well slap my ass and call me sally

I am so not an infomercial kind of girl.  Really, I'm not.  My entire adult life, I've been impervious to those over-the-top only-on-television offers.  Sure, I've been interested, but I've never actually let myself fall victim to what I have consistently believed are purely fraudulent claims.

I mean, let's be serious.  99.9% of those television commercials that implore you to call right away before supplies run out and you miss your only opportunity to try out the absolutely end-all-be-all for [insert absolutely necessary activity here] are complete and total scams.

Enter Smooth Away.

Oh, I'm sure many of you ladies have managed to catch the Smooth Away commercial at least once, while watching daytime or late night television.  They woo you with their claims that Smooth Away is already the most popular hair removal system in Europe (who could resist that!?), and then show you how with a few quick buffs, the darn thing simply eliminates all of your hair with no pain or razor burn.  

I know, I know, it sounds too good to be true.  But I just had to see for myself.  I mean, what woman enjoys shaving, you know?  So I caved and ordered it online.

Enter today's mail.

Smooth Away appeared at my door in a cute, little, ordinary brown shipping box.  I ripped that puppy open immediately and knew that I had to try it right away.  The only problem was that I shaved this morning.

What's a girl to do?

I tried it on the back of my left hand, that's what.  The first few swipes left me feeling conned and annoyed that I had broken my golden rule of buying obvious scam products.

The next few swipes, however, were life changing.  The damn thing actually works!  And when I say it works, I mean it has taken every fiber of my being to refrain from de-hairing both arms in the course of the last two minutes.  

I absolutely cannot wait to grow hair back on my legs to try this out properly!  If it works anywhere near as well as it did on the back of my hand and fingers, then I will never shave again.

So sorry, old hair removal bff, Mr. Razor.  Your time has come.

it's not a quarterlife crisis

It's not a quarterlife crisis.  

Been there, done that.  Struggled, searched for meaning in my life, found love, moved across the country, found bliss.

So why am I feeling those all-so-familiar feelings of confusion again?  I mean, looking at my life objectively, I've got it pretty good.  Respectable profession (we are not sharks, damnit).  Sweet, live-in boyfriend.  Cuddly pets.  Phenomenal friends.  Loving family.

But.

And there's always a but.

But what's lurking under the surface?

For starters, I'm still questioning my choice of professions.  I still don't love what I do.  And it's not that I just don't love it.  I don't even like it.  I still question daily whether I should have gotten my teaching degree and pursued a career in education.  It doesn't help that with the current economic downturn, work has slowed down considerably.  Oh right, and then there's that minor detail that I was asked to switch from a salaried position to an hourly position a few months back.  

On paper it worked out to a better deal, since I was already getting paid less than a starting-salary for the same work as everyone else.  On paper, I stood to make more going hourly.  

But.

And there's always a but.

But I didn't factor in the possibility of work slowing down to a near standstill and not being able to bill enough hours monthly to even carry the same paycheck as I had been earning at my sub-starting-salary pay.  Not that I really had a choice.  Because with the economic downturn, came the very real possibility of lay offs (rumor has it, there have already been a handful out of our main office).  And being low on the totem pole, I was essentially told that it would be my head on the block if I didn't switch to hourly.  Point taken.

But.

And there's always a but.

But am I any safer now?  Am I in any better position?  Sure, it took the target off my back for a while.  But with work slowing down the way it has (and not just for me), who are they going to look to eliminate when they realize there's still more fat that needs to be cut away?  

It's not that I would really mind being laid off.  I am, after all, frantically trying to find a job back in my home state.  We want to move home, after all.  My boyfriend has finished up with the degree that was the catalyst for our move in the first place.  And he's still working the same temporary internship job he had during classes.  (See: next to no income.)  We want to move home so that we can settle in, put down roots, start saving up money, get married and start a family.

But.

And there's always a but.

But so far, despite numerous great leads, no jobs have materialized.  Which is depressing in and of itself, really, but is compounded by the fact that our income is shriveling to nothing before our eyes, our current jobs aren't necessarily the most secure, and "home" is seeing the worst economy in the nation.  

So what next?  Do I continue to beat down doors to find a job in my field wherever I can?  Or do I take the opportunity to make a change in direction and pursue a further degree in education?  Can I even afford to do that?  After all, unless my boyfriend finds a great paying job soon, I'm pretty much going to remain in the role of necessary-bread-winner.  At least for now.  And it's not like I have any savings to fall back on.  

So right now I spend my days idly dreaming of nontraditional ways to make a living.  Preparing myself for what's starting to feel like an inevitable period of unemployment lurking on the horizon.  How can I use my specialized knowledge to better my position?  What specialized knowledge do I even possess?  And why can't I be artistic like some of my closest friends so that I could go into the graphic design business?  Or go into the anything design business, making a living by creating things that make people ooh and ahh?  Or better yet, can't I just be a stay-at-home mom?  Spending my days dealing with the endless trials and challenges of raising children?  Of course, that first requires a ring and a wedding, which first require well-paying jobs so that we can move.  

It's not a quarterlife crisis.  It's not a crisis.  

But.

And there's always a but.

It's just not very fun.

if you ever need help reaching an itch on your back...

Ok, this is just frightening.  Why, oh why would anyone want the record for longest nails in the first place?  Just look at this lady!  She's a freak show!  

If you ask me, this car crash was a blessing in disguise.  I mean, how could she possibly function normally?  Did she have someone feeding and bathing her?  She certainly couldn't have...serviced herself or others.  What kind of existence could she have had for the past thirty years?

And exactly how does one decide to go for a record like this?  I mean, my nails rarely make it past the tips of my fingers due to a horrific habit of gnawing on them to abate stress.  But the few instances when I got acrylics, I was barely functional.  Surely having 30 foot long fingernails is rather restrictive.  

Seriously, though?  She looks like a scary old witch.  I think it's the combination of the bleached out skank hair with the nails that does it.  Remind me to never, never let myself look like this when I get old.

and while we're on the topic...

Right.  So I feel it only appropriate since I posted earlier today about one half of my twin fears (that being aliens, of course), that I now address the second half.  

The scary, scary ocean.

For as long as I remember, I've been afraid of fish.  Even tiny ones.  It's not a crippling fear, really.  At least not in fresh water.  I mean, my family has a cottage on a lake and I've always enjoyed swimming there.  Sure, when we had the raft, I would carefully note the pirhanas (see: minnows) circling the raft, waiting for me to dive in, and I would gather all of my courage and swim like hell for shore.  And yeah, when I went snorkeling with my dad in Hawaii, I did kind of snap at the snorkel rental guy when he offered to sell us fish food.  But seriously?  I don't need to carry chum into the water with me and hope for the best.  You know what I mean?  And ok, so when we did get into the ocean on said snorkeling trip, and I happened to look over my shoulder and see about a thousand great white sharks (see: ocean minnows) right on my tail, following me, I did almost drown my dad, trying to get myself to safety.  

So yeah, it's a manageable fear.

But when I read stories like this one, it just reaffirms that my fear is valid.  There are scary ass creatures swimming in those waters.  Creatures that don't need to come up for air like we do.  Creatures we don't fully understand.  Creatures that can strike without you even knowing they're below you.  And yes, even creatures, deep down in the depths, that you couldn't even imagine in your wildest dreams.  

My favorite part of the article, incidentally, is the warning at the very end.  Kudos to those good folks, trying to keep the fools safe.  And so subtle.

Update: apparently they have now revised the article by removing my favorite part at the end.  Sadness.

where's my blankie?

There are a few basic truths that have followed me around for as long as I can remember.  One, I believe the ocean is a terrifying haven for monsters we have yet to even discover.  And two, aliens scare the living shit out of me.  

It's true.  

When I was around eleven or twelve, I went to see a movie called Fire in the Sky with a friend of mine.  Scariest movie I've ever seen.  To this day, I can't think about that movie without shuddering and getting the heebie-jeebies.  It caused nightmares for close to a year.  And in all likelihood, now that I've mentioned it, I'll probably wind up having nightmares again.  

I mean, how arrogant do you have to be to make a claim that we are the only intelligent life in the universe?  We can't even see 99% of the universe with our strongest telescopes.  How could you possibly know that we're the only ones out there?

Anyway, I digress.  Aliens are some scary business.  Don't get me started on the movie Signs.  I saw it in my twenties and I still freak myself out, thinking I see that alien standing on the roof across the street from my house at night.  Way too real.  

So when I was perusing the daily news online, you can imagine my horror at finding a story about a UFO spotting in broad daylight in England.  I know the video could be better, but seriously?  What. Is. That. Scary. Ass. Thing????

showdown of the century

I'm currently entertaining myself by watching a very interesting situation unfold.

I should give you a little background to get you up to speed.  My dog is quite possibly the most well-behaved dog in history.  It's true.  I wasn't really aware of this fact until I started taking him out in public.  First to a company softball game where he patiently let a coworker's toddler son tug on his fur quite forcefully.  Then to a friend's house where instead of bullying her tiny dogs, he let them chase him around the room before sitting quietly next to me, waiting for them to be disciplined for their bad behavior.  Point is, he's a good boy.  He really is.  

But over the past month or two, he's been developing a really annoying habit.  He's barking.  Indoors!  Now, I'm sure most dog owners would give me a big "Well no shit! He's a dog!" response to this predicament.  But honestly, he's never been like this before.  When we first got him as a puppy, we lived in an apartment.  Then we moved into a townhouse with neighbors on both sides.  He wasn't allowed to get loud because we didn't want to be those people with the noisy dog who never shut up.  Granted, we now live in a fully detached house, but I still don't want him thinking he can just go barking his sweet little head off in order to get attention.  That's not how we roll in this house.

Back to the present.  My dog has been fed, he's gone outside and fully emptied his bladder and, well, the other side.  He has no reason to be barking.  He has no immediate needs that must be taken care of to require such noisy demands. And he's driving me crazy.  

Enter my cat.

In the past fifteen minutes, my cat has taken it upon himself to silence the dog. It's like he finally reached his limit and just could not or would not take it any longer.  So now I get to watch while the cat stalks and hunts the dog.  He hides just outside a doorway and when the dog starts to bark, he jumps around the door frame, hisses and swats him on the nose.  The dog runs and hides for a couple minutes, then slowly and sheepishly starts walking around, looking for the cat.  When he spots him, he keeps his eye on him and gives him a wide berth as he makes his way over to me.  The cat sits there, staring him down, and waits.  Sure enough, before long, the dog gets cocky again and tries barking and walking around like he owns the place.  The cat jumps out at him, hisses and swats him in the nose.  Again.  The dog runs and hides.  Again. Repeat that sequence about five times and you've got some serious hilarity.

Thank you, cat.  You are a very good kitty.  Make sure to keep him under control during LOST tonight, ok?

a small confession

I keep this uber-fabulous room spray in a drawer in my office. It's Pineapple-Orchid scent and it's from Bath & Body Works. It's very potent and trust me, it smells heavenly. My coworkers are always walking into my office or even past it in the hallway and commenting on how they just want to eat up the smell. It's that good.

The funny thing of it is, I really only ever spray that delicious room spray when I've let a truly foul one rip. It's my super-secret-potent-cover-up spray. So when my coworkers are commenting that they want to eat up the candy-sweet room spray scent, they're actually offering to eat my farts.

And that never ceases to make me giggle. Shhhh.

music makes the world go 'round

No, I don't want your number.

No, I don't wanna give you mine.

And no, I don't wanna meet you nowhere.

No, don't want none of your time.

No, I don't want no scrub. A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me. Hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me.

Oh yes. I went there. Seriously? Who doesn't love listening to the music that you grew up on? I mean, ok, I didn't literally grow up on TLC's No Scrubs, but it was popular during the 90s, which is when I was going through puberty, experimenting with my first boyfriends, breaking up and making up with my best friends, entering college and drinking myself silly at frat parties. The 90s were my coming-of-age years.

And thanks to a tip from a good friend of mine, I can now transport myself back to that period in my life every time I'm in the car. How, you ask? Sirius Satellite Radio's 90s on 9 channel. And for the love of all things good, this station is the proverbial motherload when it comes to your favorite 90s tunes.

In my short commute home yesterday, I heard Jeremy by Pearl Jam, Just a Girl by No Doubt, Gonna Make You Sweat by C&C Music Factory, This is How We Do It by Montell Jordan, Hypnotize by the Notorious B.I.G., and The Boy is Mine by Brandy and Monica. Insanity. Sheer insanity. I'm now completely hooked on this station, to the point of wanting to take completely unnecessary trips to the store in order to listen some more. I have yet to hit a song I don't know by heart and desperately want to belt at the top of my lungs.

Some favorites that I'm waiting to hear (and trust me, I will hear these songs eventually if I keep listening): I Love Your Smile by Shanice, Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinead O'Connor, More than Words by Extreme, Rush Rush by Paula Abdul (and Opposites Attract, for that matter), Everything I Do (I Do It For You) by Bryan Adams, Save the Best for Last by Vanessa Williams, I'll Be There by Mariah Carey, and The Sign by Ace of Base.

If you appreciate good music...wait, I guess I should say if you appreciate old music, right? Because let's face it, these will be considered "oldies" to my kids. But if you are 30-something and looking for a permagrin to get your day started, then you owe it to yourself to check this station out. It's like your favorite mix tape without the predictability of what comes next.

I think Tevin Campbell says it best. We go round and round and round. And what we're looking for still isn't found. Round and round we go. Round and round we go. Round and round and round and round and round and round we go.

Ok, maybe it's a circular argument and doesn't really explain anything, but damn I love that song. And now I can't help feeling like I should be driving to the nearest roller rink and strapping on some brown skates with four, neon orange wheels. Sweet youth!

you're my wonderwall

Well, well, well... 

It appears MSN is trying to pull itself out of the ranks of stuffy old man's lame-ass news website. How, you ask?  The answer is simple: Wonderwall.  

Wonderwall is the newly-launched celebrity-focused site by MSN.  It describes itself as "the new way of looking at celebrities" and declares that "celebrity news is supposed to be fun, so come back to get the dirt without getting dirty."  And this site looks fabulous.  All glitz and glam, easy to navigate, and horizontally aligned, Wonderwall is easy on the eyes.  

I played around on the site this morning and so far, I think I'm in love.  This is like a celebrity blog without the nasty rips that, while typically funny, generally go well over the line.  Think Perez Hilton minus the MS Paint doodles and obsessive vendettas.  Not that I don't love, Perez, because I do frequent his blog often.  But he does seem to take it too far more often than not.  Wonderwall promises the same content, minus the childish games.  And from what I can tell, the commentary is actually pretty entertaining.  Though the content I've found entertaining was of the non-humerous variety.  Their attempts at taking playful, non-offensive ribs at the celebs seems to fall flat so far.  We'll see if they grow a pair and pick it up in that arena.

If you're into being a voyeur into the lives of celebrities - and let's face it, most of us are - then you owe it to yourself to check out Wonderwall.  It's the best celebrity gossip plus genuine commentary that doesn't make you cringe plus funky new layout plus the sparkly newness that always draws in the masses.  

Will it last?  Only time will tell.  But I know I've already got it bookmarked.

branding myself

Whew!  Folks, let me tell you something: the creative process is draining!

In the interest of bringing a more unique and exciting blog to my hoard of (what is it now, 4?) readers, I have enlisted the help of a very helpful and creative friend in designing some custom touches.  And while I, myself, have not an ounce of artistic ability in my little finger, she is a gifted artsy-fartsy type, who is in the process of launching her own graphic design firm.  I know, right? Very impressive!

Anyway, while she toils away, creating uber-cool designs from scratch, I have been scouring the interwebs, looking for images that I think might be just right to incorporate.  You see, I'm ultimately working towards giving this blog a solid branded image.  One you all will recognize from site to site.  

Hey!  Isn't that Thirty Twenty's image?  I absolutely must read on!

And after hours of searching, I think we finally have our options in custom design and chic graphics narrowed down.  So stay tuned!  We should have a new format in the very near future.  I know you're all waiting on bated breath.  We won't disappoint!

But I'll tell you what...I have a new found respect for all designers.  I'm not doing shit but googling and clicking in my quest for something special and I am completely drained!  So if you count yourself among the ranks of the artistic (and I know at least half of my readership does!), hat's off to you, my friends.  

twittering is addictive

I like to consider myself a quasi-expert in all things fashionably hip online.  I'm all over the social networking sites, the professional networking sites, and even throw my hat in the ring of a handful of online message board communities.  But one thing I had been holding off on getting involved with was a little site called Twitter.

Sure, I've had friends tweeting on Twitter for quite some time.  But to me, the whole idea of Twitter was the epitome of redundancy.  I mean, I change my status message on Facebook at least three or four times a day, easily.  Why would I need another site to serve the same function, minus the frills?

Because it's a new little slice of heaven, that's why.

Since signing up, I have become fully and hopelessly addicted to the site.  I'm tweeting, I'm following, I'm being followed (thanks guys!), and most importantly, I'm getting way too much information about complete strangers and celebrities.  And it's all beamed straight into my crackberry via text!

It's an extreme overload of information.  And I love every bit of it.  Look me up and follow me if you're interested in getting tweets from yours truly to brighten up the mundane moments of your everyday life.  I aim to please.  And I promise to follow you too!  I like to know who's interested in my life.  It's like looking back through the spy glass.  I see you!

www.twitter.com/thirtytwenty

lay off me, I'm starving!

I am overweight.  Let's just lay that out there on the table right now.  Am I still pretty?  I like to think so.  Stylish?  By all accounts.  Chic?  It's my daily goal.  But over the past five years, I've put on a significant amount of pudge.

It started as a knee-jerk response to my previous job, which made me miserable in every sense of the word.  So I ate my stress and anxiety away, all day, every day.  I worked there for just under two years, during which time I managed to gain a whopping 70 lbs.  That's an entire emaciated celebutant!  

After I left that job, I pleaded with my parents for an early birthday gift of a few months with a personal trainer.  Being probably far more concerned with my health and weight than even I was, they readily agreed.  And so I dove back into a life of fitness.  Pain, struggle, effort, diet...I was told by friends that it was as though I was training to run an Iron Man.  And I was dedicated!  And before long, the weight started dropping off and I lost a good 15 lbs and more importantly, toned up my body.  I was feeling great!  I couldn't be stopped!

Then I moved across the country and into an apartment with my boyfriend.  And familiarity and comfort and the omnipresent boy-foods that filled our cupboards thwarted my previous efforts.  Before long, I had not only gained back the 15 lbs the trainer helped me to shed, but had added another 20 lbs on top of that.  Let's face it.  I was F-A-T, fat.  

I finally reached the point where enough was enough and signed my lazy ass up for Weight Watchers Online.  I figured if I was going to spend all day, every day, online, I might as well add a productive website to my routine.  And it has been helpful.  Last year, when I first joined, I lost 35 lbs in three months.  I felt fantastic!  And then I was bit once again by the lazy bug and gained the weight back.  Since re-joining this year, I've lost another 25 lbs and have vowed that I will continue to plod away until I get back down to a healthy weight for a thirty year old woman.

There's something empowering about losing weight.  Having clothes you haven't been able to touch in years suddenly fit you again is liberating and exciting.  And every time you step onto the scale and find a lower number than the week before, it's new incentive to keep up your hard work.

So why is it that I'm craving such shit food all of a sudden?  I declared this past weekend a points-free weekend.  Decided I was simply taking a break from counting and being accountable to my Weight Watchers Points Tracker.  But when this morning rolled around and my head felt like it had been the victim of a Mack truck hit and run, the last thing on my mind was tracking.

So as a little experiment...this week I am going to try to refrain from tracking while still keeping up a quasi-healthy diet.  My stomach doesn't crave the same seam-splitting portions I could throw back two years ago, so hopefully I'll be ok.  This is purely a scientific study, though.  I'm not technically "cheating" on my diet if it's in the name of scientific research, right?

And anyway, Diet Coke erases the calories from a junk-filled meal, so what do I have to lose?  

As a side note, how old do you have to be to get your mother to stop harping on you about your weight?  Because I've tried unsuccessfully for the past eighteen years to get my mom to lay off, and she still doesn't seem to get it.  Yes mom, I do want to eat those empty calories.  I happen to love the empty calories that potato chips and peanut butter provide!  

Lay off me, I'm starving!  Diet starts Monday!  Tee-hee.

Ten points to the first person who gets that reference.  I'd give you more, but that's an easy one.

the new super

I'm currently hunkered down on my couch, in my fleece pants, under a blanket, computer on my lap, dog curled up tightly against my hip, Vh1 reality shows on the tv.  Is it sad that this is my idea of the perfect Superbowl Sunday?

There was a time in the not-so-distant past, where events like the Superbowl (or St. Patty's Day, or MLK Day, for that matter) were the perfect excuse to plan a party with friends, pick up a 40 oz of Colt 45 (or three) and get wrecked.  And I still have friends who do this regularly.  Friends who are older than I am, in fact, can and do tie one on whenever they can round up their gang of hooligans.  Hell, they even plan trips to Cancun with their friends!  

So what's changed?  When did this slow slide into the comfy world of the homebody begin?  For me, I think it's actually a combination of two major factors.  The first being my loving live-in boyfriend.  Before we decided to cohabitate, we really had to plan outings in order to get out and see each other.  We looked for new and interesting things to do out on the town, or simply gathered a gang of friends and met at our favorite watering hole.  We were active socially.  In a big way.  We were the driving forces of extracurricular recreation in our social group.  We rallied the troops and planned the fun and made sure everyone was drinking and laughing.  And to be honest, as fun as it was, I think maybe it was a bit tiring.  At least looking back it seems like it must have been.  And once we moved in together, it was like we had our own excuse to stop that effort.  All of a sudden, it didn't matter anymore whether we were out of the house or sitting on couch in our pajamas.  I mean, he's my best friend, and I know he feels the same about me.  There's a sort of comfort and safety in that simple truth.  And so both of us settled in, and began substituting good conversation, pajamas and television for the wild nights of our past.  

The second factor that I think has played a major role in our trend of rarely leaving the confines of our cute little rental house, is that we moved.  We didn't just move in together two and a half years ago.  We moved across the country.  We relocated to an area where we had nobody but each other.  Sure, I met friends through work, and he met friends through school, but mostly we were each other's friend.  We were our own social group.  We didn't have that constant pull from friends to come out and do the drinking and socializing thing anymore.  And so we didn't.  And the longer we didn't, the more comfortable and familiar it became to simply go home after work at the end of the day, change into our lounge wear, and relax with each other.  

And you know what?  I'm not dissecting this in a desperate attempt to find a solution to this problem.  In fact, this isn't a problem in my book.  Quite to the contrary, I love this new life.  Sure, I realize this simply reaffirms the fact that I'm getting older.  But spending a Saturday evening reading a good book in a bubble bath sounds like a little slice of heaven to me now.  I don't even consider the alternative anymore.  

So today, while millions of people are gathering in large groups in bars and homes across the country to watch the Cinderella Cardinals face off against the Steelers in the Superbowl, my boyfriend and I will be sitting together in our den (or, "the cool guys room," as my boyfriend calls it), eating our chicken brats, sipping our light beers, and enjoying each other's company.  Just the two of us.  And the pets.  And that is, quite simply, my new idea of a super Superbowl Sunday.

just let me introduce myself

My name is Humpty.  Pronounced with an umpty.  

No it isn't.  I'm just getting carried away here.  In the interest of a little personal privacy, you can call me Thirty.  Thirty Twenty will work.  Or Miss Thirty if you're nasty.  Ok, there I go again.  Let's just press on, shall we?

I'm your average thirty year old woman.  My mind tells me I'm still twenty-something and capable of partying until all hours of the morning, drinking like an elephant, and generally raising hell at every turn of the road.  My body, however, has started to indicate that perhaps my age is, in fact, thirty, with nasty little reminders like:

"Hey, dumbass, you can't drink like that anymore.  To teach you a lesson, if you consume more than three of those pints of beer at the bar, I'm going to curse you with a raging hangover.  And don't think it'll wait until after you wake from blissful slumber.  Oh no, that would be too easy.  Instead, I will start your hangover the second you leave the bar.  Yes, that's right.  You'll walk around the rest of the night feeling even older than thirty, your head throbbing, your eyes drooping shut, and your stomach churning.  Now get your old ass home and watch some tv.  You can't run with the young crowd anymore."  

Or, another favorite:

"Guess what?  You can no longer stay up until midnight or after, go to sleep and feel rested and able to attack a new day when you wake up at 6:30am.  Your new must-put-face-to-pillow time is 10pm.  On the dot.  Stay up any later and you'll suffer for the rest of the week in a zombie-like world of exhaustion.  Oh, and I'll probably throw in some insomnia for good measure.  Choose wisely."

All that to say, my brain is still in the process of wrapping itself around this new reality of adulthood.  Sure, most will tell you that you're technically an adult at eighteen, when you move out and start living your own life instead of taking commands from the parents.  Or maybe at twenty-one when you're finally able to legally drink (let's not pretend it doesn't start long before you leave the comfy confines of your parents house in your teens).  But honestly, as much responsibility as you have thrown your way, I think that these days, your twenties are really only quasi-adulthood.  A second teenage decade, if you will.  The emphasis is on partying, and you're too old to be told you can't anymore.  And with a young body to aid your debauchery, the getting is generally very good.

Enter thirty.  

Oh come on, it's not all bad.  And to be honest, I've had little hints over the past four or five years that maybe, just maybe, I should start slowing down.  Hangovers got much worse for much less.  My head started shifting into this interesting new place where staying in on a Friday night sounded much more preferable to getting all dolled up and heading out to the bars.  But you know, you kind of live in a state of denial until that number in front of the zero officially turns to three.

And I don't hate being thirty.  On the contrary, it's not so bad.  I'm happily co-habitating now with a typically sensitive and giving boyfriend, who I count as my best friend in the world.  That's not so bad, right?  I have a cat and a dog.  It's like a little, happy family.  And we both enjoy watching the same television shows.  And playing trivial pursuit.  And reading.  And going for long walks.  Holy shit.  I just realized I'm describing the lives of my parents.  And that, my friends, is the reason I had to start a blog to dissect this new and scary phase of my life.

So pull up a chair, grab a mug of tea (or you know, a cocktail if you're still able to freely drink them with no real ramifications), and enjoy the ride.  I've had blogs before.  Typically they start with a really great, catchy, kitchy theme.  And I start with a real gusto and then peter out within a few weeks when I realize I'm incapable of carrying on in character.  So this blog is nothing like that.  This blog is me, stripped down to the actual person.  I'm not going to filter my posts to a particular subject matter.  This blog is me.  Battling old age (ok, ok, I know I'm not really entering old age yet, but melodramatism is a symptom of turning thirty--just ask anyone in their thirties), venting about frustrations relating to my amazing career (which I loathe), my inability to relocate as quickly as I'd like (fucking economy), my constant desire to fast-forward to the next big thing (waiting on that ring), and my new and overwhelming mommy-lust (must. have. babies.) that rears its ugly head any time I see a child.  If you're into that kind of thing, then we'd probably be friends in real life.  Or at least you'd like me and I might put up with you on an arms-length basis.  

In any event...this is me.  Thirty is the new Twenty, right?