And I wanna cry. I mean, this may sound irrational and all, but I just kinda don’t feel like getting older. Basically.

And because it’s my birthday, I thought I’d let a few others do the writing for me…

First though, a bit of depressing news: "There is still no cure for the common birthday." ~ John Glenn

Oh, to be young again… As Mark Twain once said, "When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened."

And some advice from the late, great Lucille Ball: "The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age." 

Wishing you a safe and fun New Years Eve Undomestic Diva’s Birthday. (Hey, someone ought to enjoy it.)

My BFF "Tamara in GA" is actually "Tamara in CA" right now, visiting her old stomping grounds for Christmas. Because she has copious amounts of family around these parts, she had to block off some time for me and so we made reservations for a nice dinner with just us and our husbands. Man, I had been really looking forward to this dinner out. Not because I’m deprived of a nice dinner out (which I am) but because it would give us adults a chance to catch up over some good food.

Last night we set out to do our dinner, all of us looking pretty sharp and put together. The conversation at the restaurant was fun, wacky (who me?) and easy. That was, until the INTERVENTION.

You see, prior to this particular evening, Tamara in GA was like the friend. The one I could tell anything to. She’s the one I could say "Is it wrong that I…[fill in the blank]" and she would be like "I do it all the time." She’s that friend. Or, she was that friend. Now, Miss Tamara in GA has gone down a few notches in my book and up quite a few notches in my husband’s. (Who, by the way, had prior to this, thought she was just as wacky and out-of-control as me. And now, what? They’re best friends? Hmph!)

It seems this dinner out was not so much about the great food and fun conversation. Nope. It quickly became an intervention of some sort with Tamara in GA grilling me on why I let my kids eat Poptarts and Lunchables but don’t let them have a drop of soda. She actually accused me of poisoning them with MSG and then had the nerve to bring up my lacking laundry skills. At one point, she had the balls to ask me if I knew where we kept the vacuum at home. Psphf! (Is that a word?) I had to drink alcohol to survive the blasphemy. My normally introverted husband became quite involved in the "I know. I know!-ing" that was taking place. It wasn’t long before Tamara in GA’s husband AA was joining me in my own little private cocktail hour while our spouses crucified me for my less-than-stellar domestic accomplishments.

Now what I’m about to tell you next, well, I can’t even make this [fecal matter] up. When the four of us got back to my house (after a required stop at the local liquor store for some more coping mechanisms via vodka and cranberry juice), Tamara in GA actually started a load of laundry in my washer after nearly fainting at the sight of my mountainous laundry pile. Not only was her ass in my garage sorting my underwear and towels, but she was also lecturing me at the same time about delicates and water temperature and using the knobs and controls and asking why I don’t own bleach and BLAH BLAH BLAH she swears-to-god she’s gonna type up some laundry instructions and LAMINATE THEM and mail them to me when she gets back to GA. Seeing my eyes glaze over from being overwhelmed and, well, slightly tipsy, she actually yells at me like I’m 8 years old and says, "You’re not even listening to me, are you??"

"Um, yes I am. Delicates. Hot/Cold. Buy some bleach and use a ball. Use that Downey stuff and it won’t shrink. Turn the knobs. Got it."

At this point, she quits me. She’s over me. She’s had enough of me and she just shakes her head and joins my husband on the couch to WHAT ELSE?! play a little Guitar Hero. AA fixes me another drink, this one stronger and more numbing and I drift away to somewhere more lovely and smell-the-roses-ish so I don’t feel so inept or feel forced to step it up a notch. ‘Cause that would mean accountability and WHO WANTS THAT?

Now by the time they left our house, I may not have been able to walk a crooked line (or walk at all) but man, I also didn’t care if I knew where we kept the vacuum or if we owned some of those shaggy duster things. Of course, not twenty minutes later, I sure as hell was not only wishing I knew where we kept the toilet bowl cleaner, but how to actually use it too as I hunched over the toilet trying desperately to keep our nice dinner from coming back up.

Karma. What a bitch. 

Christmas, for us, was good. It was ridiculously over-the-top, but that’s how my family always does it. Among my favorite gifts were a Erma Bombeck book (need I explain?) and a Starbuck’s mug from the original first Starbucks store in Seattle – On the back it has the original mermaid which apparently was at that time a little more risque showing some… nipple. (Gee, wonder why they changed that.) What a cool gift though. I also got a Starbucks mug from Hot-lanta, Georgia and will add it to my around the U.S. collection which now totals two – Hawaii being the other.

Hope everyone had a great, chaotic and well-eaten holiday. I need a 3-day nap now.

I’ll be back tomorrow with an Ode to the Gray-Wirey-Twisty Things that toys come packaged in. BOY, DO I LOVE THOSE EFFIN’ THINGS!!

For those who are familiar with the fact that my brother-in-law has been serving in Iraq (second tour)… I just want to SCREAM FROM THE ROOFTOPS that he is now officially back on U.S. soil. HE’S HOME!!! There is nothing better. Nothing could make us happier. We can now watch the nightly news again. We can breathe again.

I am now officially feeling the joy of Christmas.

You may be thinking "ewwww" or "TMI!" and yes, but I need to plead my case to you as to why I deserve some kind of award for this feat. (Ha. Ha.)

First, I’ve got the CRUD. Like sharp, cough-up-a-lung (and maybe a rib or two), not feeling good. Feverish with the chills and dizziness and headache and SORE THROAT (god it’s really damn sore) and… MOMMY!

It took a lot of effort just to get naked to get in the shower, let alone spend the extra time shaving legs that, well… haven’t been paid enough attention to in the last… little bit of a very long while. I mean, this was a two-razor job (one per leg – and really, it probably would have been best to go two per leg, making two laps so that my legs could have emerged completely clean-shaven instead of now only looking about a week into not having shaved. Oh well.)

But I did it. I got the job done after running out of hot water and realizing I still needed to wash my hair. But I tell you, I feel like a new woman, looking almost identical to one of those Nair girls from the commercials in the itty-bitty short-shorts… Only I’m wearing $4 Hanes sweats, wet hair in a bun, Acne Fighter on my face and mucus running down my very sore throat. But otherwise identical. If nothing else, I do, though, feel like I’ve lost 5 pounds and my legs were easier to dry. Hmm.

And while I’m ranting… I don’t know why in the hell I have to get sick EVERY FREAKIN’ XMAS. It’s probably because I write "XMAS" instead of "CHRISTmas." That karma thing is a real bitch. (Sorry, karma. Really, I’m very, very sorry! Didn’t mean it. Swear.)

Either way, sick or not, my legs are shaved in case… ? WAIT. Now why in the hell did I feel the need to shave my legs again??? Crap! This isn’t Valentine’s Day or our anniversary. What a frickin’ waste. And I’m SICK for crying out loud. If anything, I should have kept the extra layer(s) for heat and comfort and… JUST BECAUSE I HAVE AN EXCUSE.

Apparently this little biatch of a virus is affecting my normally clear, intelligent thinking.

[Hey, I heard that snickering. BITE ME.]

So I went to pick up a little something-something I ran out of at Michael’s this afternoon and HOLY CHRIST, the parking lot for the shopping center was a war zone. The holiday rush has officially arrived. IT’S CRUNCH TIME PEOPLE.

My advice? STAY HOME. You have to be effing crazy to be out amongst these late-minute shoppers who, ironically, are not exactly sporting holiday cheer and merriest of wishes. It’s more like middle-finger salutes and horn honkin’ cell phone talkin’ GET OUT OF MY FREAKING WAAAAY types who are looking for just the right gift to show someone how much they care.

This weekend, you can find me at home, rocking back-and-forth in the fetal position as I overwhelm myself with what I still have left to do, what I’m still missing and how little time I have left. You will have to peel me off the floor to do anything except maybe to drink my grande 2-pump peppermint mochas with whip, which I think I can still manage. BUT THAT’S IT.

Good luck to you crazy bastards who are sacrificing yourselves to the retail world this weekend. Be prepared, be patient and remember to NEVER leave home without your… middle finger.