You say it's your birthday...

Well, it's my birthday too, yeah.

No, really. It is.

I'm 35 now. Wheeee!

I was going to try and post something deep and introspective but let's face it. I'm not all that deep and introspection is for navel gazing emo boys.

Instead I will share the story of two people from my past who share my same day of birth. One a year younger and one a year older.

First the younger, Mindy (not her real name).

I met Mindy my sophomore year in high school. I don't know how we started hanging out, but it probably had something to do with the fact that we both liked cigarettes, booze and writing (awful awful) poetry.

We thought ourselves deep. No one could possibly understand the depth of our deepness. Oh no.

Sometimes we would meet at the library to study. Studying consisted of us walking down to the 7-11 to buy a Big Gulp of Pepsi to mix with our pilfered whiskey and smoking as many cigarettes as we could suck down.

Mindy was by far the bigger JD which is really saying something because I was no Pollyanna myself. I just never got caught.

Which brings us to our story.

One day Mindy and I were hanging with another acquaintance, Sheila. Sheila was kind of a puppy dog. Didn't really have an opinion about anything and was just happy to be part of the team. Present day, she's probably got a comfortable desk job at Human Resources somewhere.

She was a nice girl. So nice that she gave Mindy and I a bottle of peppermint schnapps she stole from her parents' liquor cabinet to prove...I don't know what she was trying to prove. I do know we happily accepted it and stashed it for later. Mindy and I were going to the football game that night.

I'm not sure why. Maybe we just needed to get out of the house. Maybe there was a boy involved. Doesn't matter. We were going and we were planning on putting away at least some of that bottle beforehand.

Cut to the second quarter of the game. Mindy's leaning on me and not making any sense. As "hardcore" as we thought we were, we really didn't drink much of that bottle. Peppermint schnapps is gross. I didn't want to be drunk that badly.

Unbeknownst to me, Mindy was on some psychiatric medication that...you guessed it...you shouldn't drink with. Hey now! That would have been some useful information. Add to that Mindy drank WAY more than I did.

So, I'm literally holding Mindy up in the stands when I catch the eye of someone who was also in the school play with me at the time. I think he saw the fear in my eyes, and helped me drag her out of there.

I don't know why I thought we could get out of there without attracting the attention of anyone, but 5 minutes later an ambulance was there. It was bad.

I didn't hang out with Mindy much more after that. I'm pretty sure that set a precedent in my mind for my distaste of sloppy drunks. Hold your liquor people. And for the love, learn how to mix your booze and drugs properly. Sheesh.

My other birthday pal was a boy named Jack (again, not his real name). He was a year older than me and went to a different high school.

Jack was "arty" and VERY into himself. I'm embarrassed that I made out with him. He probably pretended he was kissing himself.

After a few weeks of phone calls and a train ride into the city, I decided he was just a little too pouty and flouncy for my taste. But that didn't stop him from writing me letters.

One letter contained pictures he had taken of himself. In women's clothing.

Now, that's all fine and good for him. Kudos to him for being so self aware at 17 to know what he's into.

To my 16 year old self though, this was just way too much.

I wish I still had those pictures. I threw them away for fear my fundie parents would find them and never let me leave the house again.

By the by, I also share a birthday with Kate Moss, Edgar Allan Poe and Janis Joplin.

What is it with me and these tragic figures?

Could someone clone me?

Today is insane.

Audrey has a birthday party from 12:30 to 3. Mina has a birthday party from 2 to 4:30. Oh, and we have a preschool event from 4 to 7:30 tonight.

I'm going to be going all day.

It was bound to happen. My girls are only 3 years apart, so the time finally came when they both started having mini-social lives.

I think I'm going to go stock up on wrapping paper and ribbon now for the onslaught of gift buying I'll need to do for the next 15 years.

The birthday party Mina is going to is Bratz-themed. Now, we don't do Bratz at our house. Mina knows that. In fact, she was nervous to even show me the invitation which I thought was really cute. She's such a rule follower.

I took the opportunity to show her that while we don't like something, we're not going to judge someone else for liking it (within reason, of course). I made sure to remind her not to start spouting our disdain for those slutty little dolls while at the party.

The invitation stated that they were going to do mini-makeovers. I'm a little nervous what that means but, having chatted with the birthday girl's Mom more than a few times, I'm fairly certain my daughter won't come home looking like a prostitute.

(If she does though, I promise to get photographic proof for future blackmail ammunition).

Wish me luck. It's going to be one hell of a day.

Amtrak: Portal to the Underworld

I took a train ride up to Chicago yesterday. The last time I took the train up, it was quite pleasant. Sure the train ran a little late, but 45 minutes wasn't really any bother. Yesterday's train however, ran much much later than that.

I was supposed to be on my merry way at 11:43 in the AM. We didn't push off from the station until close to 3. Once we got moving, things seemed to be fine. Sure, I was three hours later than I had planned but I spoke to my friend up north and we made arrangements for me to get out to her place by Metra. No big.

About an hour into the ride, we stopped. And stay stopped for what felt like an eternity. The natives began their slow descent into insanity.

There were a handful of hairdressers on board who were headed to a big beauty show at McCormick Place. Having been in the business I knew things were going to get rowdy in a hurry.

Next to them was a group of older women celebrating one of their birthdays. They too partook of the 4 dollar cans of Bud in the dining car.

One of the birthday party girls sounded like Britney Spears on a bender. You know how people sound when they make fun of a southern accent? Multiply that by 100 and you'd come close to how cranked up this woman sounded.

Then there was the woman who freaked out on a dude while the both of them stood right next to my seat. It seems that the man (who later revealed he was 48 years old) had made a suggestive remark to one of the woman's preteen daughters.

"If you even look at my daughter I'll cut you up, motherfucker" is one of the more delightful zingers she screamed at him not two feet from my head.

The dude most definitely deserved it. I just wasn't in the mood to be party to any bloodshed at the moment.

Later that same man was "detained" on the lower level for smoking in between cars (during one of our many standstills of the trip) and getting belligerent with a conductor. He was really drunk, and this did not help his case. Nor did him shouting, "I am not some ni***r! Don't treat me like some ni***r!". EEP.

At some point the birthday girls and the hairdressers started calling the Amtrak 800 number to complain about the delay. Nothing is more entertaining than listening to a bunch of drunk yahoos trying to sound sufficiently angry without slurring on the line with some operator who couldn't possibly care less that there was a bunch of drunkards stuck on the track in bumfuck Illinois.

One passenger lamented that she really needed to smoke. I mentally agreed with the sentiment. Redneck Birthday Girl, ever the patron saint of drunkards, had a mini lecture session.

"You shouldn't smoke! You're so young! It makes you stink! It's so EXPENSIVE!"

And the best line of the entire night:

"Think about how much more you could drink with all that money!"

Once we finally started moving the mood lightened a little.

I decided that since I wouldn't have time to get ready before the show, I would pull a cheap hooker move and put my makeup on in the train bathroom. Sometimes I astound myself with the magnitude of my class. Yeah...

After that I decided to go full force and change my clothes, but was then informed no one was allowed downstairs to the bathrooms because of the aforementioned drunk, loud guy being "detained".

I shared my quandry with the hairdressers and they kindly offered to hold up their coats so I could change right there in a seat. Again with the class.

We finally got to Union Station around 7:15. Only about FIVE hours late.

I was just glad it was over.

After some phone tag and some well deserved smoke breaks, I was on my way to meet up at the show.

I ended up having a fantastic time with some wonderful friends.

I'll probably take the train again. I'm a sucker for punishment and really...what else do I have to blog about?

Best.Birthday.Ever.

I had far too much fun at my slumber party. Probably more fun than a grown woman should legally be allowed to have.

No, fuck that. I did deserve it. And my wonderful friends deserved a night of drunken revelrie as well.

Photographic proof of our night. LOTS o' pictures.

Flowers from my husband before he got the hell outta' Dodge.


I made some pretty cupcakes:


Enough?


It started off innocently enough:
"Hmmm...do I start with bourbon or wine?"










Present from Travis. He thought I needed a new gym bag. Inside the gym bag were colorful cigarettes and vaginal wipes. I love him.



My husband HATES celery. Hates it with a burning passion. This one is for him.


Who's a Pretty Barbie Birthday Princess? I AM! Thanks to Meghan.


Things went downhill (in a good way) quickly. Soon we were drunk.

Apparently I thought something we really fucking hilarious. I wish I could remember what it was.




No pillow fights, but Rachel got smoochy.










Phil is mysterious.


My dogs wanted us to shut the fuck up and go to bed.


But I made Ichabod play some Wii.


Full contact Wii.




Me. 3AM drunk in three parts.







34 is gonna' be a good year.

I haven't written much this week...

It's been a slow week around here. And that's OK. That's great, actually.

There's something to be said for quiet.

AND...today is my birthday. I'm 34. How did that happen?

I was at the grocery store getting a few things, including beer, and the cashier asked for my ID. I happily handed it over to her and after she checked the birthday, she gave me a most incredulous look.

"I know," I said, "I can't believe it either."

I'd LIKE to assume she didn't think I looked my true age, but my response was more of a "Holy shit, am I really creeping up on 40?!".

Never fear, gentle readers. I refuse to act my age (whatever acting 34 means...).

Tonight I am celebrating my birthday in a way I haven't in 22 years.

I am having a slumber party. Insert filthy sexual innuendo here. (No, really. Please do. I like that sort of thing).

I was cutting my friend Meghan's hair about a month ago and she asked me what I had planned for my birthday, then suggested I have a slumber party. At first I laughed, but the more I thought about it the more it sounded like a perfect idea.

We had so much liquor left over from the NYE party that I didn't have to get more than a couple of six packs and a few mixers. I've invited my Girls and my Gays, and the party is ON.

Come Sunday (or Monday, depending on my hangover status), I'll be sure to post the photographic evidence of my welcoming of a new chronological age.

Merry CHRISTmas!

No taking the Christ out of Christmas here. No siree.

I can't wait to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour by opening presents, chowing down and getting deee-runk. Wahoo!

An invitation was extended to The Sweet Baby Jesus to partake with us, but He's a bit busy around this time. His Mother's always harping that he never visits, so He takes time out (on His damn birthday of all days) to go over to her house.
He gets to endure hours of "You look so skinny! Aren't you eating?" and "You never call!" and "When are you going to go back and get your degree? You coulda' been a doctor, but NOOOOOO. You had to give it all away to help all those people who don't even like you."

He promised he'd show up for a spell on New Year's Eve. I'm sure He'll need a stiff one after dealing with The Blessed Virgin from Hell.

I just hope he doesn't pull another party foul like last year. Seems Jesus turned a little bit too much water into wine, and started yelling at everyone. He's a mean drunk, if you didn't know.

"Crucify me, motherfuckers! I can totally come back from the dead! DUUUUUDE, I invented Christmas! DO IT, or I will smite you!"

It was really embarrassing. More embarrassing that realizing that he wasn't wearing anything under the robe.

Merry Happy!

Love in Christ and Bacon,
Chaylene

I survived

Mina's birthday party was this past Sunday and the best part is that it's over with.

Seriously though, it did go well (although next year it will end after two hours not three...).

I now know what that little smirk I got from some of the parents (the ones with older children) meant: "Two hours is the max, sweetie. Good luck! HAHAHAHAHA!"

Oh well. Live and learn.

We escaped with only two minor injuries. One was a scraped ankle and one was my poor withered balloon-tying fingers. I'll have a lovely scar to remember it by too.

In other parenting related news, I am the Room Party Parent for Mina's kindergarten class. I guess I was the only parent (stupid enough)to check the "I can be present for every party" box.

The "Fall Party" is today and I got everything covered. The parents in my daughter's class are really nice and no one balked at my requests. I'm thinking we could get pony rides for the "Holiday Party" if I ask nicely enough.

Between Audrey's "parent cooperative" preschool and Mina's kindergarten activities, I feel like I am up to my freshly cut side-swept bangs in school stuff--which is why I am nervous about my impending venture into Parttimejobdom.

Yes, Mama's gettin' a jobby job. Have I already mentioned this? I'm too lazy to go back and reread past posts...

I'm going to apply at Starbucks. Good benefits, flexible hours and most importantly, free coffee. It's a win-win for everybody.

I'm waffling about my trip to Italy in June, and I'm starting to feel guilty for spending money we don't have. If I can get a little cash of my own, maybe I won't feel so irresponsible. We'll see.

It's still 8 months away though. Plenty of time to work myself into a guilt-ridden frenzy.

Random

Dear girl holding up traffic,

I get it. You have great posture and HUGE tits. Congratufuckinglations.



Dear Garlic Press Deli,

Your pumpkin bread is so good it almost makes me believe in God. Whoever made this deserves knighthood or princessdom or at the very least, a street named after them.


Dear woman who teaches 90 percent of the exercise classes I take,

I'm sure you're a nice person in "real life" so I'm sorry for the eye lasers during class(es). I can't help but give dirty looks to someone when they are making me want to cry in public (though my waist and ass thank you for your efforts).


Dear Weather Gnomes,
Please make it nice out tomorrow so I don't feel bad for making my dogs stay outside during the birthday party.


Dear Dogs,
Don't pee on the pumpkins, OK?

Dear Spellcheck function,
"Congratufuckinglations" is a word.


Sincerely,
Chaylene

Fuck you Barbie

It wasn't enough that you gave the little me an unrealistic expectation of what I thought my breasts would eventually look like as an adult (large, perfectly perky and nipple-less)?

Now this? You stupid cunt.



Today is my daughter's sixth birthday. Happy Birthday Mina! I got her a birdhouse kit and a Barbie doll. Not just any Barbie either--a mermaid(?)/fairy Barbie with wings that flutter and a DVD game that is supposed to be easy to use. Whatever.

People have been buying Mina Barbie dolls for a few years now, and I'm just now beginning to get over the guilt of "selling out" to Feminism's Antichrist. I allow her not only play with them, but play with the wretched little hussies with her. I expect the ghost of Betty Friedan at my doorstep at any moment.

I thought I was getting Mina the perfect gift. She wants to have a Fairy-themed birthday party this year, so getting her this particular Barbie fit the bill. She opened her gifts up this morning, and I promised her that she could play with it the second she got home from school. It may be her birthday, but I wasn't going to break the 'no television before school rule' even today.

First off, Fairy Barbie needs batteries. Thank the babyjesus I keep extra on hand at all times...for their toys...yeah...

The battery compartments are located in the doll's inner thighs. I felt like some kind of masochistic perv digging around near Barbie's no no spot. From the looks of her eyeshadow choice, I get the feeling this was not a new experience for her.

Then I was to program Barbie with the DVD remote so that she becomes the remote (so Zen, don't you think?) and can work with the game. It looks so simple, but apparently I am not, as previously thought, smarter than Barbie. I couldn't get the stupid fucker to work.

So, we forged ahead using the actual DVD remote which meant that I had to play too. What good is this toy if I can't sneak out for a smoke break while the girls are entranced by sparkly shit and an 18" waist?

The game itself involves finding jewels, eating seaweed and picking up lonely sailors on the dock.

OK, there weren't any sailors involved. I suppose no one at Mattel shares my love of the inappropriate.

Hopefully when my husband gets home, he can figure out what the hell I did wrong in trying to get that bitch to work.

I'm not touching the birdhouse kit project with a ten foot pole.

Three

Happy Birthday Little Bean.

Write a letter you'll never send

Dear M.B.,

When I worked with you I found you to be clueless at best, but mostly an annoying twit. Your holier-than-thou attitude grated on my nerves every day that I had to work near you. As much as I tried to avoid conversation with you, tight quarters demanded our interaction.

When you vehemently explained to me that no Jewish people went to work in the Twin Towers on 9/11 because they were "tipped off" to the attacks, I didn't stab you in the eye with a fork like I wanted to, but instead gently explained to you that your information was wrong. I know you still didn't believe me.

When you told me that you and your husband took the door off your sixteen year old son's bedroom, I didn't ask you how he was supposed to masturbate in private. Instead I bit my tongue because I wouldn't want to extend anything resembling an invitation for you to share your parenting tips with me.

When I saw you after I quit that job and you accused me of "jumping ship" after our boss revealed she had cancer, I let it go--though I shouldn't have seeing how you did the exact same thing a few weeks later. By the way, my leaving didn't kill her. The three packs a day for 40 years did.

I have never and will never tell you all of this because I can be what they call in the business a "grown up". Just know that every time I drive past your church, or "Hall" as you guys call it, I transmit silent 'fuck you' vibes your way.

I kind of feel sorry for you in that your religion prohibits voting. At the same time, one less fundie at the polling station bodes well for me.

When the magical JW spaceship comes down to take you and yours to Planet Watchtower, I'll be here on Earth dancing around in my underwear stuffing birthday cake into my mouth, handing out rainbow flags and free abortions.

Cheers,
Chaylene

Stupid parents

Today was a snow day. School was cancelled and my husband even came home early from the shop (an extremely rare occurence). The whole city is like a ghost town. I have a five foot snow drift in front of my garage. I won't be going anywhere until one of the following happens: A) the snow melts, B) some kind soul comes to offer his snowblowing services (which sounds awfully dirty if you ask me), or C) we buy our own snowblower.

None of these things is likely to happen anytime soon.

Just for shits and giggles, I called around to a few places to see if they actually had any snowblowers, or snowthrowers as I just found out they are sometimes called, left. Snowthrower makes a hell of a lot more sense than snowblower. Think about it.

Of course every place I called was clean out, but no one laughed at me for asking so that was nice.

We spent the day lounging and eating too much as I am want to do during blizzard conditions (like I need an excuse). It was just a casual, relaxing day.

I considered getting us all bundled up to play outside, but the winds were whipping something fierce. It was kind of scary out there if you want to know the truth (and I know you do). We had to actually force my dogs to go outside to do their "bidness". They're Pugs though, not a breed known for its hardiness or bravery in treacherous conditions.

The 40mph gusts did not stop my neighbors' kids from playing outside. My husband spotted a couple of them across the street frolicking sans gloves. C'mon people!

Granted, they don't appear to be the smartest family on the planet, but I would think a little common sense would seep in somewhere between WWE Saturday Night and NASCAR marathons.

It's cold and windy and fucking ass COLD! Make sure your kids wear gloves and hey, maybe a hat, when it's this cold outside.

A second example of parental asshattery came in the form of a Sprout short. In between shows, they do this, for lack of a better term, birthday shout out. Parents can send in homemade cards and the host reads them on air. It's cute and all, but kind of obnoxious especially when they play this thinly-disguised version of "Happy Birthday" (sung by Elmo himself!). It's terrible and it has a way of sticking in my head for days on end.

The cards though, they are heartwarming in an 'old episode of Little House on the Prairie' kind of way. Some day I will get it together enough to send one in that is so amazingly sickeningly syrupy in nature, they won't be able to stop themselves from showing it. I can't do it for one kid and not the other, so I'll probably just make it for myself. Won't I feel special?

Today, one of the cards they read was for a two year old. I don't remember where he's from or even what his name was, but I do know this: his parents should be ashamed of themselves right now.

On the front of the adorably decorated birthday card were intricate cut outs and little drawings of birthday candles. It appeared that someone took a lot of time putting it together. The inside was a picture of the cute-as-a-button birthday boy. Awwww. Then Host Guy closed the card and showed the front of it to camera again. That's when I saw it (and saw it three more times thanks to my DVR capabilities).

"YOUR 2!!"

I'm assuming they get hundreds, if not thousands of these handmade birthday cards every week, and they pick one with a spelling error?

Don't the higher-ups at Sprout (a subsidiary of PBS forchrissakes!!) that grammar and spelling nerds like myself are writhing in pain over this? What the fuck people?

OK, I know I have been known to screw up a little grammar here and there. I also know that I use commas out the wazoo, but at least I'm trying. I'm all about spell check and if I think I might be using a word or phrase wrong (see above: "...want to do..."), you bet your ass I'm googling or thesaurus.com-ing it.

"Your 2".

No. Just no.

Harpy Bird Day

Today is my 33rd birthday.

By the age of 33:
Hemmingway had written A Farewell to Arms.
F. Scott Fitzgerald had written The Great Gatsby.
Liz Phair had completed Exile in Guyville
The Rolling Stones had about 4,ooo concerts under their belt 33 years after forming
and Jesus...well he died for our sins, giving us the chance for eternal life.

These are some hard acts to follow.

I haven't written anything more than some bad poetry and a whole lot of bitching on the internet. I was in a band that played one song at one show, never to be seen again.
And I'm not about to try to hang on some cross. I'll leave that to the guys on Jackass.

My little brother called and left a voicemail this morning, wishing me a Happy Birthday...from Paris...where he is staying for free. He was on his way back from Tunisia and it seems the plane had a little trouble over France. Not only was his plane ticket free (business trip), but his hotel was as well (on the airline). He said he was calling me from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

I still live in the same town I went to (and subsequently dropped out of) college in. I think I'll call him on his birthday from the top of Watterson Towers. Take that, overachieving sibling!

Some people that share my birthday:

Jodie Sweetin of Full House fame is 25 today!
Shawn Wayans of In Living Color fame is 36 today!
Dolly Parton of the plastic surgery hall of fame is 61 today!
Shelley Fabares of Coach fame is 63 today! (Did you know she also sang Johnny Angel?)

And the dearly departed:
Janis Joplin of Jack Daniels fame would have been 64 today!
Tippi Hedren of Alfred Hitchcock fame would have been 76 today! (She is dead, isn't she?)
Edgar Allan Poe, the world's first official Goth, would have been 198 today!

I should clarify that I'm not having some kind of crisis about getting older. It's not so bad being in my 30's. I get treated like an adult most of the time, but I can still get carded for cigarettes if I buy them on campus.

I haven't written a great American novel, put out an incredible album, had sex with David Bowie (yet) or been crucified, but I've gotten quite a bit accomplished in this first third of my life (because I plan on living until 100, you see). I'm married to a comic book store owner (please contain your jealousy), have two beautiful children, two obnoxious dogs and I'm about to buy the house I plan on living in for the rest of my life.
All in all, not too shabby.

Cheers!