Extreme Home Makeover: PART ONE.

Lately I've been dealing with the uncontrollable urge to make some changes. It's part of my mid-life crises, I  know it is. (That's the rational part of me talking.) Maybe it's psychological, or hormonal, whatever. I like to think of it as cosmic. The planets are lined up all weird, and their combined gravitational force is messing with my chakra. (Just kidding, I don't even know what a chakra is. Or if that's even how you spell it.) I get this constant feeling that I'm standing in the middle of a stagnant pond, up to my shins in murky water, hands on hips, staring at my surroundings saying to myself, "Well, this sucks. Now what do I do?" It is an itch that simply must be scratched.

I have to do something, but what? First, I changed my hair. And I love it, but it wasn't quite enough. So, it's TIME TO REDECORATE MY HOUSE! Not the main parts, but the bedrooms. And bathrooms. I HATE my bedroom. Which is really sad, because I think that a person's bedroom should be the place they most desire to be. When I was a kid, I loved spending time in my room. I loved being surrounded by my own things, listening to music or reading my books. It was the only space I could truly say was my own. My corner of the universe. Nowadays, my bedroom sucks. It's dark and dusty, and so incredibly beige that I want to gag. I have put my time and effort into the parts of the house that other people see, it seems that it has finally caught up with me. My bedroom is gross. ALL the bedrooms are gross! They need to be painted, two out of three need new carpet, and the guest rooms have become more like storage rooms for my unending collection of Crap That Has No Home. One of the "guest bedrooms" doesn't even actually contain a bed. (Yeah. I know.) And I don't even want to TALK about the bathrooms. Broken curtain rod, halfway-stripped wallpaper, wiggly towel bars...*shudder*.

I always have a problem getting started on projects like this. In my mind it seems like such a massive undertaking that I become overwhelmed at the mere thought and inevitably decide to scratch the entire thing. But it seems that here, in Mid-Life Crisis mode, accomplishing things is extremely therapeutic. Last week, I officially started redecorating Guest Bedroom #1. I took some art that I'd purchased to Michael's and ordered a custom frame. Then I went to TJ Maxx looking for a new shower curtain, but instead I came out with two throw pillows and a (rather ridiculous) accent chair. I think once you've committed to a piece of furniture like a periwinkle blue chenille corner chair, you're pretty much bound by invisible self-contract to proceed with project. So, proceed I will.

Project #1: Painting the Guest Room
In my 32 years, I have not painted so much as a fence post. How hard can it be? I know people that paint their own walls, and it seems to be no problem for them to do it, so why can't I? And according to the encouraging smiles of the Home Depot employees on television, anyone can do it with the proper tools. (Right?) I have a full can of leftover paint from a couple of years ago, when we had the main areas of our house professionally painted. I have no clue how long paint lasts, but I figure I'll be able to tell if it's still good when I open the can. (Right?) So I picked myself up and went to Home Depot. A more terrifying store, I have never seen. It's basically a floor-to-ceiling nightmare of items I cannot identify, or have only a vague idea of their intended use. I marched purposefully over to the paint section and stared up and down the giant wall of paint supplies, hoping I appear to be a person who knows exactly what they're looking for.  I figure I'll need a couple of brushes, a roller, and a paint tray. No problem. (Right?) There are about a million to choose from, and seeing as how I have absolutely no clue what kind I should get, I finally settle on a set that comes with a couple of rollers, a small brush, and a reusable tray. They range in price from ten to twenty dollars, so I finally grab a cheap one and an expensive one, and ask an employee what the difference is. After all, they're the experts. (Right?) Without looking up, he points to the more expensive of the two sets. "That one's better." Oh. Ok then. Feeling too stupid to inquire with the "expert" about any actual paint, (as Project #2 will involve Painting the Bathroom), I grab my supplies and head to the checkout. The clerk smiled at me, "Have fun!" she said cheerfully. RIGHT.

Today, I started painting. Without a real plan of attack, I taped around the window and the baseboards, and as an afterthought, along the ceiling. I took off the outlet covers and the light switch cover, and took down the curtain rod. I figure I'll start with one wall, and see what happens. Rather than take all of the furniture out of the room, I shoved it all to one side, and piled stuff on the bed. I cranked up some music, and started shaking up my two-year-old can of paint. As I cracked off the lid, the paint appeared to be in usable condition, so I stirred it up, and dove in.

Guess what? PAINTING IS HARD. My arm got tired immediately, as I was trying so hard to paint clean lines around the window and along the floor. The fumes were a bit stifling, and I was working up a sweat, so I cracked a window and continued on. Once I got out the big roller and started covering larger areas of the wall at once, I was pleased to see how quickly I made progress, and was happily thinking, "This isn't so bad." Then I took a step back. What had appeared to be a solid, even coat of paint looked patchy and amateur. My attempts to even out the thin spots seemed to make them worse. The paint got slightly darker as it dried, so when I tried to touch up a spot or two, the fresh paint appeared a different color, and I couldn't tell if I'd fixed the problem or made it worse. In addition to that, I was moving along much faster than I thought I would, and was faced with the problem that I'd only taped half the room, and there was a ton of furniture that would need to be moved if I were to keep going, and I really had nowhere to put it. Plus, I apparently SUCK at painting, so should I even continue? What's the point if it's gong to look like crap, and I'll have to pay someone to paint over it anyway? Finally, I made the obvious choice. I called my mommy.

She advised me to seal up the roller with plastic wrap, put the lid back on the paint, and she will be over in the morning to help. God bless her! I only have half a can of paint left, so she'll review my work and help me paint the remaining walls. If we run out of paint, or if the patchiness of my work cannot be fixed, there's always Plan B. *ominous music*....Wallpaper.

My Uterus, My Business.

It's been recently brought to my attention that I'm a defective member of society.

I'm a married, healthy, fully-educated, gainfully employed, god-fearing, taxpaying citizen. However, being 32 years old and having no children apparently renders me useless in the eyes of certain people who seem to believe that reproduction is the reason for human existence.

Don't get me wrong, I like children. I may even have a couple someday. But seriously, what is the deal with some people? Right now, at this point in my life, I am in no way mentally or emotionally prepared to be a mother. And I'm pretty sure that it's MY choice (and my husband's) to decide when and if we have kids, and no one else's. The problem has ensued due to extremely nosy (although well-meaning) family members who can't seem to keep their mouths shut about my husband and my childless status. Whether behind our backs or straight to our faces, the topic of my uterus is traditionally a hot topic at family gatherings, and I just DON'T get it. Why is it any concern of anyone else's when and if my husband I and I choose to start a family? I love my life the way that it is. I like my job, and my husband I and enjoy the fact that our time is our own. We can travel if we want to, without worrying about a baby-sitter or the kids missing school. We can buy a completely impractical vehicle if we want to, without worrying that it doesn't have side airbags or room for a car seat. We can spend a Sunday afternoon sipping margaritas on a patio somewhere without the constantly worrying that we are responsible for a small helpless human's survival.

It would be one thing if someone were to politely inquire if my husband and I plan on a family someday. It's a perfectly natural question that I am willing to answer without hesitation. But battling with repeated and increasingly upsetting remarks from family members that know full well what my feelings are on the matter is straight-up ridiculous. I've been explaining to people since my wedding day, that yes, we may have children someday, but not someday soon. And in five years, my answer hasn't changed. Despite the coos and gushing assertions that my husband and I will have the "most beautiful babies!", and the raised eyebrows regarding my age ("You can't wait forever, you know."), and the disappointed look on my mother-in-law's face when yet another holiday passes without "any big news." It's nice that the family is so excited to add another member, but I'll be damned if I'm going to turn my entire life upside down just so they have someone to dote on at Christmas time. Excuse me, but kiss my entire ass. I shouldn't have to be made to feel inadequate about my life by people who don't understand my choice. I have every respect for people who choose to raise children. It's a tough job, and I esteem those who embrace the challenge. But am I a bad person because I have no maternal instinct? Um, I don't think so. And as the gushing assertions have been slowly replaced by spiteful, biting remarks, I find my temper spiking higher and higher. Remarks such as, "Gina doesn't want to have a baby because she'd rather drink and party," or "Gina just doesn't want to get fat." Who the HELL do you think you are to say such things? Even if they were true, what difference does it make what the reasons are? My reasons are my reasons. There have been whispered conversations regarding my husband's sperm count, and wide-eyed fears that I might be (gasp) barren. I find this kind of behavior too disgusting for words. I'm scowling at my computer screen even as we speak. Why is it so hard for people to understand that MAYBE WE JUST DON'T WANT KIDS?!? There's more to life than creating offspring. I'm going to visit the Louvre. I'm going to see the pyramids, and snorkel in the Great Barrier Reef. And (yes, I'll go there) how exactly am I supposed to pole dance with pregnant belly? I intend to enjoy every moment of my life as it comes, and if a child isn't part of that plan, it's simply nobody's goddamn business. 

End rant.

The '72 Chevy Nova

Beautiful, shiny tail fins, immaculate whitewalls, and mirror-perfect chrome reflecting in the sunshine. I love love classic cars. (And I WILL own one someday.) Due to the unforgiving nature of North Dakota winters, most classic car owners keep their precious rides in storage half the year, so when I spotted a pristine yellow Chevy Nova weaving its way through traffic today, my heart swelled at the thought that summer is nearly upon us.

About a million years ago, I worked at a Blockbuster Video with a girl who owned a Chevy Nova. It was the first one I'd ever seen, actually. And I have never forgotten her, or the car. At the time I thought Blockbuster was the greatest job ever. I got to watch new releases before the general population, all my rentals were free, and sometimes (drum roll) I got free movie posters. I was nineteen and green, and the job. Was. Awesome. Carissa joined our staff after I'd been working there for about a year.She was described to me by a mutual acquaintance as a stuck-up and snotty popular girl, but I never found her so. (For all I know, she could have been a total bitch in high school, but I was in my first year at the local university, so it was no skin off my nose if she was a mean girl. I didn't have to go to school with her.) The Carissa I knew was a delightfully candid and rather flighty blond who always had a smile, and giggled at her own (frequent) ditziness. (For example: The movies at Blockbuster were arranged in alphabetical order, but for some reason Carissa could never find where anything went.) She was friendly with the staff, conversational with the customers, and despite being alphabetically-challenged, she was fun to work with.

I didn't own a car my freshman year of college, and although I usually had transportation, every once in a while I bummed a ride from a co-worker. One night Carissa gladly agreed to give me a lift back to the dorm, and strolling through the dark Blockbuster parking lot, I scanned the spaces for her car. Being a 'stuck-up popular girl' I assumed Carissa drove some kind of sporty little two-door vehicle, paid for by her parents. I was guessing it was probably a new(er) Mustang, most likely cherry red. Instead, she veered towards a banged up old blue muscle car. I actually stopped walking. "This is your car?" I could hardly keep the disbelief out of my voice. "Yup." She scurried around to the driver's side and unlocked the door. "Um...did you pick it out? Or did your dad?" I opened the heavy passenger door and climbed inside. It was like sliding onto the seat of a school bus. The steering wheel was as big as an oil drum. "What kind of car is this?" Carissa turned the key and the car growled to life. "I picked it," she said cheerfully. Then she looked at me sideways, clearly a little miffed that I even had to ask. "It's a '72 Chevy Nova. I love this car." I was caught somewhere between shock and awe. Rusted out and in need of a tune-up, this was the last car on earth I expected this blond-haired, blue-eyed giggle box to be driving. I would have been no less shocked if she'd climbed behind the wheel of a giant tractor. And despite the rust and the rather concerning noises coming from the engine, there was no question that the Nova was probably the coolest vehicle I'd ever been in. I was speechless. "Wow," I said. "It's awesome, Carissa." We gossipped a bit on the short drive to my dorm, and said friendly goodbyes as I hopped out of the Nova and slammed its giant door behind me. I eventually quit my job at Blockbuster, and haven't seen Carissa since. I have no idea what happened to her. However, thirteen years later, I still think of her every time I see a Chevy Nova. I wonder if she went off to college and started a career, or ended up with six kids in a trailer park somewhere. I wonder if she drove that Nova until the wheels fell off, or if she married a plastic surgeon and had it fully restored, and has it resting under a tarp next to her husband's Lexus in their suburban four-stall garage. I'll probably never know. But I thought of her today, and I smiled.

Short and Sweet.

Day 65 of 2012.

Well technically, it's day 67, but due to the fact that I worked New Year's Eve, I celebrated with my husband and some friends on New Year's Day. After a grand amount of beverages consumed, multiple bars visited, and way too much money spent, a good time was indeed had by all parties involved. (I think.) I then spent most of January 2nd in recovery. Therefore, my 2012 did not officially begin until January 3rd. Hence, Day 65.

I have my 14th week of pole fitness class tonight! I am simply tickled by how much I'm enjoying this. Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I have rarely seen a pole and not felt compelled to dance on it. Can you believe that I have managed to locate an official outlet for this bizarre urge? It's utterly fantastic. I cannot WAIT to put a pole in my garage. (My husband is in full support of this decision.) Not only is it fun, but the strength and muscle that I've built in just a few weeks is astounding. I've just started Level 3, which is 6 weeks of mostly strength training in preparation for the kinds of stunts I'll get to tackle in Level 4. The amount of upper body and core strength that it takes to do aerial pole work (super awesome tricks way up in the air) is mind-blowing. It's such a great feeling to feel body getting stronger. Suddenly I have actual definition in my arms again. (Bye bye flabby-skin wings!) I was in pretty good shape back in the day. (Let's not dwell on how long ago that 'day' actually was.) I was a dancer, and a cheerleader. I had muscles! I played a sport or two, but I was never any good. I like to think that I was much too (*cough*) graceful to ever be very competitive. Let the beefy clodhoppers bring home their sports trophies- my pom poms and I will stick to the sidelines, thank you very much. The uniforms were way cuter, anyway.

This whole pole-dancing thing is just another fabulous stage of my ongoing midlife crisis. Although it was clicking along quite nicely throughout most of last year (including, but not limited to: a tattoo, piercings, and weird random urges to wear fishnets and purchase things in leopard print), but here's what I'm working on in 2012.

So far, I've:
a) ...started my life as a pole dancer.
b) ...developed a correlating fascination with all things burlesque and boudoir.
c) ...made an appointment for another large tattoo.
d) ...dyed my hair black with blue streaks.
e) ...got plans to completely redecorate all three bedrooms and both bathrooms in my house.
f) ...still got a hair up my ass to buy either a motorcycle or a classic car.
g) ...started a blog to chronicle my female whims and early middle-age dysfunction.

Wish me luck! Blog #1: Complete.