having a teenaged girl in the house all the time...I'm so glad I have boys."  (This is called SMALL TALK. People do it when they have nothing real in common other than where they went to high school.) She looked at me as if I WAS STILLwearing two pairs of scrunchy socks, Esprit overalls, plaid Keds and a blueberry-scented Swatch Watch and said, "Well, I LOVE my daughters."

And that is when I went to talk to someone else.

Two days later, a friend, we'll call her Professor Barbie, because, well...she's a professor, called and told me about an unfortunate experience she'd just had with her daughter. Seems a bunch of moms and a bunch of 7 year old girls were all at a house having their Mother-Daughter Book Club, and afterwards, the homeowner's sweet labradoodle bolted out and decided that under a moving car would be a fun place to play. Sadly, very sadly, the Mother-Daughter in the moving car didn't realize the doggy did that, and the labradoodle - named Charlotte - was killed. In front of the entire Mother-Daughter Book Club.

And again, I said, "Wow - I am so glad I have sons."

Only this time I said it very very quietly, and only in my head. Because regardless of what you've heard, I do actually learn.

What I said out loud was, "And that, right there, is why I will never join a book group." 

PS - RIP Charlotte. She really was a lovely creature, even if she did have poor depth perception.

In which I determine he is normal afterall.

The giant middle schooler is in the throes of his summer schedule, which is, while relaxing and fun, waaay harder than his school schedule.

By way of illustration:

School Schedule
6:45   Wake up. Take long shower. Eat big breakfast.
7:45   Go to school. Schlump through hallways. Eat lunch. Slouch in polystyrene molded chairs.
2:45   Come home. Eat.
4:00   Some type of sports practice.
6:00   Eat.
9:00   Sleep. Dream. About eating.

Summer Schedule
6:30 Wake up. Throw on swimsuit, still damp from yesterday.
7:00  Two hour swim team practice
9:00  Assist tennis coach teaching 5-6 year olds for two hours
11:00 Finally eat.
12:00 Golf Practice or Golf Tournament.
3:00 Mow lawns.
5:00 Baseball.
7:00 Eat.
10:00 Watch "Whose Line is it Anyway" until your parents make you go to bed.

Because he has suddenly realized that both a) mirrors and b) girls exist, he has also added to his summer schedule Working Out. Which means, if he has a few seconds before, between or after any given activity, he is doing pull-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope, Wii Fit, or running.

Last night, after two episodes of "Whose Line is it Anyway" we finally made him go to bed at 11, because we were too tired to watch anymore. On the way up the stairs, he did calf raises, and I had to yell at him to stop jumping rope before bed. I believe my exact words were, "Dude. At bedtime, we try to relax, and sloooow our heartrates, so get your ass in bed before Mommy breaks your legs I love you goodnight."

As I fell gratefully into bed, I pondered the energy of youth. Was I EVER this active?  (The answer is a resounding NO.) I mean, really. This kid is frickin' super-human to do this much stuff on very little sleep. Maybe he's got a ginormous heart like Lance Armstrong. Maybe he's a future Olympian. Tomorrow, I shall have his VO2 Max tested, and I will plan his future! I should check in to Wheaties endorsements now so that I'm ready.

And then, this morning, while I was finding him a dry towel and he readied himself for swim team, this happened.   (Please pardon the photo quality - Big Dude took it with an iPhone and the sunrise is a little blinding.)

On the left, Giant middle schooler. Completely passed out after having been awake for like, 6 minutes. Exactly like he used to pass out in his highchair, sitting up and mid-bite. On the right, loyal bulldog, apparently so tired from his excruciating bulldog summer regimen that he fell asleep sitting up as well.

Looks like everyone's normal afterall. Although I am going to look into a Wheaties endorsement for the bulldog. Dude's got hops.

Brad Pitt is probably too exhausted to shave.

First of all - 50 followers with nary a giveaway! Thanks, you guys!  I am truly humbled that fives of you exist willing to tolerate me. I've been a little swoony over it, feeling sorta popular and everything. Apparently, word has gotten out that I'm all cool now, because suddenly this is in my inbox:

Mmhm, That's right. Angelina wants ME to join Facebook AND be her friend. Well, I'm sorry, Little Miss Thang, but homewreckers piss me off. You're just going to have to depend on your gaggle of children and Jennifer Aniston's husband* to keep you company. Maybe Octomom would like to be your friend.  *Yeah, I know. It was years ago and Jennifer's over it. I'm not.

So I delete her invitation,  move on happily with my life, work a little, eat a little cereal, throw in a load of laundry and come back to the inbox to find this:

Really? Aren't the Beatles kind of broken up right now?  Oh, and also? GEEZ. Angelina, leave me alone, dude.  There's something to be said for being persistent, but seriously. It's sort of overkill.  Okay, I get it. You like me. Understandable. I make a mean lasagna, my beer fridge is always full, I know a sh'load of Helen Keller jokes. Basically, I'm fun at parties. True dat. But I do not want to be your friend, Ange.

Is it that you think I'd be a good babysitter? I do live close to some good restaurants you and Brad might want to drop in on. Oh...so that's it. You've heard my husband shaves his head, so you're thinking we've got a razor sturdy enough for whatever the hell it is growing on Brad's face. Well, sorry. I'd prefer to not subject any of our appliances to your husband's dreadlocked beard-thingy. Even the dogs' Furminator is off-limits, sister. And don't even think about dulling the weed-wacker, I need it for the yard.

I bet Brad didn't even like you in the first place, but you just kept emailing him until he gave in. Well it won't work with me, Ms. Needy Needington. I've got standards. And 50 other friends. So there.

And she didn't even charge me a co-pay.

Real live conversation I just had with neighbor Spanxy.

Spanxy: Do you feel better yet?

Me: Nope. But I slammed some theraflu and whiskey last night and antibiotics today. It's mostly just in my throat.

Spanxy: Oh my gosh, do you still have your tonsils?

Me: Yes.

Spanxy: THAT'S IT! They're a breeding ground for germs. You gotta get rid of them.

Me: My dad had his removed, and they grew back.

Spanxy: Yeah, so did Mr. Spanxy. But no one noticed because he's a middle child.

Me: I'm a middle child. Maybe that's why I have tonsils.

Spanxy: Well. You can't get them out now. You'll die.

Me: I'll die?

Spanxy: Yeah. Only kids can handle it.

Me: So, don't get them out?

Spanxy: Nope. You're too old. But hurry and get better, we've got a holiday weekend coming up.

Me. Right. Okay. I will.

Flashback Friday. Marriage is a solemn occasion that must be taken seriously.

Unless you're 22 years old. And it's Valentine's Day. And you're in a small town in Northeastern Colorado. And you're a bridesmaid in a shiny pink satin dress, white nylons and pink frickin shoes that cost $20 for the shoes and $20 to dye them craptastic pink. Also some strange white piece of shit in your hair, and mandatory-nail-polish-assigned-by-the-bride.

In that case, right before the solemn ceremony, you should high-tail it to the one liquor store in town, get a quart of beer and ask an old cowboy guy to take your picture. Then, jump in your Toyota Tercel, drink the quart of beer without dripping too much of it on your dress and get your asses over to the church.

Where the bride is also burping beer. At 10 AM. But that might possibly be leftover burps from the night before. I'm not sure.

Hard to imagine, but the marriage didn't last five years. Go figure.

My pal Connie and me in all our pinkness. She's the one with Miller Lite. And dimples.

Postscript - I was also invited, that same Valentine's Day, to another wedding that I couldn't make due to my obligation to wear a shiny pink dress elsewhere. That sacred union lasted less than two years. Note to the Internet: Please don't get married on Valentine's Day. When you're 22. The end.