Alright. It’s official, I’m middle-aged.
The fanfare is over.
You’re free to go about your business.
I have a tendency to shove something in a cabinet and then slam it really quick so it doesn’t try to escape.
It’s kinda a bad habit because the next time I open the door, it’s like BAM! Blow drier on my foot! Or KAZOWIE! Can of soup on my baby’s head!
So I decided to clean out my pantry and under my bathroom vanity. Two places that are incredibly messy.
Here’s what under my bathroom sink looked like:
And here’s me half-way through my kitchen pantry:
Hudson is helping me because he doesn’t want any more canned products to donk him on the head:
I always though red lipstick made me look too old.
Or was it that I thought it made me look too fancy?
Or too trashy?
Well, whatever it was I always shied away from it. But now that I’m old and fancy and a little trashy anyways, I thought, what the hell.
Even if I was just doing chores around the house.
Here’s the thing about red lipstick.
A. It makes a mess
B. You have to re-apply it all the time or else it looks lame.
and C. It makes you so much more aware of your lips. I kept pouting in front of the mirror, and then affirming myself by saying, “I am totally pulling this look off right now.”
P.S. Here are some pretty embarrassing outtakes of me taking pictures of myself with red lipstick:
Gosh, I’m a dork.
I owe you an apology. I wanted to post the last 5 things, but you see, my computer crashed today and it holds all my photos and thoughts. Plus my knee is clicking every time I walk, and my dog ate my homework.
This is all terribly unfortunate news, but you see, because I have an inappropriate crush on you, and a pack of wild wolves couldn’t keep me from you, I’m currently writing this post courtesy of the iPad. It’s tricky to type with just my pointer finger.
So I have 5 more things I’m supposed to do before my birthday. But my deadline is up.
My birthday is tomorrow.
And my computer is being a turd.
What’s a girl to do?
I guess I’ll just have to turn 25 instead.
Happy Birthday to me.
What is a sure-fire way to make you feel like an adult?
Other than switching over to chap stick in lue of lip gloss and making sure your diet has enough fiber?
It’s joining a book club.
Sure, I had book clubs in when I was in my early 20s, except we didn’t call it book club per se. No, instead we called it Literature class, and when you didn’t read your book on time, you were forced to feel like the town idiot when you got called on to discuss.
“Beckey, how do you think D.H. Lawrence uses symbolism in his novel, “Sons and Lovers?”
“Um, well, that’s actually interesting you should ask that, Professor. I think that it’s fascinating how many times D.H. Lawrence uses symbolism, especially when, he, er…um…The part with the goat has symbolism, because the goat symbolizes death? NO! WAIT! The goat symbolizes the protagonist’s unhealthy fascination with other men’s pants. Or, wait, maybe that was something else…”
“There was no goat in “Sons and Lovers”, Beckey.”
“Yeah, but there was the essence of a goat. Which I think, was what truly made “Sons and Lovers” a great symbolic novel.”
“No. And your grade will reflect that you did not read this week’s assignment.”
So you can imagine my reluctance for joining a book club until now.
I technically didn’t finish one of the books. I felt that trickle of ass-sweat, and had that nostalgic feeling of being the town idiot all over again right before I sat down with my friend Sarah.
But she was all, I didn’t finish it either. Let’s have pie!!
And I was all, “Hi-Five!” and then I felt normal again.
Sometimes a sister just needs a hi-five and pie, ya know?
Here are the two books we read,
One was about our faith:
and one was about our food.
And Sarah never put me on the spot about symbolism or goats, so I think the whole book club thing is going to work out for me.
I want to thank you, kind people, for reading my blog.
You don’t have to. But you do.
You can be doing all sorts of other things like teaching your children invaluable lessons, or making a donation to a third world country, or penning a poem for your grandma. But you’re not. Instead you check in with my musings everyday. And for that I’m forever grateful.
Why you do it, I’m not quite sure.
Maybe you want to make fun of me. Like when you go to the zoo and you see a man lemur with gigantic ta-tas, and you think WOAH! Look at the man-boobies on that lemur. Damn.
Or it’s because you’re hoping that one of these days I’m going to say something prolific, and you want to make sure you have a front-row seat (Well, let me save you the intrigue, I’m probably not going to say anything prolific).
Or perhaps it’s because you’re related to me, or you’re my best friend, or you’re my mom, and you’ll read anything I write. Because you love me unconditionally, and you’re willing to overlook the occasional irreverence and constant boobie and fart jokes.
Or maybe, just maybe it’s because you really like me.
Oh the joy, the rainbow of sparkly joy, if this is true.
Well whatever reason it is, thank you. I appreciate you.
Turns out when some one’s trying to tell you something, they don’t like it if you interrupt them.
Even if you think what you have to say is super important.
Even if they’re all, “So, I’m really sad because I just found out that my mom might have breast canc–”
And you go, “OH! SPEAKING OF BOOBS!! I JUST REMEMBERED!!! I have to tell you about this! I was taking a yoga class with Justine Pickering. You remember her, right? She’s the one who allegedly flirted with your husband at that Christmas party last year. And she has weird boobs. Like one’s all up here, and one’s down here. It’s like heeello botched boob job much? Mental note: don’t ask her for a doctor referral. Anyways, we were doing happy cow pose and she totally farted! That’s hilarious right? You’re not laughing. Anyways, what where you saying?”
But I have this really bad habit of interrupting people. Especially with my girl friends. It’s basically how we communicate. Our conversations is just a series of interruptions. But when I do it, I’m really saying, I don’t really care what you’re talking about, and what I have to say is way-more-mega-important.
So I’m going to try to stop doing that.
It’s a bad habit.
What kinds of bad habits do you have?
I have this friend called Melinda:
She’s good with the drawling and painting:
So I was all, “You should teach me something.”
And she was all, “Oooh I know! We should draw your face! We can do self-portraits, It will be fun!”
And I was all, “My face? Okay, but only if I can make this face.” and then I snarled my nose and sucked in my cheeks and made my lips all wrinkly.
And she was all, “No thank you, Beckey.”
But then she agreed, because she’s cool like that.
She taught me how to draw with shadows and proportion.
Which is good because when I draw it’s usually just caterpillars and princess castles with sidewalk chalk. And I don’t do much shading with my princess castles.
Although it looks nothing like me, it’s not half-bad.
It turned out pretty great, and I really didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
So, way to go Melinda and your awesome art lesson!
And thanks for the fun day, and making me a sandwich.
I really liked the sandwich.