Real Estate Tangent

Yesterday for like a minute and a half I thought I lost my phone. It was terrifying. I felt naked and afraid (not to be confused with the upcoming reality show on the Discovery Channel, Naked and Afraid). But it turned out my precioussss was just buried deep within my purse.

That’s when I decided the purse probably needed a small amount of reorganizing. Of course, what it actually needed was the crew from Hoarders to come have an intervention. The process of pulling everything out and going through it felt sort of like an archeological expedition, so I decided to document and tag the layers of debris and artifacts for the purposes of serious scientific research.

Exterior shot of the excavation:

Initial findings:

Layer 1:

1. Power cord.

2. iPhone

3. Lockbox eKEY.

4. Mini flashlight.

5. Laser measuring tool.

6. Giant handful of keys/keychains, including the set I used when I was 16 that my mom found and gave to me recently and I keep meaning to put away in my box-of-shit-to-save-just-because, which consisted of a glittery wand, a ‘Lefty!’ sign and a gold engraved ‘Mini’ circle.

7. Wallet.

8. Yogurt for this morning’s breakfast (because, yes, I’m actually doing this at my office… where I don’t really know anyone, because it’s totally not weird to dump your purse out on your desk and take pictures of what you find).

9. Spoon for the yogurt, natch.

10. Emergency backup granola bar for if I ever get stranded in the desert with nothing to eat, or there’s a zombie apocalypse, or I’m showing property and don’t have time to stop for lunch.

11. To-do list notepad.

Layer 2:

1. Unopened mail marked ‘time sensitive’.

2. Birthday gift certificate to get a facial from my Aunt Marybeth.

3. Three checkbooks, two of which are empty, all to the same account.

4. My Ignite Phoenix speaker lanyard name tag, because just in case anyone wants me to do a five minute speech on trapeze, I want to be prepared.

5. An angry birds sticker from last time we went to the pediatrician (I was a good girl).

6. An at home facial sample a friend sent me I keep meaning to test out (is my purse trying to tell me my face needs work?).

7. My special ‘stay in your ears’ headphones for running.

8. The hairband I can never find when I need it.

9. The case for my laser measuring tool (not housing the laser, of course).

10. Gum. Because I don’t chew gum and haven’t since I was 15 and figured out I have TMJ and chewing gum makes it significantly worse.

11. Contact solution.

12. An uncashed check from my sister for $215, which is super weird because I just wrote a check to my sister-in-law for $215 yesterday, so I feel like I should have just had my sister write the check to my sister-in-law and life would have been so much more simple. Or possibly I’m overthinking.

13. A rewards card to the music store I buy my kid’s clarinet reeds from.

14. SIX pens. SIX. And two of them are black!! Where did these black pens come from and where do they go when I really need to sign a serious work document and can only find pink?

Layer 3:

1. $50 in emergency cash, just in case I ever need to go on the lam.

2. Four tampons, because I heard they’re important to have on hand in case someone gets shot.

3. A small cosmetic case holding only a random container of brown eye shadow I’ve never used.

4. Another spoon. Hrm… That’s where they keep going apparently.

5. A beer bottle cap I confiscated from Jonas that he was collecting at a party. He didn’t want me to throw it away.

6. Dance shoes.

7. Six containers of lip gloss to go with my six pens. Because one can never have too shiny lips.

8. The key fob for my office that I spent 7 minutes looking for this morning until someone took pity on me and just let me in.

9. The half of a broken corkscrew I meant to return to AJ’s 8 months ago (which clarifies why I keep getting searched at airport security).

10. Unidentified medicine… for if I feel bad in an unidentifiable manner?

11. The headband I wish looked cute on me but super-a-lot doesn’t.

12. The stylus for a Nintendo DS I’m saving for a moment when we’re on a long drive and the kids need one and I can pull it out and pretend I’m The Most Amazing Mom On The Planet.

13. Hand sanitizer (AKA: hanitizer) I never use because I’m totally not one of those people.

14. The business card for the psychic I went to on my birthday who told me I do my eyeliner wrong and a bunch of other really mean things about how I’ll never be happy. Because I’m definitely going back to her.

Layer 4:

An enormous pile of receipts, grocery lists, business cards, torn up checks, coupons I never used, and other random trash.

I’m pretty sure this is all a metaphor for my life, or the inside of my head, or something, but I’m honestly too tired after all of that to self-reflect. I need a nap.

I have a friend who has always wanted to be a mother. Recently she’s had some up close and personal, full-time interaction with several small children that left her wavering in her resolve to become a parent. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to do it anymore.

In discussing the situation with her, I’m pretty sure I stumbled across the very most accurate and perfect analogy about parenting that has ever been analogized in the English language. I feel like it’s my duty to share it with the world so that parents and non-parents can come together and understand each other. I’m just saying I really think this might be the key to peace on Earth.

So… here it is (prepare for your mind to be blown with understanding for your fellow man):

Having kids is like smelling your own farts. (It’s OK, stay with me a second.)

When you let loose a cloud of really gross, foul gas, you think, Ha, I’m grody. I should probably fan that so it dissipates before anyone else comes in here. And then when your husband walks into the room as you’re frantically gesticulating, you pretend you’re dancing and look at him like he’s the one who’s crazy.

But the point is, even though you know it smells gross, and you can even understand the magnitude of grossness (like ‘that one was just kinda stinky’ vs. ‘that sucker made my eyes water’) you are not actually personally particularly grossed out by your own farts. They’re yours from your own body. You’re more concerned with how they affect the people around you and how your stomach feels.

However, if your nasal passages are subjected to someone else’s farts, you are repulsed, right? Your nostrils have been invaded by someone else’s fecal molecules and it is filthy and disgusting. They basically pooped in your nose. GROSS.

This is exactly the difference between your own children and other people’s children. You know your own children are disgusting and exhausting and obnoxious, but they’re part of you. You’ve emotionally invested in them. So when they’re being disgusting, exhausting and obnoxious, you’re thinking more about how they’re feeling and how they’re affecting the world around them than about the misery they’re subjecting you personally to.

(This works even with adopted or step children, because even if they’re not biologically part of you, they’re part of your heart. It’s a sort of magical fart/child principle.)

But other people’s children? Well they’re just gross and offensive. You get, intellectually, that it’s a natural bodily function for them to be horrible and annoying because they’re children and children are horrible and annoying, but you can’t help but be super disgusted by them. Because it’s like they just pooped in your nose.

So what it all comes down to is you can’t really judge the parenting experience as a whole by spending time with other people’s children any more than you can be grossed out by your own farts.

Because: science.

You’re welcome.

I entered into this summer like an undertrained kamikaze fighter pilot, without a plan and with a little bit of a death wish. I kept meaning to get the kids signed up for classes and activities to keep them entertained, but the month of May… well let’s just say if it wasn’t on fire, I didn’t deal with it in May.

Luckily, I apparently have a fairy godmother who knew I might actually drink bleach* if the kids and I were left to our own devices for too long in the house together, because my sister called me literally on day 2 of summer break to tell me she had signed all three of my kids up for an arts day camp program out of the summer school she’s directing this year. (See, Self, good shit regularly happens to you, too. Make a mental note, you drama queen.)

So the point is, Monday through Friday in June, all three boys are taking stuff like Ceramics and Drawing and Painting and Claymation from 8AM to noon at a high school in Ahwatukee. So far they LOVE it. I love that I get to drop them off to learn and worship at the altar of the arts for a good solid 20 hours a week so I can actually have a cohesive thought regarding work and still feel like I’m a halfway decent mom while I do it. WIN/WIN.

The only downside is that Ahwatukee is a hearty 35 miles from our Northeast Mesa home. It’s not really a terrible drive either way, but it means if I don’t have appointments I need to do my papershuffling/client communication/ridiculous blogging via wifi somewhere close to the school. In the last week I’ve come to know my bagel and coffeeshop options all too well. They definitely have their negatives. I bet you other transient laptoppers can relate.

As far as I’m concerned, these are the 5 suckiest things about working from a coffeeshop:

1. The epidemic of over-airconditioning in the summer.

Like seriously who are they catering to? My husband? Because I already have to deal with his climate control of the car. Must I seriously bring a jacket and socks and boots with me to Starbucks? Or just sit there with blue lips until it’s time to pick up the kids and I can enjoy the blissful oven that is my car?

2. It’s making me fat.

Obviously I can’t just park myself at a bagel shop and use their wifi without purchasing anything. I mean, I probably could, but I’d have to adopt some sort of alternate anti-establishment personality where I don’t worry all the time that people think I’m taking advantage of them or not following the rules. And that seems like a lot of personal brainwashing.

So instead, when I show up I dutifully order a mocha (even though I don’t care for coffee) or a bagel with lox (even though I already had a tiny bag of cheetos for breakfast like an hour ago) so I can justify my butt in their chair for the next three hours. And I can feel those calories collecting on my ass.

3. I feel like everyone can see what I’m working on.

I really hate not sitting with my back to a wall. I feel uncomfortable with people being behind me that I can’t see. I was probably a POW in a past life. I also can’t go pee in a bathroom with a shower without checking behind the shower curtain to make sure no one’s in there first. But that’s just common sense, right?

In a coffee shop, it’s almost impossible to find a seat where someone can’t walk behind you and see what you’re doing on your computer. Not that I’m doing anything weird. I just don’t want you to be able to see.

4. The bathroom issue.

Inevitably, if I’m sitting in one spot for a couple of hours or more with a beverage in my hand, I’m going to have to pee. So how would you handle it? Would you:

A) Fold up your laptop, zip it securely into your laptop bag, put away your yellow legal pad with to-do list, wind up your cord, stow your cell phone, keys and sunglasses in your purse and carry your bags with you to the potty, only to return 3 minutes later, unpack everything and set up camp again?

B) Ask the stranger at the table nearby if they don’t mind watching your stuff for a second while you go pee?

C) Assume people aren’t assholes and the bathroom is 5 steps from your table, leave everything and hurry back?

I’ve done all three. A) makes me look like a paranoid weirdo, but gives me a chance to move outside if I’m so freezing I can’t cope with the AC any longer. B) is ideal, but doesn’t work unless there’s another coffee shop commuter nearby, plus there’s always the chance he’s a dick who will steal my laptop and purse himself. C) makes me VERY VERY nervous. I almost can’t pee. If someone swiped my stuff I’d feel like such a jerk. Sometimes I just only take my purse, like it’s any better that my Macbook Air is just sitting out for people to steal and not the $45 in cash in my purse.

5. I can’t deal with going to the same place several days in a row.

I know people like to have a ‘regular’ place where the people who work there know them and their order and save them their special table. I am not interested in that. If I know people I’ll feel compelled to make conversation. It will be OK the first couple of days, but then I’ll feel like I need to ask them about their kids and hobbies and we’ll discuss movies (because everyone loves Wes Anderson) and TV (did you see SYTYCD last night? Cause I was at dance class and I missed it!) and inevitably I’ll spend half my time every day catching up on gossip and learning who my barrista is as a person. I can’t help it. So to avoid this I’m constantly in search of a new wifi joint. I’ve done Starbucks twice, two different Einsteins, Paradise Bakery and once I even drove 15 miles to my office. I’m sure there’s a different Paradise I can check out and a couple of Wildflowers… pretty soon I’m going to need to put some research into this.

So… those things are annoying. But I’ll figure it out. Maybe I will start bringing sweaters and socks. Do they have wifi at the library? That would solve the food issue, and probably the excessive chatting. At least in none of these places is a child asking me to cut him up an apple, if he can play his DS or telling me that his brother hit him as hard as he could.

*Did you ever see the Nadia Comaneci movie? No, Nadia! Don’t! I was obsessed with her as a kid.

Dear Facebook,

Can we talk about this?

I feel like you’re trying to say I might have a problem. And… well I’m willing to aquiesce that my quest for the perfect swimsuit has gotten a little out of hand as of late.  It’s just that I truly believe a swimsuit exists somewhere in the universe that will cover my flaws while simultaneously showcasing my assets, stay in place and project a fun, carefree image. I know it’s out there. I’m sure of it. I believe this down deep in my core where I also know Hogwarts really exists and at least one of my children will be rich enough to support me in my old age.

So the point is, you gotta kiss a lot of frogs when you’re searching for a prince, right? I admit I’ve made some mistakes. Buying online and out of season is a terrible idea. Purchasing a large top because it’s on sale and they’re out of smalls was a hilariously misguided idea, unless I’m planning to store my cover-up wedged in the cups when I take it off. Even though Old Navy swimsuits are like $7.50 per piece you’ll only end up getting $15 worth of ill-filling and tacky.

But I think the swimsuit I bought today might really be The One I’ve been searching for (ok, ok, I bought two. I meant two. I was gonna say two. I am admitting I have a problem here; can you not rub it in?).

I mean look how cute it is:

And I really think it’s actually working to my benefit on, too:

If I can just get everyone on at the pool to agree only to look at me with soft focus from this exact angle, I think it’s pretty perfect. I’m like almost kinda hot, right?

EW, OMG! Not from that angle! Unsee that, ok? It was after lunch and I forgot to suck in! Taking selfies is not that easy. GAH.

You know what, though, the more I think about it, Facebook, the more I start to suspect you’re not actually concerned about my buying addictions, the healthiness of my spending habits or even how well my swimwear fits. I mean it’s not like you were showing me self-help ads or budgeting websites… no, you specifically listed the very swimsuit I purchased like an hour ago in a regular store. As in, I walked into a boutique, bought a swimsuit and now it’s showing up in my Facebook ads?

How is it that you knew about that purchase, anyway? It’s because I googled the brand to find a link to send to my girlfriends, isn’t it? It’s like really sort of creepy and stalkerish that you are monitoring my web activity. That’s what you’re actually trying to tell me, isn’t it, Facebook. You’re just letting me know that you’re watching and that you know things, huh?

Well the joke’s on you, Facebook, because I was going to tell my husband about the new swimsuit(s) anyway.  It’s not like it really ever works when I pretend I’ve had them for like ever anyhow. He always knows.

So what else are you going to rat me out about, huh? How often I view my website stats? Pshaw, like it’s any secret I battle an inferiority complex regarding my readership in comparison to how much time and effort I put into this silly blog. That I sometimes read the Craig’s List personal ads when I’m feeling bored and indulgent? Um, who doesn’t? They’re so weird and hilarious. Anyone who’s a sucker for drama and crazy people has checked them out (and who is not a sucker for drama and crazy people?). What else you got on me, Facebook?

On the other hand, maybe that’s not the very most humiliating portion of my online activity. Now that I think about it, it’s possible I don’t want to know what else you’ve got on me. I’ll play nice. Tell me what you want to keep my browser history just between the two of us. I’m assuming you already have my bank account info… You just want me to know I owe you, don’t you? You want a favor from me in your back pocket until you need it, isn’t that right? When the time comes, you’ll let me know. Alright, Facebook, I don’t see as I have any other choice.

Resignedly,

Me

Dear Mom,

I’m just getting around to reading that book you gave me for my birthday a couple of weeks ago. It’s not that it didn’t look interesting. I had started that book, Gone Girl, and I was completely sucked in and had to finish it before picking anything else up.

The point is, I finished Gone Girl yesterday and sort of needed to rinse my brain out a little bit after something so intense, so I picked up this cartoony read you gave me (along with the Minnie Mouse t-shirt and gift certificate for circus lessons) and started flipping through it a bit.

When I originally saw the book and read the inscription you wrote:

I was amused and flattered. I love unicorns (obviously. who doesn’t love rainbow, sparkly, magic things?) and we all know I have a special place in my heart for both drinking and irony, so the cover of this book definitely appealed to me.

But it turns out Why Unicorn Drinks is all about an offensive, alcoholic, violent, sad, (impotent), stupid creature. It’s the latest in a line of books about how Unicorn is a jerk. In fact, the last page reads, “Sad about Unicorn’s terrible life? Don’t be! He’s a real son of a bitch…“. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have been totally shocked. The cover is a touch… dark.

I’m not saying it’s not hilarious and awesome in a super offensive way. It is. It kind of reminds me of Cards Against Humanity. The page that says, “His friend tricked him into eating a placenta.” and shows Unicorn with what looks like raspberry jelly all over his face is especially non-sensical and disgustingly funny.

I am, however, battling the urge to be offended by the fact that you described me as the ‘most unicorny of* people [you] know’. I don’t want to over-think this, but Unicorn murdered a homeless person a third of the way through the book. I’m the MOST unicorny person you know? Hrm. I know it’s a mother’s job to help her children be the best humans they are capable of being, but I feel like if you think there are changes I should be making in my life and actions, there is probably a more sensitive (and clear) way to convey that to me.

Regardless, the book is very funny. So… thank you?

Love,

Mini

*PS – You’re probably going to be most upset about this post because I took a picture of something you wrote with a glaring mistake, as you are usually fairly typo-free. But don’t worry, everyone knows it’s much easier to make errors when you’re hand writing and can’t rely on spellcheck or backspace. Plus, last week Dad had to send me two emails for one error he found in the post I wrote because I corrected it wrong the first time. It happens to everyone.

Me: Like… is this shit for real? I mean, there’s only so much stupid, difficult drama one person can be expected to endure before she turns into Jack Nickelson at the end of The Shining, right? Why, WHY? Why today? WHY FUCKING ME??

Also Me: OK, calm down, Sad-sack Susie. Clawing your own eyes out isn’t really going to help anything, now is it? And it’s not like anything SO horrible has happened in the last couple of weeks-

Me: What??! Are you being serious now? Not so horrible? What about the part on Tuesday morning where Jonas had a night terror so awful we thought about calling 911 because we were worried it was a seizure?

Also Me: Yeah, that was scary. But it wasn’t a seizure, right? He just has a virus and fever-induced hallucinations.

Me: Yeah, ‘just’. What about the part where the van overheated on the freeway to the doctor and we ended up having to have my mom come get us because it wouldn’t make it to the doctor?

Also Me: That was ridiculous, I admit. But you eventually made it to the doctor and then got the car to the mechanic.

Me: And I lost an entire day of work and had to throw another $500 into the insatiable gaping maw of GOV repair costs.

Also Me: No one’s saying it didn’t suck. It sucked. I’m just saying you’re being kind of dramatic right this second.

Me: Um… how about the fact that less than 24 hours after we picked up the stupid thing from the mechanic, the GOV now sits, completely dead, in front of a house I’m trying to close for my buyers, 35 miles from my own home?

Also Me: Well-

Me: And that I had to get my poor client to drive me to my sister’s school so I could borrow her car, cancel an appointment with an appraiser I had to meet because all of that took too long and rush to Jo’s school to make it to his Montessori graduation, only to get there just in time to witness this:

Also Me: That was just sad. He’s still not feeling great and he missed all the rehearsals. You can’t blame him for not wanting to go out in front of a bunch of people when he’s sick and unprepared.

Me: I don’t blame him, but for Pete’s sake. When I actually pulled into the parking lot of his school ON TIME despite the already insanely busy schedule and the stupid broken (AGAIN) car I was triumphant! I had shown the universe it couldn’t keep me from what was really important with trivial obstacles like time, space and orange painted lemons. But then I was bested by a sad, sick five year old who refused to participate.

I’m starting to wonder if I did something really horrible I’m being punished for. Or if the universe is trying to tell me in no uncertain terms I need to stop trying to do everything all the time and cut down to a more manageable schedule or something stupid and boring like that.

Also Me: Ok, see that’s what I’m talking about. You’re being maudlin and self-absorbed. And you haven’t even had any cocktails yet today so there’s really no excuse for it.

Me: I am horrifyingly sober.

Also Me: What about your poor kid who has been looking forward to this graduation for weeks? Don’t you feel sadder for him than you do for you? He’s the one who’s been sick and having horrible nightmares all week. And he only wants to go outside and catch some goddamn bugs, but is forced to lay on the couch and pathetically watch talking Chihuahua movies on the Disney channel.

Me: I do feel sadder for him. You’re right.

Also Me: And yes, the stuff with the car is beyond stupid. It’s a piece of junk. But you bought it because it was pretty and comfortable on the inside. You decided it would be fine that it’s a Dodge and it was the first year they changed the entire body style, so it was pretty much untested. It’s not really anyone’s fault but yours, and it’s certainly not surprising that after 5 years and 140K miles it is just sort of falling apart, piece-by-piece as you drive down the road. You kind of need to stop acting so shocked every time it happens.

Me: I guess that’s valid.

Also Me: The schedule IS a nightmare. But, again, you do this to yourself. You freely admit you’re generally bored and unsatisfied unless your life is filled to the very brim with activities, hobbies, work, social obligations and family time. ‘Filled to the brim’ is a difficult level to maintain without occasional (or regular) overspill and messiness. You poured the martini glass too tall and now you’ve got a pink cosmo stain on the front of your dress. Holding it all together using only surface tension is an impressive party trick, but you have to be careful not to jostle your hand. Suck it up and deal.

Me: That was an extensively maintained cocktail metaphor. Some might say slightly over-wrought. Plus, now I’m sad I don’t actually have a cosmo in my hand.

Also Me: OK, and seriously you need to stop with ‘the universe is punishing me’ shit. You fairly aggressively do not believe in that. No greater force is trying to tell you anything. You are in charge of your own destiny. If it was all too much for you to deal with this time, then maybe cut back a little next time. Or maybe don’t and just realize it’s going to be like this sometimes when you work and have three kids and like to do shit and have friends and stuff. It’s called LIFE. Sometimes it’s rad and sometimes it’s lame. Sometimes it’s rad three days in a row and lame 5 times in three hours. If it was rad all the time you’d eventually recenter your norm to ‘rad’ and then ‘pretty good’ would become ‘terrible’.

Me: That maybe makes some sense.

Also Me: Think about it this way: What if you didn’t have a sister who is probably your best friend teaching at the school right next to where your car died who was willing to loan her car to you in within five seconds of you asking so that you had the opportunity to witness your kid’s failure-to-launch graduation? What if you didn’t have a mom willing to drop everything and come pick you up in the middle of nowhere to drive you to the doctor and abandon her entire day to help you get your car to the mechanic? What if you didn’t have a husband who understands how cars generally work and can come get your car fixed tonight after work so you can continue to drive it until it actually shudders to a halt and collapses in a pile of bolts and orange paint? Where would you be then? Utterly stranded and alone? Maybe your life actually is already normed out at ‘rad’ and you’re just feeling all of this ‘pretty good’ stuff as ‘terrible’?

Me: Geez louise, now I feel like an asshole.

Also Me: Well…

Me: OK, I’ll suck it up and stop feeling sorry for myself.

Also Me: You’re wearing dance clothes for a class that’s not for five more hours just so you have an excuse to wear stretchy pants and you ate an entire bag of Chipotle chips by yourself for lunch. I think you’ve wallowed long enough.

Me: Do I have to change out of my dance clothes?

Also Me: Nah, just have a better attitude with a touch less drama-queeniness.

Me: Done.

I’m turning 35 tomorrow and it’s sort of bumming me out.

Some of it’s the usual. I’ve very definitely reached the age where it’s undeniable that my face and body are not going to get more attractive. My leaps are never going to be what they once were. It’s quite possible I’ll never get my aerial back. Shopping in the Juniors section at Kohls is only going to become increasingly more humiliating.

A big part involves my inner conviction that I have greatness to offer. I blame this on my parents for successfully instilling in me that whole, ‘You can do anything you put your mind to,’ thing that was popular in parenting techniques in the 1980s. We don’t really do that so much anymore. Now it’s more of a, ‘You could be a lot of things if you work really hard, but it’s kind of a tough economy out there, so let’s shoot for not living with us once you’ve reached adulthood,’ mentality.

But the point is, my parents raised me to be empowered and aspire to affect the world or create in some way. So, you know, I sort of feel compelled to. But now that I’m 35 (- 1 day), I’m starting to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have gotten my shit together about that sooner. Like if I’m really going to write a book or whatever, should maybe I have already done that? What if this means I really don’t have any greatness to add to the world?

Beyond the issues of vanity and ambition, I’m just not even sure I’m comfortable with the idea that I’m actually just. plain. old enough to ‘know better’. Do you know what I did this morning? I went around to each of the four bathrooms in our house and switched out the hanging hand towels for fresh ones. Just because it had been awhile. And you know what else? I used dry shampoo on my hair so I could go an extra day without washing it. That’s right, dry shampoo and fresh towels; that’s where I’m at. It’s possible I’ve been possessed by the ghost of Nancy Reagan.

Really, though, what if I’m not ready to commit completely to responsibility and proper hygiene?  I mean seriously; I have lots of mistakes I still want to make, but by 35 it sort of seems like I should be through with the ‘testing of the waters’ and ‘exploring phase’ of early adulthood and well into the ‘settled down’ and ‘striving for stability’ period, doesn’t it? But what if I don’t want to settle down? What if I don’t want to ‘know better’, yet?

But I’ve been ruminating on all of this, and I’ve come to the conclusion that actually, it’s probably a really good thing I haven’t done anything super fantastic or amazing yet. It’s probably in my own best interest I wasn’t a raving beauty as a small child or teen. I’m actually sort of lucky I didn’t do all of the wild and insane things I could have in my late teens and 20s. Why? Because once you’ve peaked, it’s all downhill from there.

I could easily list dozens child stars who achieved greatness early only to burn out quickly in a fireball of drugs and insanity, but it’s actually kind of a depressing task (Lindsey Lohan, Corey Haim, River Phoenix, GAH), and I do not need that shit today. So instead, let’s focus on the positive:

10 Amazing People Who Peaked Post-35

1. Jonas Salk discovered the cure for Polio around age 40.

2. Erma Bombeck didn’t begin writing her world-famous humor column on suburban motherhood/life until she was 38 and her first book wasn’t published until she was 49.

3. John F. Kennedy was 43 when he was elected to President of the United States (and he’s the youngest ever elected).

4. George Clooney was adorable at 24 on The Facts of Life, but I think we can all agree if you had your choice, you’d have him at 40 in Oceans Eleven.

5. Anna Wintour didn’t become editor of Vogue until she was 39.

6. Neil Armstrong was the first person to walk on the moon at 39.

7. Gwenyth Paltrow was named People’s Most Beautiful Woman at 41.

8. Kurt Vonnegut wrote Slaughterhouse-Five with he was 47.

9. Leonardo Da Vinci didn’t begin painting the Mona Lisa (which has been acclaimed as “the best known, the most visited, the most written about, the most sung about, the most parodied work of art in the world.”) until he was 51.

10. Keith Richards, famous for not only his music, but also for his hard-partying ways, may have peaked artistically younger than 35, but at 62 he fell out of a coconut tree in Fiji and gave himself a concussion, proving his proclivity for shenanigans hadn’t been retired, even if he sort of had.

In compiling this list I’ve come to recognize I obviously still have plenty of time to write a brilliant novel, create an amazing work of art, become POTUS, cure one of the worst diseases of my time and be voted Most Beautiful Woman… or at least one of those. And I certainly still have time to act like a loon if I want.

So, in conclusion, GFY 35. You are arbitrary, and I am and will always be, young at heart. I am ridiculous for worrying about you. Plus, I really do prefer to only get better as my years go by like an expensive Oregon Pinot Noir, rather than flame out young.

And certainly GFY ‘old enough to know better’. I have plenty more ill-advised decisions and poor choices to make.

Jonas: Mom, next time I’m allowed to play my DS* and Gray’s grounded from his then I’m going to play his DS.

Me: Um… that’s not how it works. He has to let you borrow it. You don’t just get free reign of his toys because he’s grounded.

Jonas: I know, but I have a ticket book that says I can.

Me: You have a what?

Jonas: A ticket book. Gray made it for me.

Me: Why did he give that to you? Just because he was being nice?

Jonas: No, because I really wanted a ticket book. And because I gave him 5 dollars.

Me: You gave him 5 dollars?

Jonas: Yeah, you know, from the card from Great Grandma Jean for Christmas? I gave him the 5 dollars from that and he gave me 4 quarters and a ticket book.

Me: What else does it have in it?

Jonas: It says I can sit on his bed for 10 minutes. I already used one of those, though. I don’t know what the other ones say.

Me: I can’t decide if that’s really sweet of him or he’s a total con-artist…

 ***

The comprehensive list is:

On bed – 10 minutes (I’m assuming this means Jo is allowed to sit on Gray’s bed, which is the coveted top bunk, for 10 minutes)

On bed with Blue – 10 minutes (Blue is our fluffy white cat)

Play DS – 5 minutes

Art on my desk – 5 minutes (Gray has a large collection of art supplies)

Use my duct tape – 10 minutes

Read my book to you – 20 minutes

So if we break it down, Jonas paid Gray $5 (well, $4 actually since he got a rebate of 4 quarters, which Jo may or may not have already lost) for an hour of Gray’s time and his supplies. Although I wish Gray would let Jo sit on his bed and read to him without payment, I’m hard-pressed to determine which of them is getting the short end of the stick. I guess that means it’s a fair deal in Kidland.

Carry on you little weirdos; carry on.

*Some video game crap.

If you sometimes drink at noon on Tuesday and work at 10PM on Saturday, you might be a Realtor.

If immediately upon opening a front door you can detect the difference between pet urine, sewer trap and cigarette smoke stenches, you might be a Realtor.

If the glove compartment of your car contains bottled water, granola bars, 75 business cards (a mixture of yours and other people’s), a car charger for your iPhone, iPad and eKEY, three flashlights and pepper spray you might be a Realtor.

If at any given time in your house, purse and car there are 5-10 random keys you aren’t sure where they came from or what they go to, you might be a Realtor.

If you didn’t have to pay any taxes for the three previous years, but this year you owe tens of thousands of dollars to the government, you might be a Realtor.

If you’re not offended by work phone calls at 11PM on Friday, but when someone tries to reach you at 8AM on a Monday you think, What the fuck? Do you people have no decency? Can a girl never get 10 seconds to herself???, you might be a Realtor.

If you’ve ever accidentally walked in on a total stranger showering in their own home, you might be a Realtor.

If you consider every Happy Hour you attend a ‘Business Function’ regardless of who you’re with and what you’re discussing, you might be a Realtor.

If you’ve ever driven from Buckeye to Maricopa to San Tan Valley in one day, you might be a Realtor.

If when the words ‘standard’ and ‘commission’ are used together in your presence you wonder for a second if the person who uttered them is a spy from the Anti-trust Commission, and are quick to assure everyone around that commissions are negotiable, you might be a Realtor.

If you have just enough wacky hobbies to keep your mind off the fact that you have no business right up until the moment you’re completely swamped and have to abandon them all, you might be a Realtor.

If you’re so superstitious about your income you won’t even calculate what your paycheck should be (because it’s bad luck) until you’ve heard it’s on its way, you might be a Realtor.

If you’ve ever spotted a client across the grocery store and immediately left and driven to another grocery store so she wouldn’t see you in your jammie pants and glasses, you might be a Realtor.

If you instinctually know whether a situation is most easily resolved with sweet-talking, threats or a combination of the two, you might be a Realtor.

And finally, if your checking account is overdrawn and you’ve eaten ramen for a week straight, but you have the entirety of what you made last year in commissions currently in escrow to close in the next 30 days, well then, you just might be a Realtor.