My Birthday Party: The Year of Excuses

Here is a random sampling of the various excuses I heard at my birthday party:

#1) I have e coli.

#2) I'm sorry I'm late, I just got laid. (Rub it in, why don't you?)

#3) We're going to see an Iron Maiden tribute band called The Iron Madiens.

#4) I'm sorry you were NEVER the werewolf, but at least I didn't kill you!

#5) Sorry I didn't make it, I forgot.

Evs. (That's Australian for WHATEVER!) Here are the pictures to prove that we had fun in spite of the excuses.

PS: My button says: "Zombies. The other dead meat." Heather got it for me. Love it!

We roasted marshmallows. How fun is THAT?

It's My Birthday!!!!!

Oh, how do love thee, my sweet, sweet birthday? Let me count the ways:

1) I get to do whatever I want, and if someone gives me crap, I scream, "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!"

2) I get the day off from work.

3) It's all about ME! (I tried to get God to prevent other people from being born on my birthday. It didn't work.)

4) I get presents.

5) I don't even care if I am a year older (today) because it is my birthday. (Tomorrow we will discuss how I DO care about getting older.)

Happy Easter, Day of My Birth, 31 Years Ago!

I am one of the lucky people who were born on a rotating holiday. (What do we call those holidays that are never on the same day every year? You know, the ones that throw us off and make the OCD people of the world freak out?)

Those poor kids born on Christmas. Or The 4th of July. No, holidays like Easter, which happens to be the holiday I was born on, are totally excellent. Holidays like Thanksgiving. Or being born on the 13th. Maybe, just maybe, your birthday will fall on that holiday once again! We are the lucky of the lucky! Sometimes we get to share our birthday with a cool holiday (and if we are lucky an extra day off)!

I always wondered if Mom lied to me about being born on Easter. I mean, in the Catholic church, Easter is IT. Easter is more important that Christmas and The Ascension combined. I never wanted to know if Mom lied about it.

But she didn't lie. I Googled it. I was born on Easter, but my birthday has never been on Easter since. Every year, I wait patiently for the calendar to come out and show me if my birthday is on Easter.

My birthday won't be on Easter again until 2039. I'll be 62.

I can't wait for my 62nd birthday. I am going to party like a rock star.

If I make it that far.

Happy Birthday to Me

OK, so as everyone knows, my birthday is kind of a big deal. I start talking about it, oh I don't know... This is January, so about 3 1/2 months in advance. But this is super exciting!

When I came home from scrapbooking tonight, Heather told me that she saw Ani DiFranco on the sign at Lawlor Events Center. I decided to look her up and see when she is coming to town. ON MY BIRTHDAY! Yep!

So, I ran through the list:

1) I saw Tori Amos on my birthday in San Jose with Tracy.

2) I saw U2 on my birthday in San Jose with Heather.

3) And now I get to see Ani on my birthday here in Reno!

Being Thirty is ... Strange

I swear, I think I have been to more bars in the last month than I did during my entire undergrad career.

Then again, we only went to the same two bars in town, and now I DO live in Reno, where there isn't anything else to do but drink.

(*see previous post about 30th birthday party and note the copious amounts of alcohol.)

Two weeks later:

My scrapbooking friends and I had what we call "Spring Fling." We get together and scrapbook, eat, and drink, and hopefully in that order. Not so this year. On Saturday, we started drinking at about 1:30 pm (champagne, who can resist? Not I!). I eventually had to take a nap and regenerate because I was going to see Randy's band play at 1:00 am. (One in the morning?, you ask. You must be mad, you declare. You are right on both counts. What AM I thinking? Oh! that he's cute.)

Seriously, dear readers, what possessed me to think that my old and decrepit body could handle this kind of partying? This is the type of thing I did when I was 20. Certainly not 30!!

The next day, it literally took me 1 1/2 hours to load up my car because I was moving so slowly. I only got 5 pages done! I usually get at least 20 done. Five is seriously pathetic.

The moral of the story: do not think that 30 does not affect your body. It most certainly does. And champagne at 1:30 in the afternoon might NOT be such a good idea. But then again, if the other ladies can do it, then so can I! I've never been one to say no to a drink. Or food. One or the other will eventually kill me.

I Got Distracted

At my party, Tracy asked me, "How do you REALLY feel about turning thirty? Tell me the truth!" And I stopped to think, and I said, "Well, if Randy wasn't around, it would be totally depressing, but ..."

And it is true, although certainly pathetic. Why do I always do that? But if I were alone on my 30th birthday, I most certainly would have been feeling sorry for myself: "Oh, I can't believe I'm 30 and alone; I'm the only one alone on her 30th birthday, everyone else has someone, blah blah blah." I know myself pretty well, don't I? You can totally hear me saying that, huh?

But I didn't have to worry about that this year. And there were no dog-fights. Thank goodness!

But in the words of the great Ani herself, "I got distracted." I haven't cleaned my bathroom in three weeks! (As my past roommates know, this is most certainly a sign that Micaela isn't right in the head at the moment. If I'm not cleaning, something is certainly wrong.) I just balanced my checkbook! I haven't posted on the blog. I barely check my email. I haven't had time to realize that I am 30. Years young of course.

So, if some of you have been wondering where the hell I've been, I've been distracted to no possible end. Wasting time away. Eventually I'll actually have some stories to write about and I will post them on the blog.

But for now, just be content in the thought that Micaela is happy and distracted enough not to realize being 30 totally sucks.

My 30th Birthday Party

Ok, here are some pictures from my birthday party last night. I am still recovering, as you can well imagine.








Lighting the many candles.

I really don't remember what was so funny.

The smoke from the candles almost started a house fire.

Who is that cute couple?

You can't turn 30 without champagne.

Now you can tell I am drunk.

So, all in all, we had a great time. My birthdays are always good times, and I hope to kep having them as good as this one!

My Last Day as a Twentysomething; or The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Ah, Twenties, it is a bittersweet parting between us. It's been real, and it's been fun, but I am not sure it's been real fun.

There was drinking liters of wine (liters and liters of wine). There were break-ups (none of which were pretty, I must admit). There were scads of friends (thanks for putting up with me!). There were trips and travels, and trials and tribulations. OK, no trials, thank God, but tribulations in mass quantities for certain. And scores of pictures taken, most of which decorate my scrapbooks for me to peruse later. (Hence, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.)

Remember the road trip to go see The H.O.R.D.E. Fest? Remember the Spring Break trips to San Diego? ("Pull over. Pull OVER!" And then Becky Young barfing all over her own car. And poor Etta driving it around town the next day.) Emily reminded me of Jack peeing in her hallway (what IS it with men and peeing?) Remember the weekend where we partied for five days straight in Swanny's dorm room?

Oh, God, the cabin. My favorite place of my Twenties. The cabin. May you live forever in my memory, dear, sweet cabin, full of beer and wine. And may one of us always remember how I screamed and screamed when the beam fell onto my bed and everyone thought I had jumped, and Israel ran outside, au naturel. And then we all shrugged it off, and went inside to make coffee and we drank while admiring the sunrise over the Sawtooths. And horseshoes at the cabin.

Alas, I am off to another decade. And I hope with the knowledge I gained from my first two decades, I can actually not do too much damage to my soft psyche and actually accomplish a thing or two. Or three. One being learning how to drink that many liters of wine without being sicker than a dog the next day.

And so I say goodbye to Twentysomething and say HELLO! to Thritysomething. May my days always be bright and my glass of wine always half full.

On Being Thirty, Post #2

I do realize, though, that I am getting to that age where people have stopped asking how old I am.

Remember when you were younger and everybody asked you how old you were? "How old are you, Micaela?" "Tell Mommy how old you are." Etc, etc, ad nauseam, ad nauseam.

Then, remember, when you were twelve, and your next birthday was coming up? And then you could tell everyone, "I'm a TEENager." And then when you turned 18, and you could vote? And buy cigarettes? And then when you turned the GLORIOUS 21! you could DRINK!!? (Well, legally, anyway.)

When I turned 18, I couldn't wait to be old enough to buy beer. I didn't even like beer at the time, I just wanted to be able to buy beer. And then when I was old enough to buy beer, I realized I could buy better things, like rum and vodka. But everyone always asked how old I was. I got used to it. It was like my blankie from when I was younger. It was comfortable.

Then one day, I went to buy alcohol, and no one asked for my ID. OK, it was last weekend. The kid behind the counter took one look at me and decided that I was old enough in his mind to buy alcohol. Who is this kid to judge me and my age? I don't look 21! I look 18! Even if I am 25, I still could pass for 18. Couldn't I?

Alas, I cannot. I could maybe pass for 24, but I think that is even pushing it. Although a woman I used to work with was convinced that I was 24, but she wasn't that smart. So we can't really trust her opinion. So, instead I try to pass for 25, which is nice, because that is the age I feel like, and so when people ask my age, and I tell them 25, I don't feel like I am lying.

But seriously, when did people stop asking about my age? I know it isn't polite to ask people how old they are, especially women, but I haven't got to that age yet, have I?

A Sign of the Apocalypse

Today, as I was plucking my eyebrows, (a favorite pastime of mine, don't you know) I found a GRAY one. A GRAY EYEBROW HAIR!!! I immediately had images of my grandmother penciling in her eyebrows to make them darker. But instead of my grandma's face, it was mine! Then I started looking for the tell-tale eye wrinkles. Nope, none there, thank GOD! But a GRAY eyebrow! I seriously am beginning to wonder what the Bible said about the signs of the Apocalypse, because this has GOT to be one of them.

"And lo, behold, you will see a GRAY eyebrow upon your face, and you will know that a horseman will come with his three brothers. You will know that this is a sign. A sign of the upcoming destruction of the world, and of Jesus yet to come. After you have seen the GRAY eyebrow, you will then notice that no man will look toward you with an interested eye. He will look at you and glance away as if he has seen nothing. And then you will know that the four horsemen are soon on their way. Prepare for that time, as it is near!" - Revelations 3: 4-11

See? It's in the Bible. It must be the truth, because the Bible says so. I better go get ready. You know, drink more, start smoking again, general carousing.

On Being Thirty, Post #1

I know that I am supposed to be really bothered by the fact that I am going to be turning 30 in a month, but really, I have good days and bad days about it.

I woke up this morning, and I realized one reason why it isn't a super big deal is because I don't think of myself as 30. Hell, not even 29 or 28. My "Matrix" mind (that self-residual in your mind of what you look like, what you act like) thinks of myself as 25. Skinny. (Moderately skinny.) Funny. Fun-loving. Hot. And 25.

Now, why 25, I have no idea. My twenty-fifth year of existence wasn't particularly exciting or thrilling. I was in grad school, and English professors do a pretty good job of sucking your will to live on a fairly regular basis, so I wasn't living the high life or anything.

But when people ask me how old I am, I usually have to stop and think, "Twenty-five. No. that's not right. How old am I again? Oh, that's right, 29. Almost 30." But not because I feel like lying or that "I will be 25 from now on, until I turn 35. Then I will be 30." Nothing like that. I just don't think of myself as 30.

To me, being 30 is being a mature adult. With bills, and a husband, and kids. You know, respectable. But I am none of those things. Yes, I have bills, but I also can go do whatever I want, when I want. I can go out to the Outback and eat $35 worth of food and not feel bad and wonder if I am going to get into trouble when I get home. I can come home at 2:30 in the morning, and no one is waiting up for me, wondering where the hell I have been. I can go to the movies when I want. And to whichever movie I want to see. There are no compromises in my movie-going experience, something that a respectable, mature adult would have to contend with. I don't have to worry about anything like that. So, in my mind, no worries equates to still being in college, and still being a fun-loving single. A 25-year-old single.

(But then I have a bad day, and I realize that I am almost 30, and still single, and alone. And that, my dear reader, is a really bad day.)