Comfortable in my skin.

I am an only child.  I have been at the 'grown up table' for as long as I can remember.  There are few things socially that feel like a 'rite of passage' to me, mostly because I have been doing so many of them for so long.  But last Friday night was one of them.  I attended the Bar Association's Careers of Distinction Dinner, and for a brief moment (ok several brief moments)  I had a "wow" I can't believe I am here feeling.  I kept looking around waiting for someone to hand me something to do, or tell me to clear a table or something... but there I was, at the dinner, as a guest of the dinner.  Shaking hands with judges, and attorneys who have practiced for years.   After, I had the pleasure of attending an 'after party' for one of the honoree's.  It was a little surreal to be a part of, and yet some how cemented in my mind where I want to be in 5 years, in 10 year even. One of the honoree's closed his speech by saying how every morning, he is so greatful to get to wake up and go to work with his partners, the people who he from that first day realized they were guys that not only did he know, but that he truely liked, that he trusted, and that he had fun with.    I want to be that fortunate one day.

I don't know how many of you have ever dined alone.  I can recall the first time I ate at a non-fast food restaurant by myself.  It was when I was 21, infact it was the weekend of my 22nd birthday, I had a wild hair up my ass to pack my bags for a few days and drive from California to Cheyenne Wyoming, just because.    I remember after driving the distance, sitting in my motel room, paging though the yellow pages deciding on what I wanted for dinner.  I selected the nicest looking ad and drove to the white victorian house.  I went in, told them I was a table for one, ordered myself a glass of wine (possibly also the first time I drank wine in a restaurant, rather than a cocktail) and then proceeded to order the escargot, a filet with a side of fetticini Alfredo, and dessert.  Yes.  I ordered dessert.  It was a chocolate souffle.  I remember the meal like it was yesterday.  

For those of you who don't know, I am deathly afraid of snails... (stop laughing.  No really. I'll just wait here a moment for you to get ahold of yourself)  Yes.  Scared shitless of them.  Which is why I ordered them.  It was my way of trying to confront my fear.  They were delicious.  They were also shell free, which has since made me realize it's not the critter inside, it's the shell that vex's me - but enough of the side bar.  My point of this was to face a fear head on, and move past it, which I did.  

Perhaps my 39 year and 26 day self should take a lesson from 21 and 364 day old self... 

Tonight I dined alone.  I should mention, it's not the first time since that night in Wyoming.. there have been numerous dine alone times.  sometimes I have something to read, other times I do not. Tonight I intentionally dined alone, at a favorite Mexican place, in hopes of getting in some quite study time...  While the atmosphere and food were condusive, something captivated me. It was a man, about 3 tables away, late 50's early 60's who came in for a Pacifico, and to do the crossword.  He seemed to know everyone who worked there, chatting and carrying on.  What puzzled me the most, is the restuarant was right next to a bar.  Had he only wanted a beer, they probably would have been a better spot.  None the less, he chose my restaurant, and I chose my time eating to curiously watch him, and try to figure out any and every possible scenario of why he was there.

To which I came upon my answer.  It didn't matter.  He was there by his own free choice, as I was, and he was there, and felt comfortable doing what he was doing, and perhaps he wouldn't have been that comfortable in the bar next door.  Who knows.  Who cares.  It was nice to see someone who was so comfortable with his solo outing.  

To change gears, I have been religiously applying my morning and evening potions to my face for 26 days now.  I do not see a difference.  Perhaps I am not supposed to (yet) but every day when my face hits that point where the skin feels like it's actually moving like tetonic places TOGETHER, mending my wrinkles, I attempt to smile (without disturbing the skin from what ever the fuck it's trying to do) and think to myself.. yes.... you are rewinding time. 

Speaking of skin.  Last week I spray tanned for the first time my life.  What a bizarre experience.  You stand in a plastic tent while someone makes small talk with you and sprays your entire body from tip to toe in a liquid that feels like slightly damp glitter. On the positive, for almost a week, I looked as if I had just returned from a lovely restful vacation.  Now.. I look more like I'm freckled (my bad for being lax with the moisturizer).  But the moral here for me is that as long as I am still feeling slightly vain about my appearance, a shot of damp glitter now and then, may be just what the doctor ordered. 

On Sunday I will be *running* the Nike Half.  If you want to call it *running*  that I suppose is the idea behind a half marathon.  It's not a "hey let's walk past 13 miles of stores and window shop" event, although that I more of my preference. It will be my last 1/2 marathon of my 30's, and I have absolutely zero desire to push myself... to be frank - if someone else wanted to run it and just give me the damn necklace at the end, I would be over whelmingly happy to hand over my bib, and hell, wait for them at the finish line!  I have not yet decided if this Laize Faire take I have currently will cause me regret a few  months from now.  It may.  It may also bitterly bite me in the ass that once again I didn't train, and yet here I am out there giving it a go.  I guess I need to just stop with the worry of 'what if' and focus perhaps on enjoying my Sunday morning Stroll down closed streets in SF.  And next year, since I will be in a new 'age' bracket - try harder for perhaps a PB (personal best) of not just my new age bracket, but all time. (eh, a girl can dream)

I think the thing that scares me the most about this whole aging is that I am starting to realize my brain isn't as quick as it used to be.  When I was a kid, I could watch tv, listen to the radio, study for class, and talk on the phone all at the same time, and somehow magically retain all of it.   Now I sit in a silent room, staring at a book with sound canceling headphones, a lap top, a note book, a high lighter and a pencil at the ready, and 5 pages in I'm like.. what the fuck did I just read?    My mind wanders.  I used to joke that my mind was too little to wander off alone... now I think it may be too old.  

and with that, I am going to try to corral my mind and get back to studying! 

Easy Breezes, Unsweetened Coconut Milk, and Ginger Beer (aka: My Latest Disastrous Effort at Self Improvement)

It’s 232 days until my 40^th birthday. 

Which is a mere 335,267 minutes.

At the beginning of our journey to 40, Samantha had the idea of launching our journey with 30 days of clean eating.  She had a specific eating plan in mind and she and her guy, G, did beautifully with the whole thing.  I agreed with much enthusiasm and frequented the pinterest board she’d made for gathering recipes.  We weren’t allowed any (any, any, ANY) added sugar so that was going to be a bit of a challenge but, that aside, when the predetermined start day came to pass, I was ready.

I know what you’re thinking:  O…oh dear, dear, O….with all your booze…and coffee…and cheese…and booze…and…well…booze—is such a plan really a realistic one?  And, I would remind you of that one time I did a juice fast.  For thirty (THIRTY) whole days I consumed nothing but fresh fruit and vegetable juice.  Yes, perhaps, I fudged a little by interpreting coffee as “coffee bean juice,” which, strictly speaking wasn’t totally allowed (freakin’ rules).  And, yes, a week and a half in, I may have had a conversation with myself that went something like this:

Me:  I mean--wine is kind of like juice.

Me:  No…it’s not.  You are only supposed to be drinking juice you can get straight from the pitcher of your juicer.

Me:  Truuue…but let’s think about this:  It’s just fermented juice.

Me:  Well…yes…but…

Me:  I mean, sure…I could juice some grapes into the juicer pitcher and then wait for it all to ferment…but why not just grab that bottle right there and cork it?  So what if they did the juicing and fermenting for me?  Big deal!  I could even POUR the wine INTO the juice pitcher, if it makes you (me) feel better.

And, it did, my people.  Pouring the wine into the pitcher DID make me feel better. 

And, so, I MAY have had a couple (3.5 large glasses) of wine during that 30 days.  The point is, other than a little creative rule interpretation, I totally did a 30 day juice fast.  At least with Samantha’s plan, I could consume actual food.  This was going to be a breeze.

And, THEEEERE it is. 

Every ridiculous experience of my whole life has been predicated on my faith in easy-breeziness.

 

Every.  Single.  Last.  One. 

(Ie:  Spiritual transcendence?  Sure…grab some fishing weights, pie tins, and climb up on the dining table—easy peasy.  Or…need to accessorize?  Sure--go to the store and *shrugs* try on some rings—what could go wrong?  Or…possible night time intruder?  Grab that bamboo stick and make like you’re a samurai—simple-dimple.  Or…well…I could go on and on here, people…but you get the gist)

So, I begin my clean eating adventure.  And, about a week and a half in, this happens:

Me:  *takes swig of unsweetened coconut milk that had been sitting in fridge since the diet began  because after having had two gulps I thought I hated it*  Whoa...that's not bad.  I don't know why I thought I didn't like it.  My taste buds must be getting accustomed to not having sugar because, *swigs* wow, that is really tasty.
Later, Holden (11 year old extraordinaire) walks into the room:
Me:  You should try the coconut milk again.  I know you didn't like it--but I thought I didn't like it and I'm on my second glass.  Seriously.  It's not bad!  I don't know if maybe I forgot to shake the carton before or something...but...it's really good!
Holden:  Oh, I do like it now.
Me:  *takes long, head tipped back gulp* So yummy, right?  
Holden:  Well...yeah...now that Dad put all that Almond Joy coffee creamer in it to sweeten it up, it tastes much better.

Oh for hell’s sake!  &**#&*@!!

Then, about a week after that, I got a migraine.  Consequently, I became a little nauseous. 

Three things you should know at this point: 

1.          I was not supposed to be consuming anything with added sugar (as I mentioned)
2.          Having a migraine makes me impatient
3.          Apparently, eating clean makes me just the smallest, teensiest bit cranky

So, nauseous, I stomp into the kitchen and say to no one in particular:

“Eff it.  I’m having a ginger beer.  It’ll help my stomach.”

I’m reaching for a goblet…because, hello?!?!  If I’m going to take a nose dive off my diet, I’m going to do so with a modicum of dignity.  I shall sit with the dignified air of Coco Chanel and the grace of Elizabeth Bennet, ice clinking in my goblet, as I cheat like Hugh Grant on Sunset Boulevard in the back seat of his Mercedes circa 1995.  This is the thought I’m entertaining myself with when I hear Chris open MY ginger beer.

I’m immediately annoyed because he didn’t invert the bottle prior to opening it.  So, now, all the ginger is in the bottom of the bottle and the entire bottle won’t fit in my iced goblet—thereby screwing up the ginger to sugared sparkling soda ratio completely.  So, in a moment of sheer idiocy, I grab the bottle angrily (I refer you to #2 above), place my palm over the top of it, and turn it over in an attempt to rectify the situation.

The pressure in the bottle builds and it immediately shoots two very precise streams directly into each of my eyes.  And, then, more pressure, and it squirts all over my hair, the front of my shirt, and, oddly enough, into my ear (I think I’d turned my head in order to avoid more eye shots).  I can’t see a single thing, all sound is garbled like my head is under water, and I’ve just mopped the day before and so I’m super pissed that my floor is getting all ginger beer-y (see #3 above).  I don’t want to increase the mess so, blinded, I’m standing in place saying, “Oh God…Chris…can you…Oh god…Oh god…Oh god…”

To which he replies, through what sounded like tear inducing laughter, “You are an idiot…”

Which, really, I thought was a pretty fair assessment of the situation and wasn’t the least offended.  I would have totally called him an idiot had the situation been reversed.  He, however, thought it was an awful thing to say and as he mopped my face was saying, “You’re not an idiot…I’m so sorry I called you an idiot…what you did was a little crazy…but you, YOU’RE not an idiot.”  He pretty much repeated this all afternoon, which only served to convince me that he DID, in fact, think I’d been an idiot--elsewise, why would he have felt so badly?

So, a warning:  If you try to spend the last year of your 30’s transforming into the most fabulous version of yourself, the universe may try to thwart you. 

And, if you try and purposefully CHEAT that transformation process? 

It may literally spit in your eye.

The experience wasn’t without value, however.  I did lose 7lbs (Samantha, who had less to lose, lost over double that number). 

And, I also learned: 

Ginger beer? 

That shit will sting the hell out of your eyes.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

And now:  335,106 minutes to go.

Time in a Bottle

"If I could create time in a bottle" I would sure use it differently than Jim Croce did in his hit song from 1973... I would create 'turn back time' or some other equally vane, almost Cher like potion that would make MY looks go back, but perhaps not those of my mortal enemies...  (a girl CAN dream...)

It is about 349 days until the big 4 0  (I will not count it down to the second for you here, but let's just say my clock too is ticking ... on my phone)   I went to the Dermatologist again on Friday, and it went something like this.

Note it all took place AFTER me asking numerous questions about a scar on my leg that occurred in 2007 while drunk in Mexico - i.e. therefore still young and cool - and being that in all the various times I've seen my derm since there, something irrevelant and forgotten about, until this very moment.. and here we were laught about it like two frat boys.. "yeah, so I was in Mexico,, and I got like, nailed, um literally, like to a crate and shit... " I may actually have said that.  ok. Most probably have said that.  She assured me it was all 'totally cool' and may or may not have said my battle scar was a little 'cool.'

Me:  So, I'm um, I'm uh 39 now.  And, um, I'm wondering how my skin is doing.. um. from your professional perspective.... (trailing off)

She looks at me, and then moves in closer, and there may or may not have been a magnifine glass at this point, I could very well have blacked out for parts.   I do remember lots of affirmative moans, and nodding when I sort of snapped back into it.

Dr:"Yes, yes.. your skin is very good.  You are at this point in time NOT a candidiate for botox"

Me: WHAT?  WHAT?  I'm WHAT?

Dr.  I said you are NOT a candidate for botox, your skin is fantastic.

Me:  I didn't ask about that.  Why... do you think I am going to need Botox?

Dr. (laughing) no. I don't think you will need it, I don't think anyone NEEDS it, but some want it, and I wasn't assuming you wanted it, I am just telling you that right now you aren't a candidate, your wrinkles aren't big enough, also, once people start, they don't want to stop, and you are a little young.

Me: Silence.  I've run out of things to say. I may have blacked out. I walked in being so anti botox or any other filler, just there to get my lattise prescription, and a little helpful advice about my skin, and make sure I wear enough sunscreen...    My brain seriously over loaded.  She said Botox, and it was as if an electric cattle prodder zapped me.

I sat there, still, eyes closed, then open then closed (I could have been blinking like an epileptic owl for all I know... ) as she continued to look around my face.

Dr: You are still an excellent candidate for latisee.

Me: yesssssssss.   Slipped out of my lips. it was the reason I was there, why oh why spend a ton of time on make up, when you can slap on a little latisse daily, and have gorgeous eyelashes,but to make myself feel better, I prodded her.

Really?  they are feeling pretty sparse.

Dr: no, you have perfect beds of eyelashes.  they  just need a little kick to grow nice and lush.

Me:  Oh sweet mother of god - I got what I wanted, the rest of this visit it what ever. she can stab me with what ever the hell she wants, I got my latisse refilled!  I probably did a football victory dance at this point...

Dr:  What are you using for skin care?

Me: I proudly rattle off the litany of stuff I get from my cousin who works for kiehls at a discount, she nods in approval, and says she loves their products, I feel a swell of pride, yet I'm waiting for the shoe to drop..

Dr. But she wants me to add a Retin A, and perhaps plump up my vitamin C cream, and oh yes there is this other stuff that our bodies stop making at 30 that I am most likely lacking...     I hear the cash register outside of the door cha- chinging, and feel my credit card being pulled under...

I ask her what I need today to start - she says about $40 worth of product and a visit to one of her drop in (i.e. cost free) clinics, to move to the next level. I tell her I am game and jump off the counter, almost forgetting to cover my 'drunken in mexico' mark as I fling open the door which is keeping me from my latisse.

Oh my darling Latisse.  We have been reunited, and it feels soooo soooo sooo very very good.

and I left with a frequent buyer card, which is good for latisese, and later it's good for botox too...
and I also left with the notion that I feel like I dodged a huge bullet from the steam roller of 40 that is chasing me (It shots bullets now!)

I may have much much more to learn about life, but for now, my face doesn't have to show it...

Now if you excuse me, I need to go pull some time from a bottle out and put it on my face....

The Final Countdown

It is 255 days until my 40^th birthday.

Which is a mere 368,250 minutes.

I know this because I downloaded a “Final countdown” app.  (Which, I have to say; the word “final” sort of freaked me out a little.  Need it be so…you know…final?)  Anyway, contrary to the looming coundown, I really don’t have much of an issue with aging.  I mean, when I look back on my 20’s, I hang my head a little and think:  Oh thank GOD I've evolved since then.  And, when I look at my 30’s, I see so much growth that I get a little excited to see what further growth and challenges my 40’s have in store.  So, really, aging is no big thing to me.

Or so I thought.

And, then Samantha and I teamed up, deciding to rock the last year of our 30’s and prepare to explode into our 40’s. 

Great!

We decide to blog the journey.

Wonderful!

Samantha asks me to design a blog page for us. 

Sure!

And, then I did so.  And, well, look around at the results. 

Does it not seem the slightest bit…bleak?

I mean, I could have chosen background/images of fireworks, for example.  Fireworks would have been a lovely image to allude to our anticipated explosion into our 40’s.  Or, really, anything remotely celebratory seems as if it might have been in order for a woman who proclaims she has no issue with aging and is looking forward with pleasured anticipation to her 40's (me, not Samantha, she’s far more self-aware and knows damn well she’s not loving aging and plans to fight it every step of the way—stay tuned, it’ll be interesting to watch). 

But, no.  I choose a bleak, white landscape, and an image of a freaking steam roller.  Sure, Samantha suggested the steam roller but I could have found something that looked silly, tongue-in-cheek, funny, or even ironic.  But, no…I choose to arrange it like the grim effing reaper has taken to working construction (destruction?).   

This sends me to my journals to search for any entries where I might display any sort of tension with aging.  I mean, I JOKE a lot.  But, I’m not actually serious.

Right?

Then I come to an entry in early October of my 33rd year:  

“It’s this weird feeling of dread.  It’s out there.  I know that it is.  I can actually FEEL it.  Just waiting….waiting…rubbing its hands together in anticipation. 40 is like a mugger lurking in a dark alley, hungry to steal my youth.”

Tension?  Umm...yeah--more like horror movie terror.

Yep.  I wrote that.  At the ripe old age of 33.

And, now?  I’m IN that alley, my people.  I’m looking straight into the eyes of that mugger. 

And, apparently, he drives a steam roller.

God help us all.

(368,212 minutes left)

About Face

I love cosmetics.  Love, love love them, which is an odd thing to say, because I hardly wear any.  I own more than any woman probably should.. and I attribute that to the fact that on occasion (halloween, and many of the theme parties of my fancy free days)  I will bust out some blue eyeshadow, or some really funky red lipstick, to fit the theme or the costume, but the truth is, aside from a little dab of tinted moisturizer, and some good mascara and lip gloss, the rest seems like a gigantic bother, and we've all seen the ladies about town who wear so much eyeshadow that they look like clowns, or the ones with the foundation line down their jaws.. um yeah - not attractive.

Recently on my journey to confronting 40, I cleaned out my makeup baskets, and threw away close to 25 different colors of eye shadow, and I think nearly as many shades of lipstick, and random other things.  I laughed when I came across a bottle of foundation... I think in my entire lifetime, I can count the number of times I've worn foundation on both hands, and still have several fingers to spare. Another rare thing for me, is to wash my face with anything besides water and a washcloth...yes, crazy I know, but I do indulge in good face cream, moisturizer, and any other damn lotion or potion I can get my hands on, in hopes of a miracle

When I turned 35, I took a good hard look in the mirror, I saw some fine lines starting. At the time, I had just begun receiving Birchbox, and made my preferences anything and everything skin care.  For the next 3+ years, I tried anything and everything they've sent me.  The products have run the gammut from ungodly expensive, to drug store quality, and from do nothing, to "I look like a goddess after one use".  The experimenting has been fun, and informative, and has taught me to do a lot of research and figure out what truely is 'good' and what is all hype.

I think I mentioned in my last blog, I was going to give Kiehl's a whirl, and I have ordered what is 6 month worth of their product line to arrive this week. as everything I've had thus far from them has been Ah Mazing.  Today I added to that purchase Benefit mascara (the only one I can find that doesn't flake into my eyeballs and drive me batty, or look like something that a kardashian would sport)  and Fresh Sugar Rose liptint (it's really worth the $20+ bucks a tube, lasts forever, and makes your lips feel incredible.)  Why not go for quality over quantity right?

and so, on the eve of another gigantic hurdle towards 40,  I have found peace with myself and my skin care, so that I can continue to confront 40 every step of the way.

Now... onto my closet!
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

The List maker.

I am one week away from commencing my final year in my 30's.  Needless to say, I have a lot on my mind. I don't know if you would call it a full on freak out - as I am reserving that for *next year*  but I have been doing a lot of outside looking in at myself in the recent month.

Much of that looking in has resulted in some list making... I am a list maker. At any given time, I have a To Do list, a grocery list, a 'buy stuff' list, a 'want' list, and I've recently added what I call my 'long term list.'

**Note, I refuse to refer to it as a bucket list, because I a sort of  supersticious and figure if I check it all off, I may kick the bucket..**

There aren't any hard and fast rules to my list, except that what ever it is on the list, has to be something that takes longer than a couple hours to accomplish.    I should also mention, that while there are things on there that I realize I can't possibly complete before 40 (ex. law school) don't think for a second that I'm not subsconciously trying to cross off as many of these before the big 4 0 tolls.

So without further fanfare I give you what I have thus far

Career:
Graduate Law School (with Honors)
Pass Calilfornia Bar
Pass Minnesota Bar
Find my niche

Health and Wellness:
Drop 25lbs (I'm down 16 ish since August 18th!)
Use my gym membership regularly, and by *use* I mean 4-5 x's a week.  (So far I'm up to 3)
Run a 1/2 marathon without walking
Maintain an 8 minute mile for at least a 5K, and not just a mile or two.

Random:
Go to a Crimson Tide Football homegame
Travel to Greece (This is going to be my goal for my waiting period between taking the bar, and finding out if I passed)
Cook a goose

House and Home:
Buy a new home. (Then really make it 'ours', i.e. throw out 99% of our furniture, and stuff, and start fresh.  I haven't flushed this one out much except to know that I really NEED a home office, and a place for all my papers. (I've recently realized that having 'important documents' is a sign that you may be middle aged, and as much as I dread that, I've come to terms with the fact that it's par for the course.)

Wardrobe & Self
This is it's own catagory as it's more vanity related rather than health related.
1) finally throw out some of the clothes that I've had since I was 18 (yes, a few still fit!) and/or pack the up into the attic once and for all.
2) Toss all the trendy makeup that i've bought, and worn once.. There really isn't ever a good excuse to 'need' 5 containers of blue, green and purple eyeshadows... ditto on the 40+ types of lip gloss.
3) Refine my wardrobe.  I've recently accepted the fact that I enjoy wearing classic staples, with a punch of trendy, and shun things some consider in fashion (lace in all of it's cheap, god awful renditions on the majority of women's fashion today) But do I really need 50+ t-shirts?  I'm starting to think not.
4) Stick with a skin care routine for at least 6 months rather than bouncing around.  I was a big birchbox fan until I recently opened a drawer and realized I had about a years worth of beauty supplies that i've never even tried.  I like the Keihls stuff, so I'm going to give it a go.

People
I have realized that some people are toxic.  Some of these toxic people I don't have a way to rid completely (those of you who know me, know exactly who I am referring to) but I do have a say in how much their negativity affects me, and by drawing boundaries with them - I am free to live my life how I see fit, and not let their tornado affect me deeply.

I've also realized that there are other people, who I really just don't like. and contrary to my younger self motto of 'you can never have too many friends!' I've decided that yes, infact you can, and those who aren't nice people can be taken off the friend list.

And I suppose the #1 thing that I am working on doing better in the coming year, is planning for my future, and of course battling gravity every step of the way!

You've come a long way, baby

There is this unspoken notion that as you move through life, you mature, and some of your maturity is expressed through the items you own.  For instance, in your 30’s your furniture generally matches, the shelving you have came from a  furniture store or at the very least you no longer have shelves built from 2x4’s and cinderblocks.

It’s one of the few rights of passages I don’t seem to mind.  Having disposable income to buy ‘nice’ things, such as designer handbags and shoes, clothing that lasts longer than two wash cycles, and jewelry, that falls into the category of ‘real’.

Perhaps it’s my countless years in the Wine Industry, but there is another category that hits home with me, one that to quote the Virginia Slim tag line “You’ve come a long way, baby”.  Glassware.

Specifically, I am talking about the kind that you quaff your cocktail from after a hard day.  Nice glasses say to that single malt bottle of bourbon, I have prepared myself for you, and I fully comprehend what you are about, and I am here to appreciate your $95 price tag.  You sir deserve more than to be imbibed from a juice cup with a screen printed penguin.

If glassware were a status symbol, then I would be royalty.  I have varietal specific wine glasses made from some of the finest crystal from around the world.  Edges so thin, bowls so large and perfectly hand blown that on the rare occasion you can actually get every last water spot off of them, they really are a sight to behold.  My obsession doesn’t stop there, perfect sized brandy snifters, martini glasses constructed so thin, it resembles a shard of ice, and when they accidentally break your wallet cries out from inside that designer handbag.  Whiskey glasses replete with whiskey stones so your drink is the perfect temp, but never watered down. (Side note: HUGE waste of money on the stones, a little ice melt does wonders for a drink)   Sounds fan-fucking-tastic right?

So now that ya’ll have me as the picture of refinement, allow me to tell you what I did Monday night.   I came home from class late. I had just turned in my first law school final. My brain was drained.  I walked into a house, that looked like a hurricane hit, Richard (cat) had destroyed the back screen door in a herculean effort to get out and a very puzzled G wandered about the house trying to discern if we did in fact still HAVE a cat, and perhaps if so, how to punt him THROUGH the ripped screen door.    Fast forward, an hour of me in the dark, with a flashlight, outside yelling Richard! Here Dickie Dickie Dickie…

No cat.  I should mention we only adopted this cat two weeks ago, and after sweating through the application process, I was marginally surprised they accepted us, and here in less than 14 calendar days we had ‘misplaced’ the responsibility they had given us.  Son-of-a-bitch. G is staring at me, arm’s crossed and says – So um, if we lost this one, do you think that black balls us from future adoptions?

This comment, coupled with the fact that I hadn’t eaten since noon sent me over the edge.  I open the fridge, and the first thing I see is a jar of green olives.  I open them up, and start filling my mouth with them.  Hamsters have nothing on me.  I’m 8 or so olives in, when I realize that I could really use a drink to combat the brine flavor filling my mouth.  I proceed directly over to the bar in our dining room. Yes, yes, we have a bonafied bar in our dining room.   Plopping down my olive jar on the bar, I don’t bother to reach for a glass, just the 1.5 liter bottle of vodka, spinning the cap off with two more olives firmly tucked in my palm, I take a large swig straight from the bottle, swishing it around through the olive particles in my mouth.  I realize that perhaps I’ve taken a bit too much as there is no longer salty brine flavor.  G is staring at me, silent, mouth open, awe.  For good measure I pick up the olive jar and take a slug of the juice then pop the remaining fist full of olives in my mouth and lick my palm for good measure to remove the juices from the slightly smooshed olives.  I capped up both the vodka and the olives, and properly put them both away, before going about cleaning the mess left by hurricane Richard. 

G was still staring.  Silent, watching me walk around the kitchen picking things up.  I’ve already begun muttering to myself my plan for setting up something to trap Richard.  Finally I looked up at him. 

What?

He shakes his head at me.  “and you think I’m gross when I drink out of a milk carton in the fridge and don’t get me started on the fact that you licked your palm....”

*sigh* I’ve come a long way, baby.