Never ever gonna get old

That's a line from a David Bowie song I love but I don't think Sir David would like why I'm quoting him... I'm quoting him in regards to peanut butter.

Look people. I'm trying. I'm trying to like this almond you're all so crazy for. I've tried it plain. I've tried it on toast, and with an apple. I've tried Wild Squirrel's vanilla espresso almond butter. I've tried Justin's various versions.

That stuff doesn't hold a candle to peanut butter. It's like tofurkey at Thanksgiving. It's like carob brownies. At heart I'll always be seven years old, eating peanut butter off a spoon - and I'm never ever gonna get old!

Be Careful!

If you're a knuckle-cracker that is.

Because, as it turns out, while science has shown time and again that it does not cause arthritis, it CAN sprain a joint - like any other ligament sprain. And it really sucks if you are, perhaps, an aggressive knuckle-cracker and find yourself in just this predicament.

Prescription? Ibuprofen. And rest; lots of it. For example - wrap it up so you remember not to use it, thus letting it rest. Sheesh. 

Play It Again, Sam

So the Groupon that led me to the hip-hop class a few posts down led me, tonight, in even deeper. It led me into a Tease N Tone class. Known by some as stripperobics. Imagine Pussycat Dolls style moves - mostly MTV dancin' with a tiny bit of burlesque thrown in.

The class was 30 minutes of cardio - tough cardio - followed by 30 minutes of learning less than a minute of a choreographed dance, 8-count by 8-count, just like in the dance classes you took as a kid.

As we counted in, over and over, on the intro of the hip-hop song, the singer announced herself as the beats ramped up. "Nicki. Minaj." in a bad-ass voice, followed by the announcement of her guest singer, "JUUUUUUUUSTIIIIIIIN!"

Three, four, five times. As we learned each new chunk of counts, 4 or 8, I was thinking, when is Justin Timberlake going to start singing? Nicki keeps announcing him.

Oops. You guessed it.

Justin Bieber.

It's Bleak Out There

So I was out this past weekend and I was the wingman. Being happily married means you can't give one speck of advice about how to approach a cute guy at the bar - heck, you can't even give advice about how to tell if he is cute enough to approach, but not so cute he's going to be a douche. This wingman business, clearly, is not my area of expertise. In fact, I prefer the "be dead honest" approach, be it with a lot of charm and humor and snappy, broad jokes... but I now am seeing that's not exactly how this flirt-at-a-bar thing goes, at least not typically. Being married means you get to be fearless... and I don't think that's the hallmark of a successful interaction at 12:30 AM for the wingee (or whatever you call the woman on the prowl who has a wingman in tow).

And after talking to exactly three guys - only three! - I came home exhausted. This is a lot of work.

So three things kept running through my head as I made my way home.

First, the guy who said he works in financial services and only when pressed with numerous questions finally told me he manages an emerging markets mutual fund, requiring odd hours to do business in different time zones... hey plaid shirt dude, why say financial services? Why make me dig? Why not just say what you do instead of talking down to a dumb girl? And what's with the resume keywords?

Second, when your name is typical, easy to pronounce and probably familiar to people, as mine is, you never, ever, ever, not one time, think about awkward it can be to start an interaction (not to mention all three) like this:

"Hi, I'm Josh, what's your name?"

"Jenae."

"Renee?"

"No, Jenae."

"Like Renee?"

"Sure. With a J though."

"OH! JUH-nay?"

Sigh. The name is accented on the second syllable, so actually, it is more like Juh-NAY... but the point is that it shone a light on how when it is loud, and dark, and late, if your name isn't Megan or Jennifer or Elizabeth, it can be tough to start the witty, funny, flirty fun part of the night, full of the banter you're seeking, when instead it skids and stutters over name pronunciation at the start.

And finally - third - perhaps answering Point #1, is when Mr. Financial Services, with too-close a shave and too-popped a collar, walked away and said, "I'm a registered Republican," I laughed and said, "I know, I could tell." But I SHOULD have said, "I'll forgive you."

If I'm gonna be a wingman, I have sharpen my claws wit.

2 more.

You know YUPpies... you know DINKs... you probably even know BOBOs... Young Urban Professionals, Dual Incomes No Kids, and the paradise-dwelling Bohemian-Bourgeois.

But let's all add two more, learned this week on NPR: HENRYs and SITKOMs.

High Earners; Not Rich Yet.

Single Income, Two Kids, Oppressive Mortgage.

I'm not sure the last one is real. Was it a joke stuck on the end of the story by the reporter? Either way, I know some STIKOMs and some HENRYs and will happily toss these terms in next round of banter in which I find myself.

Coming up on the anniversary...

This week will mark 3 years married and 8 years together, and the biggest thing I've learned about my husband is that he has a natural ability to be great at it. It comes as second nature to him to just live the advice in the newspaper columns; he is nice 7 times or more for each time he snaps or snips. He remembers to stop and welcome each morning and evening with a kiss. It's a rare day when he brings a bad mood into our house from the driver who just cut him off in traffic, or from the grocery trip turned into 3 hour quest, or from the Weight Watchers scale that shows a disappointment that week. He is one of the best influences in my entire life, every day, and I love him so much for all his humor, his patience, his intelligence, his drive and his all-but-hidden-from-everyone-else tenderness. So on marriage, this one - the one with the lower case 'm' I'm in - I am happy to admit it's getting better - getting better all the time.

Why do we have Netflix?

(This will not be a post bitching about Netflix pricing. I maintain that if the leap from $12 a month to $18 a month hurts your finances that much... then you, my friend, have bigger financial problems than your DVD/DVD+streaming/streaming subscription(s).)

No, instead, we have it so that I can start watching the old TV show thirtysomething! I remember my parents always watched it, and I thought, heck, I'm 30 now. Let's see what it was about in the 80s instead of in the 20teens. Two episodes in, I notice:

• the clothes are amazing;
• Timothy Busfield is shockingly less handsome as a young man than as an older man;
• sound mixing has evolved leaps and bounds;
• the conversations are more realistic, and about more universal subjects, than on any sitcom I've taken in in a long while. Hmm.
  

The countdown begins.

This is the first in a series of "I'm about to turn 30!" posts.

I need a pair of jeans that fits... and I have a great pair from a ladies clothing swap, a.k.a. Naked Lady Party. They're awesome, but getting way too big. So I went to the Levi's store in the fancy part of town and realized, oh hmmm, they don't make women's jeans in the numbers-style anymore (you know - 501s, 550s, etc).

But I had parked, I was there, and so I thought I'd let the salesgirl help me out with their new Levi's styles.

Alas, my friends, I am getting old. The jeans were all either skinny-leg-style (which doesn't look good on anyone who can vote; sorry! I'll tell you they look good when you ask me, but they don't) or were so low at the waist to be obscene in the back AND the front.

Plus, they give you extra things in the dressing room to possibly try on. I hate this. I hate it at Nordstrom and I hate it at Levi's.

And a $64 sweatshirt with a screenprint of a wolf on it is not for me. I was there the first time those were cool, and THAT is the real sign of aging in our pop-driven world.

You go first.

For the years I have been with John - and we met when he was 23 and I was 22 - he has the wonderful habit of always going first when having the next birthday. Today he is... dum dum dum... 30! Happy birthday, love!

As for me, I have not feared 30, or dreaded 30, or done much of anything but think (as Lin put it), "Whew." It will be a load off to turn 30 this fall, and just keep on living - without the pressure of being a young genius/writer/career woman/mother/whatever it is that is supposed to be cool when you are a young prodigy at it.

But, now that his birthday celebrations are passing quietly into evening... a lovely low-key day of brunch, gardening, cooking, eating, computering and laughing... I remember how it goes every single year.

The new, impending age is no big deal when HE has to do it. But now there's nothin' but my turn, up next...

Oh, dear.

The time for stopping use of Facebook draws ever nearer, for when I am friends with a cousin whose status reads, "happy birthday [redacted]! you're finally 14!", I feel like I'm not really welcome at the party.

The magical moment of transformation.

I can't think of anything in life, that I've done yet, that is a single, solitary magical moment of transformation.

Sure, I graduated high school and college, but in both cases, there was no diploma in the fancy case that was handed to me with a handshake. I had to pay fees, return library books, wait for the finals to be graded and recorded, and only then was I magically turned into a B.A.

Sure, I got married last year. But to do this and have the state recognize it, a couple has to apply for a marriage license at least three business days in advance. Then they must file said marriage license, which does not happen on day of the wedding (unless you get married at noon on a Tuesday) and it takes a month or so to be recorded. Only then are you magically bound by law. (You could just skip out on filing the license, have a party, and go your merry separate ways, which I find odd; shouldn't "they" bind you to it at the ceremony!?)

Sure, I've been hired at cool jobs, but I've also had to wait to start working at them. Sure, I've turned 21 and waited for that first legal drink... but even then, they let me drink at 11 PM at Montana AleWorks in my hometown, even after seeing the date on the license. An sure, before that wedding I got engaged, but we're a collaborative type of couple; it wasn't insanely out of nowhere, ya know what I mean?

Much like these milestones, I'm on the precipice of owning a house today. At 5 PM, or a few minutes before, the county recording agency will change the title from someone else's name to mine and John's. But before this, we've applied for a loan, signed all the documents, signed some more, send even more to the banks... and at 5 PM tomorrow, the supposed magical moment of transformation will happen.

But alas, we won't get the keys till an hour later. Or on Wednesday, or actually as late as Thursday at 5 PM, since we're such darn nice buyers, so it is another contribution to the hum-drum-ness of real living and the lack of a true magical moment of transformation.


For what it's worth, I think having a baby biologically must be the only true moment of transformation; you may think of yourself as a mother or a father before that, but in a single moment, you become the mother or father of that baby. So THE single magical moment, at least, does exist for some folks!

Game changer.

I was on the MAX train the other day, and three high school boys were near me, talking about who made the football team for next year, and some girl that one recently said, "yeah sure" to a girl who asked him to "get serious and be exclusive" ... while he really plans to only date her for the summer. Ah. 16 year old boys. How the same they ever are.

Then they started talking about some adult who came to the school, for some reason I missed due to the train announcement, and tried to make appointments with them. College counselors, I wondered? Two of them joked about how they just agreed, made the appointment, and then were called on their cell phones at the pre-determined time only to both respond, "Uhh, yeah, sorry, dude, can't make it." What a coincidence! They both bailed on these same adults!

Tsk tsk! I thought. Bad kids. No respect for elders, or others' precious time.

And then the third laughed at his pals. "Yeah, I'm not going to join no fucking Army."

Oops. Many apologies for judging you, young men. Keep on. Keepin' on.

What a world, what a world.

I was working on a fantastic case this week involving making a phone call to a Midwest state, and listening to the automated options on their Vital Records Information Line.

For English, press 1. For Spanish, press 2.

Hello, and please listen carefully to the options as this is an extensive menu. If you are using a rotary phone, please hang up and dial...

....

For birth and death records, press 3. For marriage and divorce records, press 4. For information on legitimation and voluntary addition of a father's name to a birth certificate already filed, press 5. For gender reassignment information, including reissued birth certificates, press 6.

Yes that's right ladies and gentlemen... we live in a world where a rotary phone, legitimation concerns and gender reassignment coexist on one phone message. God bless America.

The business of church.

I am edging toward some churchgoing in my life... and it's not an easy thing to implement. The going, yes, but the explaining, too, of the decision, and how the Unitarian Universalists are not Christian, even though some are, and how I'm trying to become more proactive in the ol' young liberal commie attitude of "being spiritual." But as an introduction, I have a big concern about the life of churches these days...

Everyone is old! What is going to happen to these church communities when the oldsters pass? This comes to mind for two reasons: 1, going to the downtown UU congregation, where I am a serious age-group minority; 2, working a memorial service at a big Episcopal church in downtown Portland. Lots of elderly folks and holy cow! The guts of that church are crazy! Huge industrial kitchen, two sextons on staff, loads of classrooms, big restrooms to take care of, event after event invitations posted, 12 step meetings going on, and more. Who funds all of that? It's a big business and I know I move in certain circles, but I know hardly anyone who goes to church AND tithes.

But I really like the old church people. And this is a slightly scattered post, but consider it a rough-draft introductory note, and a warning that there may be more Church Chat to come. (And maybe some of this kind too.)

I forgot.

The promo tagline on NYTimes.com for an article called "It's All A Blur To Them" is "Crossing between men's and women's fashion aisles feels right to young customers today."

Pfft. Yeah, right, I think. No it doesn't.

But, oh yeah. Oops. I'm not a "young customer" anymore.