I won't talk about my birthday after this. Promise.

I know I promised to turn 29 forever every year just like every other newly 30 year old, but I'm just going to stop that charade right now.

I'm 30 and I've decided it doesn't suck. So why pretend to be 29, even though it was proven to be rad?

See - you know what I mean. You newly (and oldly) 30 year olds, you.

Plus, how cliche to be all Oh I'm 29 don't you know even though I'm so not 29 and even when I was 29 I felt like everyone thought I was 30 because of how everyone lies about this age so I kind of felt like saying I was 30 (or 25) even when I actually was 29 so people would believe me or at least not think me some sort of shallow liar.

Which I obviously am not because I didn't try to lie even though saying I was 25 had a nice little ring to it. From what I recall anyway. That was a while ago. Ahem.

So - 30 is AOK with me and let me share with you the festivities because they were festive and suitably sucked down a good week+ because I'm very self-involved and can't be satisfied with one single day for my birthday of all birthdays, no. A week or more will do nicely, thank you.



Clearly, there was drinking.

I think I've moved successfully into my Tanqueray 10 stage, although I still love Bombay Sapphire very much. Which is a good thing because a lot of the bastard bars around here don't have 10 on hand and that officially irritates me.

Also the fact that ZERO bars have Diet Tonic enrages me to no end, but it doesn't stop me from asking while I cross my fingers. And I'm such a spoiled little Do you have any Diet Tonic beotch that I have actually started just ordering it as a "Diet 10 and Tonic" which I think is the equivalent level of annoyingness to ordering a coffee at Starbucks using no less than 10 words that may or may not exist on the menu. At least given the way the bar whore looks at me when I ask this anyway.

I don't really drink coffee, so I don't know if all these words are necessary, but since I don't order my drinks with any manner of whip or sauce or nuts on top or frosting or half-caff anything, I might still be less annoying than those people. Or not. You decide.



And because we are who we are, and that is to say we are food-centric whores, there was some eating.

I mean really now, we ate a ton. Bubba and my friends and my neighbors and my family indulged my every food-related fantasy over the week or so that I claimed as My Birthday Now Let's Do What I Want.

My belly really ran the gamut from the best cupcakes to authentic German pretzels to melon fresh from my garden to fried artichokes to poleta with truffle sauce to roasted green beans to pizza to, well, you see. I ate everything. And I didn't even feel bad.

Now, though, I feel bad. In the I-have-made-PMS-worse kind of way. I won't go into details, but I try to be really good right before PMS happens so that I don't balloon into some sort of circus sideshow during My Monthly Time, but this month I was 100% bad and now I feel like I should be saddled up and ridden around.

Take a moment to imagine this. It's truly horrible.


And when I wasn't eating or drinking (there were times, yes), we did a lot of fun things and then I did some things that are only fun to me and a weird chosen few and then we did some things that shouldn't be fun for anyone, but I'll get to Pineapple Express in a minute.

One of my favorite things in the whole wide world is the beach. And my favorite thing in the whole wide world is my dog at the beach because she loves it more than I do which is barely possible unless you're a dog with a big smile like this one.

When we get to the beach and I have her sit before I take her leash off (because I'm a mean dog mommy) she looks at me like, Really!? I get to run around? Here? I WILL BURST LET ME OFF THIS FUCKING LEASH! but all while she sits there and smiles and stares at me and wags as hard as she can because she's about to burst. And then I take her off the leash and she runs off into the waves and up onto the rocks and back and forth and sometimes even after the ball I keep throwing (and retrieving myself because she could just give a shit about it) and looks to me exactly like what Happy would look like if it were a thing.

Which, if you're her, it is a thing. A beach thing.


And in the category of fun shit that I like to do, I did some canning and freezing for winter because I think I'm a homesteader or something equally ridiculous given that we live in northern California where there's no real winter to speak of and Trader Joe's is like right there, but whatever.

And in the category of shit no one should like to do, we went outside of our usual repertoire of weekend and/or birthday activities and went to the movies. Something about hoards of people sitting in a big dark room watching a loud film of questionable quality where they can freely chew and talk on their cell phones even though the big talking box of popcorn says not to just isn't our thing.

But there we were, on Monday, our blessed holiday day off, sitting in the theater suffering because of my poor judgment that decided we should go see Pineapple Express because I'd heard it was hysterical and oh you'll totally love this movie, it's so YOU.

Wrong.

I won't go into specifics, because you all can decide what you like and don't like and what makes you lose hope in the American film industry all by yourselves without my interference, but I will say that the fact that someone thought this movie was so me is just depressing and also wrong. At least from my POV.

Because, from the inside, I don't feel like a disjointed, pointless, unedited, sloppy waste of time, which is what this movie looked like to me. Although, hey, from the inside, this movie might feel more like an intelligent 30 year old with better things to do than stare at a mindless and unclever swear-fest while seated next to The World's Worst Father and his seven year old son who was quickly memorizing all the braindead lines in this shitshow.

And yes, I did criticize this movie for its swearing-ness. Which, I think you realize is really something coming from me. And also ironic, but that's not the point. I mean, maybe I was just infinitely aware of the toddler mimicking the dialogue next to me while his Bastard Father took a nap, but either way, this was an awful and painful waste of my holiday afternoon and I was only half way through the thing when I knew I'd be wishing for those hours of my life back.

And I liked Superbad and Grandma's Boy (loved) and Jackass Number Two and Borat and a million other so-called retarded movies, but I do believe even my standards are too high for this lameness.

We will probably never go to the movies again.

And because the theme of 30 should be AWESOME instead of horrible, as my last rant would insinuate, there were a few life changing-ish events that occurred during My Birthday Now Let's Do What I Want that I should address. Specifically those that have to do with riding a bike.

A bicycle bike.

Oh yes, let it be known that 30 is the year that I went back into the water with self-propelled wheels and *GASP* had fun. More on that soon.

And with that, let's end the I'm 30 talk.

It's September and people (assholes) keep saying "Fall" and football starts next weekend *pees pants* and my race is in less than a month *shits pants* and my best friend is coming for a long weekend soon and holy crap the tomato plants think they're going to produce a third crop for me. And OH MY HELL I am actually knitting something.

Oh, and don't forget to put your name in the hat for a Pickle Visit.

That's all the randomness I'm prepared to put out there today. You're free to go.