Out With the Old!

I've heard the phrase "de-cluttering is good for the soul". I don't know where I heard it, but it is absolutely true. I have discovered that there is something extremely satisfying about parting with things. It's like the items were literally weighing me down, and every time another box of stuff goes out the door, I feel a little bit lighter. Over the past couple of years, I have been slowly de-cluttering, both my house and my life. It kind of kicked into high gear when I started watching Hoarders. A more terrifying show, I have never seen. In case you aren't familiar with the program, it focuses on individuals who suffer from an emotional disorder in which they are compelled to acquire and store items of little or no value. It always starts innocent enough, with a small stamp collection or something, and then (usually after some kind of traumatic life event), BOOM! It's floor-to-ceiling pillars of crap in every room, the toilet's busted, there's feces everywhere, and you're sleeping on a mountain of roach-infested garbage.

I don't want to sleep on garbage.

One day, shortly after having moved into our first home, my mother showed up at my door with a pile of boxes from my childhood and said, "Now that you have a house of your own, it's time to get all your stuff out of mine." I took all the boxes to the spare bedroom in my basement, stacked them, and shut the door. Three years later, I opened that door and found that they had multiplied into my very own personal hoard. Ack! What do I do? I don't want to be one of those people! There has GOT to be some stuff in here that I can part with! Of course the first things to go belonged to my husband. (Turns out it was much easier to give away things from his childhood than my own.) My husband is a paper hoarder. He had an entire file cabinet stuffed with pay-stubs, bank statements, and random legal documents from as far back as 1995. Hundreds of statements from accounts that no longer exist, rental agreements from old apartments,old parking tickets, and documents relating to jobs he had in high school. I purchased a shredder.

Not surprisingly, my husband freaked out. He'd spent a lifetime accumulating this bizarre paper stash, and was none too keen on my idea to simply destroy it. However, the little tiff we had over the paper hoard was nothing compared to the battle that ensued when I tried to put his old He-Man guys on Ebay, so I took a deep breath, and turned my attention to my own pile of boxes. After all, I had a lot more stuff than my husband did, so if I was going to be fair, a lot more of my own things would have to hit the curb than his. Time to quit harping on my spouse, and own up to the fact that it was mostly my things that were the problem at hand.

Over the next year, I slowly sifted through the mountain. I went through box after box of my childhood things. I found items that I didn't even recognize. That made them easy to part with. If I couldn't remember why I had saved a particular item, it went into the Give-Away pile. Things that had no sentimental value but possibly some cash value went into the Ebay pile, and of course quite a few things made their way into the Garbage pile. I'd saved newspaper clippings, sheet music, programs from sports events, and posters from all my theatrical productions in high school. I had trophies and stuffed animals, photographs and souvenirs of every size and shape. All my ceramic kitty cats went into the Give-Away pile, and a few of my childhood toys went up on Ebay. I threw out broken items that I finally admitted I would never fix, expired cosmetics, old glassware, random books I'd never again read, and I games I'd never again play. All the VHS and cassette tapes went into the Give-Away pile (save home movies and a couple of mix tapes made for me by friends), along with coats and shoes and "skinny clothes" which, even if they fit, would be out of style anyway. One day, I looked around and was surprised to see that the number of boxes in my hoard had dwindled to a manageable number. Most of what remained were photo albums, a few keepsakes, and important documents. The slow process of shredding the hundreds of ancient papers in my husband's broken file cabinet was complete, and all that remained were certification documents and tax forms. In a great show of support, he even let me throw out three years' worth of old Sports Illustrated magazines that he'd been keeping in a dresser drawer. My once terrifying Hoard Room now contained a guest bed, some actual furniture. Where there was once twenty sagging cardboard boxes, there were now just a handful of plastic storage bins, all neatly stacked and labeled. I had done it.

It's not the cleanest of rooms, by any means, but you can see the carpet, and at last it's more of a guest room than a dirty little secret. It still contains things that I could probably do away with, but I'm so proud of myself for the progress that I've made. Sometimes I go into that room and just look around and congratulate myself on coming this far. As a person who sees value in old things, it's been a bit of a challenge to part with aged items. However, I have learned that just because I've had something forever doesn't mean that I have to keep it. And it's ok to give things away, because if I saw the value in an item, someone else will, too. I've made a game of selling things on Ebay and craigslist. I'm not getting rich by any means, but it makes me happy to put something that was once important to me into the hands of a person who appreciates it, and making a couple dollars while I'm at it is icing on the cake. Truth be told, I've already started collecting new items for the house, reinvesting the dollars I've made selling my old items into new collectibles, but it's helped make my home my own. I've turned a bunch of My Little Ponys that spent twenty years in a box into an antique trunk and an old radio to decorate my bedroom. I put my old toys into the safekeeping of a person who will appreciate them. At the same time, I've added to the beauty of my home with things that make me smile, and isn't that the point? As the weight of the past slowly trickles out the door, I have room for a new and exciting future.

And just in time for garage-sale season. ;)

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Most people hate Mondays. We dread them all weekend, we wake up groaning about them, and we grumble about them on Facebook all day long, seeking company in our misery from others who share our pain.

When I worked a regular 8-5:00 job, Monday through Friday, I hated Mondays too. Why? Because Monday signifies the point in the week at which you have the most remaining work hours until your next day off. It sucks knowing that there are now forty hours of productivity (or misery, whatever) between you and that Friday evening happy hour. However, when I chose to abandon the 8-5:00 lifestyle, Mondays took on a new meaning for me. The night-job life means that I work nights and weekends. I am routinely scheduled Friday nights, therefore Friday is really nothing to look forward to. If I'm not battling through my week just to get to Friday, my reasons for hating Monday simply melt away.

For me, Monday mornings are mostly calm. Quiet. After a long weekend of work, dealing with drunken customers, shouting over loud music, and trying to fit in all those things that I didn't manage to get accomplished during the week, Mondays are my breath of fresh air. To me, every Monday is a chance to start over. The perpetual Day 1.

Day 1 of the Diet: Struggling with health and weight is a constant for most people, and like most people, I want to look and feel my best while simultaneously (constantly) indulging myself in excessive food, beverage, and naps. Obviously, this does not work. And after a weekend of enjoying myself, Monday is always the day I mentally motivate myself to get back on track. Because Monday is the day with the most remaining days between me and the weekend, it represents a fresh start, and blank page. I can make this Monday the start of a healthier me.

Day 1 of the Exercise Plan: I'm no marathon-runner, but as a woman approaching middle age, I am well aware that my metabolism won't last forever, and it's important to include physical activity in my life. Every exercise program from Sweatin' to the Oldies to p90x has a Day 1.Why not make it today? Fifteen minutes on the elliptical in the morning, one hour of pole fitness in the evening, and a reasonably healthy menu in between. Boom.

Day 1 of the Housewife "Home" Tasks: Desperate housewives of the world! I have six guests coming to stay with me Friday night, and in order to make sure that they don't witness any embarrassing filth, I have *cough* a few chores that need to be taken care of before Friday. Picking up all the clutter, making sure the pillows are fluffed and the beds are clean-sheeted, stocking the fridge, etc. Since it's Monday, I have the maximum number of hours remaining in which to complete those tasks. (Cue the sound of a whip cracking. *whoop-pISH!!*)

Day 1 of the Housewife "Other" Tasks: I have bills to pay, mail to sort, stuff to drop off, packages to ship, Grandmas to visit, gifts to purchase, and household supplies to re-stock. And Lord knows those groceries won't shop for themselves. Luckily, it's Monday, so I have lots of time to squeeze my errands in before Friday, and get them all done without causing myself a panic attack.

Day 1 of Soul Improvement: Arguably the most important of all the Day 1's, this Monday is a chance for me to improve mySELF. Smile at more people instead of giving blank stares, or let an extra car into my lane. I should take a few minutes of my drive between jobs and call a friend just to say hi. Try to keep bitterness and venom out of my head and heart, and remember not to let something small ruin my day. Learn to let something small make my day instead.

A cup of coffee on Monday morning is possibly my favorite time of the week. In the world of the "Day Job" people, 10AM on a Monday might be the worst moment of the week. It's just about time for that fifteen-minute mid-morning break, in which (if you're lucky) you'll be able to run to the bathroom and hit the vending machine. Maaaaaybe check Facebook, but only if you do it on the toilet. (Multi-tasking is key.) Right now, my week seems endless, in a good way. I'm looking around at my messy house, knowing it has to be cleaned, and checking the clock because I know I have places to be, but hey. There's plenty of time to accomplish my weekly goals, because it's only Monday. It's literally the first day of the rest of my life.

And with a small, determined grin, she chugs the rest of her coffee, closes the laptop, and thinks to herself, "Go get 'em, Tiger."

Mid-30's Spring Break: The New Awesome.

I walked up to the check-out at Express and plopped my purchases onto the counter. "Did you find everything alright?" The perky co-ed gave me a smile as she started ringing up my items. Suddenly a sea foam green tank top with a black sequined palm tree stitched to the front caught her eye. "Omygod, this is SO. Cute!" she gushed excitedly, "Are you going on spring break?!" I paused a beat as I tried to figure out if she was mocking my purchase. After all, what thirty-something (practically ancient in the eyes of anyone under twenty-five) would buy something so ridiculous in February? (Or ever?) In a split second, I decided she was genuinely, adorably clueless and responded with a cheerful grin, "Why yes. Yes, I am."

Spring Break. I never had one. My parents got their education the hard way. They WORKED, and they paid for it. As a result, I was entirely responsible for my own room and board, as well as my own college tuition. The closest I ever came to a spring break was when a bunch of friends and I road-tripped to Winnipeg one dreary March. None of us had any money (or any parents with money willing to foot the bill for a frivolous vacation that would no-doubt result in a Girls Gone Wild cameo that would inevitably ruin our chances at political office), so while the greeks and the rich kids flocked south of the border, my economically-challenged friends and I headed defiantly north. It was a great time. We stayed at a Ramada because, as an employee of the Ramada in Fargo, one of my friends got super-cheap rooms. We carpooled. We bought off-sale, cleaned out every ice machine in the entire hotel, and got drunk in our rooms to save money. We paraded down the street to a dirty strip club, and one of my friends purchased a fist full of bargain weed from some weirdo outside the mall. (YIKES.) Instead of buying souvenirs, I stole sticky shot glasses from the Tijuana Yacht Club. We passed out at the hotel in random heaps, wearing mini-skirts, Hawaiian shirts and smiles. I loved nearly every minute of that trip, but it still wasn't the same as a real Spring Break.

This year, my friends and I decided it was high time we take a tropical vacation together. Sun, sand, friends, and liquor. What could be better? It was long overdue! (Right?) However, due to costs involved, we ended up changing our original plans to chill at a Jamaican resort, to renting a house in Key West. Spend a night or two in Miami, Key Largo, and then head to Key West (in wicked rental mini-vans), where the booze is plentiful, there's a beach on every corner, and Cuba is closer than the nearest Walmart. (True story.) The house was GORGEOUS. Private pool, beach across the street, and the Southernmost Point of the United States was literally 200 yards away.

We had an amazing time. We drank. We danced. We saw strippers and sang karaoke. We took cheesy visitors' tours and bought tacky souvenir photos. I've got a million new memories and funny stories. We saw crocodiles, the world's largest lobster statue, haunted liquor establishments, and P. Diddy's Miami home. But do you know what the funny part is? It was unseasonably cold, and rained almost the entire time we were there, but it didn't matter. After all of these years it wasn't the "tropical location" that finally made our "Spring Break" a reality, it was each other. I've had the amazing good fortune to have found a group of friends that, even though most of us met by accident, has been able to stick together throughout the years. Although separated by distance, there is something about our relationships that time and distance doesn't change. And even though Key West was historical and beautiful, and Miami was all sexy and happening, that stuff was a mere background to the real action. My favorite memories of this "grown-up Spring Break" are singing karaoke in a tiny little Key West bar with barely any customers. We drank and danced, choked down jell-o shots, and sang the same songs we've been singing to each other for a decade. In Key Largo, we played drinking games and listed to early 2000's hip-hop at top volume until security banged on the door and threatened to kick us out. We hugged, we talked, we took silly pictures, and we walked arm-in-arm down Ocean Drive in South Beach like it was Broadway in Fargo, 2003. The honest truth is, I think that my friends and I could have taken a Spring Break anywhere and made it just as amazing as we did in Florida. We make our own fun, and that fun is about being together, not being somewhere. The setting is just the icing on the cake. The real treasure in this trip has been reconnecting with friends and realizing that while time irrevocably passes, some things truly never change. Those interpersonal connections are what keep us grounded, and what keep us young. Despite the demands of career, family, and society, I don't know if my friends and I will ever truly act our ages. Lol, I don't even know if it's possible. Whenever we set eyes on each other, it's like a time warp. Our hearts come alive with that carefree spirit we possessed in our youth, when all we needed to do was get home safely and pay rent on time. It's the indescribable feeling that you can only explain in hindsight. When I was 22, I thought I was an adult, but somehow felt like I'd be young forever. The world was my oyster and nothing was impossible. It's the kind of thing you can only appreciate looking backward. However, with age has come the wisdom and perspective to know that every day is a gift, and not one moment is to be wasted or taken for granted. And perhaps that is why now, more than ever, my friends and I can suck down a jell-o shot, grab that karaoke mic, link arms and sing our hearts out with a gusto like we never have before.

BRRR!!! I can't feel my face...

I realize I am stating the obvious here, but it is COLD OUTSIDE!!! And it's not just cold. It's true North Dakota freeze-your-ass-off cold. It's spit-into-the-wind-and-your-own-saliva-marble-nails-you-in-the-middle-of-the-forehead cold. And I realize that although it's (come on) not that big of a deal, (I mean really, all you have to do is make it from your car to the building and vice verse), but still. When you round the corner and a blast of icy wind slices through every layer of clothing like a knife, and your vision goes blurry for a second because your eyeballs have momentarily frosted over, it seems like a big deal.

The weather around here is a constant source of entertainment, hassle, and never-ending conversation. It amazes me that people live here! And at the same time, aren't we all just a little bit proud of it? "Keeps the riff-raff out," that's what we always say. You think some SoCal-born wimp could put up with this nonsense? No way. North Dakotans are bred to tough out the winters here. It's literally in our blood. Short history lesson: A long time ago (in a land far away), the Russian monarchy, looking to settle some of their underpopulated land, advertised throughout the rest of Europe that people could move to Russia to live on and farm the land for free, in exchange for a percentage of their crop. A large number of Germans took them up on the offer and immigrated to Russia. After a few generations, Russia started to suck, so the Germans picked up and moved to the brand new United States of America. Guess where a large number of them settled? The upper mid-west. Guess why? Because it reminded them of home. Cold, crappy, treeless, flat-ass Russia. They knew how to survive and farm land in a hostile climate, and no one else wanted to live here, so BOOM. Home sweet home.

I think it's amusing that "weather" is sort of like, the quintessential world's-most-boring conversation topic. Only around here, it's not. When someone bursts through the front door, and says, "Man, it's cold out there!" It isn't just chilly. It means that exposed skin literally freezes in four and a half minutes. We live in a region where people still freeze to death annually. Freeze. To DEATH. Human popsicles. Unreal. Not only that, but weather is something that every single person around here has in common. It doesn't matter the color of your skin, your political opinions, or your tax bracket. Rich or poor, every last one of us fights the same battle five months a year. Icy roads don't care how nice your car is. That snow in your driveway doesn't give a crap how important your job is. Waitress or CEO, we all have to conquer the same mountains of frozen crunchy white stuff in our attempts to drive to work, and every single one of us will have disgusting snot-cicles when we get there. North Dakota winters are the universal f*cking equalizer.

And speaking of snow, does anyone else dislike it as much as I do? Pretty or not, I resent the fact that every winter, the sky dumps buckets and buckets of frozen water on our houses and streets. We spend millions of dollars on equipment to move it, shove it, pile it, stack it, get it OUT of the frickin' way so we can go about our daily business, and then, poof! It simply melts into nothingness. All that snow vanishes without a trace, making a mockery of the time and money we've spent dealing with it, yet again. I picture that little clay-mation character Jack Frost, laughing maniacally as he zips off to his vacation home in the Caribbean, where he'll sit sipping umbrella drinks all summer long until his calendar says it's time to go back to Fargo.

All that being said, I like living in North Dakota. Snow, schmo. If I lived in California, I'd be dealing with little earthquakes cracking the plaster up and down my walls. In Florida, there could be a giant mutant lizard lurking in my backyard, waiting to eat my dog. Whatever. It's stupid cold outside, and I felt like a short, winter-inspired rant. I know every single person who reads this probably can't feel their toes right now, so I think you'll all catch my drift. (No pun intended.)

Yes, Regina, there is a Santa Claus.

It was just about three (or four?) years ago, and my husband and I were settled in for our annual Christmas visit with his family. As we sat around, sprawled out on sofas, chatting comfortably about a variety of topics, sipping toddies and throwing good-natured jabs, the conversation turned to the moment we all first realized that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Stories of disappointment and devastation. My sister-in-law lamented that she'd spent at least two years pretending to believe in Santa after she'd realized the truth in order not to hurt her mother's feelings. As for myself? "I never believed in Santa," I said. Shocked utterances and stares of disbelief were immediately thrown my way, as I explained that my parents had tried very hard to keep Christmas a holy day, as opposed to a secular holiday. We still had presents and cookies and went to Santa's Village to pet the reindeer. We still watched Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas every year, but the emphasis of Christmas at our house was on angles, God, and stories of stars leading the wise men to the Nativity. I knew that Santa Claus wasn't any more real than the people dressed as Micky and Goofy at Disney World. But you should have heard the uproar when I announced that I had no intentions of deluding my own future children with such nonsense either.

"You can't do that! You'd be robbing your kids of their childhood! You'd be taking the magic of Christmas away from them!" There arose such a clatter that I nearly dropped my Christmas beverage. I looked at my husband for support, but he was staring at me like I was a total stranger. Apparently this was a topic that should have been discussed prior to our vows.

The debate fired on for quite some time, as I was accused of being heartless and un-American. My nephew said he'd never been much for Santa until he saw the joy and wonder on the face of his younger brother, and that however short-lived, he couldn't fathom taking that joy away from him. My sister-in-law was on my side, stating that she didn't want her kids to suffer the same inevitable disappointment that she did. I recalled a story from my own childhood in which I'd told some kids at school that Santa wasn't real, and how silly and naive I'd thought they were. ("You think some guy comes down the chimney with your presents? Your parents buy them, dummy.") This particular story didn't do much to bolster my image, but I maintained that I'd rather my kid be me in that scenario than the one who went home in tears.

All that said, NOT believing in Santa has not left me damaged, unpatriotic, or "scrooged" in any way. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger Christmas sap than me. I love to decorate, I love looking at lights, I love having a real tree (the bigger the better), I love the sound of the Salvation Army bells ringing, I even love the mall at Christmastime. The decorations, the people rushing around buying gifts for loved ones, and the smell of the Karmelkorn as you come in the west doors. Smells! Talk about smells. Cookies baking, cider simmering, turkey in the oven, my fresh-cut tree warming in the house. Those things don't smell the same at any other time of year. The same family that accused me of being heartless and anti-Santa had never even seen A Christmas Story until I came into their lives. (Talk about un-American! How does that even happen?) I will keep the Christmas music station on in my car from Thanksgiving until Christmas day, and no, I never get sick of it. I will watch fluffy heartwarming Hallmark Christmas movies one after the next, and I there has never once, ever, in all my 33 years, been an occasion on which I have not teared up at the end of It's A Wonderful Life. Ever.

The irony is that even though I never believed in Santa Claus, I do believe in Christmas magic. (And really, what's the difference?) It's the feeling you get when you plug in the very first strand of lights, or when you see a child come in from playing in the snow, red-faced and sweaty, ready for hot chocolate. It's seeing someone quickly shove a twenty into the red kettle instead of change, or pass up a good parking spot because they know that another car has been cruising the lot for 10 minutes already. What's more magical than that? (Especially in North Dakota.) On Christmas day, a child was born that would change the world. He brought hope and possibility into the world in a way that only a child can. And that's magic. I believe in God, even though I can't see Him or prove He's real. Faith is believing in something, even when common sense tells you not to. It's every bit as hard to prove there is a Santa as it is to prove there is a God, and if you believe in one, then why not the other? If I'm ever faced with the wide eyes of a child, asking me if Santa Claus is real, I guess I'll just have to be honest. No one really knows, so....maybe he is. ;)

Merry Christmas!

The mid-life crisis continues...

Remember when you were young, and your birthday was the most exciting thing in the world? I was always confused by adults not wanting to celebrate their birthdays, or getting mad when I asked how old they were. (Probably because thirty-five was an unimaginably high number that I hadn't even leaned to count to in school yet. I'm sure my gasps and, "Whoa, you're old!"s were not appreciated.) Yeah. Those were the good old days. (No pun intended.)

I have at last reached the age of dreading my birthday. It looms in the distance like a storm on the horizon. I swear, I hear thunder in the distance. I hear ominous church bells tolling in my brain, growing louder and louder as each day passes, and I grow yet another day closer to death. Cake and ice cream? With my ever-slowing metabolism? Are you kidding me? Completely out of the question. (I'll take my calories in liquid form, thank you very much.)

Why is it so hard to get older? Is it the agony of watching my face and body change, ever so slowly, and painfully irreversibly, each day in the mirror? Isn't age just a number? Or is it really a numerical reminder that after three decades, I have no kids, no "career", and NO -count them, no- Academy Awards? Not even a Tony. It's funny how I never realized what a fountain of wasted potential I am until I turned 30. And here I am, three years later, desperately trying to recapture something that I feel I've lost.

I have officially entered the Mid-Life Crisis Zone.

A lot of people scoff  at this and snap, "You're too young to have a mid-life crisis." I beg to differ. I feel the term "mid-life" isn't necessarily applicable to the actual  age of the stricken, it's more a state of mind concurrent with the desire to be younger, no matter what the reason. Like when a new baby arrives in the household, and all of a sudden your 5-year-old wants to sleep in his crib and drink from a bottle again. Call it an "age crisis", if you prefer.

My age crisis started right around 30, and over the past few years has manifested itself in the form of no fewer than three tattoos, two piercings, two job changes, an eyebrow-raising hobby (pole dancing), a change of hair-color that has included both feathers and blue streaks, and an uncontrollable urge to wear fishnets and leopard-print apparel. I briefly toyed with the notion of getting a motorcycle, but my husband finally put his foot down and said I could have a motorcycle or a classic car, but not both. And someday, I'm GETTING that car. So the motorcycle is off the table at the moment. I've also taken a recent liking to antiques, something I've always admired, but never bought or collected. I can only assume that this (combined with too much History Channel) stems from a desire to feel younger by surrounding myself with things that are older than I am.

I think a large part of my crisis has to do with appearance, which may sound vain, but I think any and all females begin to experience this at some point. I have multiple friends who've already gone under the knife, needle, and suction-tube in an effort to slow the clock. You wake up one morning, and suddenly there's a stranger in the mirror. A banged-up version of your former self, with circles under her eyes, cellulite-y thighs hanging out of her shorts, weird little wrinkles you never noticed before, and an army of grey hairs that you'd swear weren't there yesterday. Suddenly spending a hundred bucks at the salon seems like a deal. Anything to hide the grey! Anti-wrinkle creams and moisturizers are a must. Time travel in a jar, you say? Sign me up! Facial peels, Botox, eye-lifts...whatever it costs, I'll pay it! After all, can you really put a price on your face?! There's got to be a way, you tell yourself. I am Ponce de Leon. He died searching for the fountain of youth, and likely, so will I.

One day I was shopping, and as I passed rack after rack of skinny jeans and t-shirts that screamed, "Your boyfriend thinks I'm hot", I realized that the age gap between me and the person who'd actually wear that stuff is probably over fifteen years. Shopping with my young cousin at Hot Topic, I realized that I was the oldest person in the store. Even the manager looked too young to vote. It was like a wrecking ball to the gut. I was originally thrilled when Forever 21 opened in the mall, and now even the name of the store sounds like a cruel irony. Am I too old to shop in juniors? Is the twenty-something on the other side of the rack looking at me sideways, thinking, what is SHE doing here? Am I officially relegated to the misses section, where instead of hoodies, the racks boast shapeless cardigans and shoulder-padded blazers? And they sell jeans with *gulp* elastic waistbands??? NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! IT'S NOT FAIR!!! I WON'T DO IT. 

I'm 33 years old. My bucket list is three pages long, and I WILL keep crossing things off. I vow to embrace what remains of my youth. I will hold fast to the notion that I'm only as old as I feel, and I WILL BUY whatever clothes I want. After all, now that I'm a grown-up, I can afford them. I'll get as many stupid tattoos and piercings as I want, and I'm not going to give a rat's ass how they'll look when I'm 80. I'm going to spend ridiculous amounts of money on anti-aging serums and cute underwear, because self-esteem is priceless. I'm going to get drunk at concerts and sing at the top of my lungs. I'm going to put up a pole in my living room, and hang upside down on it! I'm going to see the world. And I'm going to have the time of my life until they pry the '49 Chevy Fastback keys from my cold, dead hands.

And THAT, my friends, is my happy birthday to me! :)

I didn't know her well, and now I never will.

I went to a funeral today.

My second one in less than a week, actually, and my third one this summer. I sure wish people would quit dying. This constant reminder of humankind's inevitable mortality is one I do not welcome. I don't want to think about having to bury my parents, my husband, or my friends. In my mind, we are all going to live forever. Death is supposed to be for television and movies, not for those I love.

The church was hot and stuffy today. I noticed fans on the ceiling, but either they didn't work or no one thought to turn them on, which was a shame. Fanning my sweaty, tear stained face with a program, I wondered if it was disrespectful to use a photo of the deceased to keep my makeup from melting off of my face. I didn't know M. well. As a matter of fact, I didn't even recognize her by name until I searched for her facebook profile, and when her smiling face popped up in front of me I was surprised to realize that I did remember her. I've dealt blackjack in 11 different bars over a span of 7 or 8 years (but who's counting), and  I've seen dozens upon dozens of cocktail waitresses and bartenders, djs and door guys. And I am not kidding when I say I wouldn't know most of them from a stranger in the street. But I do remember M. She was a shot girl at a bar that I dealt at a year and a half ago. In my memory, M. was "the one with the fabulous shoes and the great legs." I probably only spoke to her a couple of times, but I definitely remember her. My eyes would follow her as she pranced around the bar with her shot tray, wearing 6-inch heels and having a great time. It made me smile to watch her, because it takes a real commitment to work in shoes like that. She claimed her feet never got sore, which, if that was true, she was lucky! Lol. M. was a head-turner, and not just because she had great legs and a beautiful smile. She really had a sparkle. She looked so fun and full of life. A hundred pictures of her were pinned up at the funeral, all showing the same girl I remember. A girl who bore no resemblance at all to the one lying silent and still in the casket next to them.

The cacophony of sniffles and ragged breaths all but drowned out the pastor as she stated with absolute certainty that M. is resting safely in God's arms. She told those gathered that there was nothing that they could have done, there was no way to see this coming. My uncle passed away last week, falling victim to cancer that moved much more quickly than expected. He left behind a young widow and a 15-year old daughter. He won't celebrate a 20th anniversary with my aunt, and he won't experience the joy of one day walking my cousin down the aisle. Still. His funeral was his loved ones, solemnly saying their goodbyes. M.'s funeral was a gathering of shell-shocked family and friends, united in grief and confusion. How do you wrap your head around something like someone you care for choosing to end their own life? My uncle lost his battle to stay alive. M. chose instead to surrender to her demons. Is that an act of selfishness? Or an act of selflessness, where one truly believes that others will be better off without them? We'll never know. And I'll never understand.

Today was a reminder to me that we may not always realize the ways in which we touch other peoples' lives. Obviously, M. had no idea what her death would do to the people around her. Or that someone like me would shed tears over her passing. But heartache is blind to reason. And whatever was going on in her head and in her heart that caused her so much grief and despair can no longer be helped. A young life, cut short. I hope that through their confusion her family and friends can take some solace in the fact that in God's embrace, M. has found the peace she was looking for.