43 years old? Is that, like, 130 in Mom years?

Tomorrow, I will turn 43 years old, which is a whole three years past the date when I wanted to stop counting. However, my family overruled me. My family always overrules me. This is why we have a male puppy instead of a female puppy. A male puppy that we acquired prior to June 30, the date I originally agreed to so that the kids would be home to help out with the training. It’s also why we have a 52″ shrine to high definition into our living room. And heat our pool to sauna level in the middle of August. Now I can add scars from third degree burns sustained by my forehead, courtesy of the inferno from 43 birthday candles to the list. In case you’re keeping track, the score is now Andy = zilch, Family = 983.

A few observations as I complete my 43rd year of life:

• Last week, I ate an entire can of Betty Crocker frosting with a spoon. I had my period and it was dark chocolate and presumably full of antioxidants. The frosting, not my … flow. I probably didn’t have to clarify that but I’m a bit paranoid and don’t want anyone thinking I bleed the Willy Wonka chocolate river out my hoo-ha once a month.

• Coincidentally last week, I gained two pounds. Who knew antioxidants weighed so much?

• This week, I was one pound away from goal weight. If I don’t make it to goal weight by next week, I am considering putting our Dyson to good use by sucking out my uterus, appendix, gall bladder, adenoids and maybe even one of my colons. I’ll finally get to try out the Dyson hand tools everyone keeps raving about! Bonus!

• I started running around my neighborhood while crying. It was all in the name of exercise, just in case you thought it was because of something even more hideous like my doctor telling me I had one month to live or worse yet, my eldest getting her driver’s license. And when I say “running” I’m talking about that murky middle ground between a dead stop and Mach 10. If my nine year old daughter keeping pace by drawing hopscotch games on the road and playing them along side me while calling out positive reinforcements such as Yes, we have 911 on speed dial and No, you’re lungs haven’t exploded out of your chest wall is any indication, I suspect I’m probably closer to dead stop. In my defense, they were really small hopscotch games.

• I’m just going to go ahead and assume that it’s just pure coincidence that an earthquake shook the ground in China on the same day I started running because honestly? The alternative is a little demoralizing.

• Last week, I may have uttered the words RICKY MARTIN IS GAY?!? WHO’S NEXT, ELTON JOHN? In that order.

• I choose to live in a world where Anderson Cooper will never be the noun should anyone assemble those words in that order again. Unless, of course, they substitute the adjective “gay” with the adjective “On line two, holding for Creative Junkie and wondering if he should pack some extra Viagra, just in case.”

• I have started with a new hair stylist who has convinced me not only to keep my hair brunette but also to grow it out. For months, I had been determined to chop it all off and turn the remaining tufts into a stark, raving OH MY GOD, A BLIZZARD THREW UP ON YOUR HEAD white. I’m attributing my about face to sudden onset mid-life crisis.

• We assembled our IKEA dining room furniture and I recovered the chairs all by myself using a staple gun and lots of swear words. I will take pictures of the before and after as soon as I can find my hands underneath all the blisters.

• Also, after careful thought and consideration, we spontaneously painted the dining room. Pictures coming as soon as I decide if I like it.

• I typed that last sentence really quietly so Nate wouldn’t get all panicky. Do me a favor and read it with your quietest indoor voice so he doesn’t get suspicious.

• We also painted Helena’s bedroom and assembled her IKEA furniture as well. Pictures coming as soon as I finish up her wall art and headboard, both of which are dependent upon my getting my shit together. Seeing as how I lose my shit all over the place every time her room resembles a pigsty, this might take awhile.

• I am in awe of the contestants on The Biggest Loser and cannot watch an episode without yelling LAST CHANCE WORKOUT! BY THE WAY, WHERE THE HELL IS ALL THE SKIN GOING in ten minute intervals.

• Oliver has grown to almost three pounds and has decided that his own personal, grassy potty area outside is beneath him. So is the living room carpet but for some reason, that doesn’t stop him from pooping on it. This is the fecal equivalent to FOR SHIT’S SAKE, WHAT THE HELL?

• I have to take my Honda in because it’s squeaking and creaking and I’m losing sleep at night over the thought of it suddenly breaking in half during rush hour traffic. Upon cursory examination, it appears that the ball bearings are in dire need of repair, thereby reinforcing my theory that anything that comes equipped with a pair of balls is going to keep me up at night one way or another, whether I’m in the mood or not.

• I had my eyebrows threaded yesterday at a kiosk in the mall. Previously, I had them threaded at a salon. I prefer the salon to the mall as hair removal is painful enough without having it witnessed by people with mouths stuffed to the brim a la Cuisine de Food Court. How they manage to yell DOES IT HURT in passing while chugging down a Whopper with a Maggie Moo chaser and not choke to death is beyond me.

• I currently subscribe to a few popular conspiracy theories, such as (1) Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone; (2) the government silenced Marilyn Monroe; (3) aliens walk among us with the full knowledge and blessing of the government; and (4)  with her appalling lack of talent, personality and shame, Kate Gosselin will win Dancing with the Stars.

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