Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can rely
– Blues Traveler
I turned thirty a couple of months ago.
A lot of people have a complex about that – turning thirty.
Tayler and I went to Mexico.
We spent the weekend drinking, and laying on the beach, and swimming in crystal clear water, and eating pancakes smooshed together with gobs of Nutella. Okay, so that last part – about the Nutella sandwiches – that was mostly me. On our tour of Chichen Itza, we were mesmerized by the stupid iguanas scampering through the 1,000-year-old ruins. As we swam in a beautiful Mexican cenote, I clung to Tay praying to J.H.C. that the biggest algae eaters I had ever seen wouldn’t brush against my leg. We ate real authentic Mexican street corn. Corn that Tayler bought from a stranger… off the side of a road… in a random town… in Mexico. (P.S.: I looked for a sanitation score on his cart. There wasn’t one posted.)
It was a great trip.
Not once did I feel thirty.
Actually, I still don’t feel thirty.
A Coupla-Few Reasons Why I Don’t Feel 30
- I have no idea what an acceptable amount of animals living in the home is – and here’s the real kicker – nor do I care. I think 30-year-olds do. I think they think it’s around, like, two, or something. But here I sit, with four dogs, a cat, and zero remorse. Okay, if I’m being real, the cat could go…
- I wear my clothes inside out. And not just one article of clothing, like, the entire outfit. To doctor appointments.
- Sometimes, I have to wash a load of clothes three times. Once – because they’re dirty. Twice – because I let them sit in the washing machine for five days. And thrice – because I just flug the Fling on top, the fucker congealed to a towel, and then never dissolved. #housewifewin
- Tayler bought me one of those Michael Kors phone cases with the credit card holder on the back. So now, I don’t even carry a purse anymore. #heycanyouholdthisthanks
- A few months ago, I stopped to buy a case of beer at Piggly Wiggly. The girl behind the register said, “What’s your birthday, sweetie?” (She looked younger than me.) I told her. She said, “Yeah. Can I see your ID?”
- In March, while on #springbreak2018 in Panama City Beach, FL…
- … the bouncer gave me underage “X”s. I promptly had them recheck my ID and said, “Yes, I’m nearly thirty. I’m the chaperone.”
- When my family starts giving me shit about getting pregnant, my first thought is always, “Ughhhh. But I reaaaaally love naps.”
- I take a nap every. single. day. You know how most people tell themselves on Sunday nights, “Tomorrow is Monday. Monday starts my diet.” Well, I always say, “Tomorrow is Monday. Monday starts my new adult life. No naps.” It’s always #dayone.
- Every once in a while, I love getting dressed up, going out, and just getting shit-housed drunk. Especially with my little sister and brother. Or on the lake with Auntie Crystal and my cousin Marissa.
- I drive until my car literally tells me that I have “0 miles to empty” before I frantically look for the closest gas station. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got to collect change and old french fries from the floorboard to fill up my tank.
- I have the complexion of a 14-year-old.
- I over-spend.
But every now and again, I get a sudden jolt of reality.
I am reminded that I am every bit of these 30 years. I am reminded that time is passing – it’s a passin’ quickly. And I am just another notch on ol’ Father Time’s proverbial belt.
30 Ways Being 30 Has Kicked Me In The Vagina
- I have to pay for bullshit.
- Our fridge started sounding like a helicopter a while back. A repair man came out to fix it. I had to pay him. Lame. Well, when it started happening again, totally didn’t argue when Tayler said he was “going to fix it.” I just went to bed. Fuck it, I eat canned ravioli most of the time anyway. I can’t afford to call a guy every time this bastard starts making a noise.
- Doctors visits.
- A $241 electricity bill?! We currently have a – uhh – situation going on with our floors (more on this later). No less than half a dozen people have been to our home looking for a water leak over the last two weeks. A water leak that doesn’t exist, might I add. (I know. I do all of our bills every month. If anyone has a water leak with a $23 water bill then please share with the class where you live. But umm, us? We ain’t one of ’em. Just regular ol’ run of the mill $23 water bill havers here. Sewage on the side.) The other day when I went to pay our electricity though? I exclaimed, “Someone needs to get their ass out here to look at this friggin’ electricity! You wanna talk about a leak?! That’s what’s bleedin’ us dry!” And then Tay whined about how I keep the thermostat at 67 degrees and all the fans on high. You cold? Cover up. Bye. #hotflashes
- Our dishwasher is a piece of trash. But, instead of impulse-buying a new dishwasher (my typical solution to any problem), Tayler and I talked through it. Currently, we have a sink full of dishes. Thanks a lot, Frigidaire. (UPDATE: Since the first draft of this post. I have, in fact, impulse purchased a dishwasher.)
- Speaking of paying for things. All those animals we’ve been collecting – well, those fuckers cost an arm and a gotdaymn leg. Heartworm this and seventeen-hundred night-nights that. Last year, Styx wouldn’t stop puking up everything he ate – I spent two grand just for those assholes at the emergency vet to keep him for two nights, give him fluids, and tell me exploratory surgery was my next option. Two thousand dollars and all my dog got was a spa day?! Fuck that! I put him on a strict gluten-free diet and he’s not barfed since. And just like that, I’m a small animal vet. Your baby got issues? Bring him over. Fulton Family Practice open for business, honey. #celiacmom
- I’m up to five medications per day. Yes, I am single-handedly keeping CVS in business. Instead of one of those MTWTFSS things, I need a gallon-size Ziploc like my Mimmie carts around. Or a carry-on bag. Whichevs. I’ve had a handful of people ask me if I’ve thought about weaning myself off some of the medication I take. No. and. Yes. (More on this later too.)
- There are grey hairs in my head.
- Mace constantly feels the need to remind me how ridiculous I dance, or how outdated the trap-rap I listen to is, or why my make-up regimen is wrong. Every time she walks into my closet she rolls her eyes and moans, “Ohmigah. You. are. so goth.”
- We – my sister and I – argue a lot about music. I have told her numerous times that “there aren’t any true icons coming out of her musical generation.” No Mariah or Whitneys. No Nirvanas or Spice Girls. No Pac or Biggies. She tried to give me Taylor Swift and Beyoncé. Uhh, first of all, Beyoncé is ours too. Sit down, honey. You got CardiB, Lil’ John Boat, and their Amigos.
Tayler hasWe have plants. And I show them to people.
- Make-up gets stuck in the creases under my eyes. Did it do that before? Is it the brand of make-up I use now? Better not be. That shit’s, like, fifty bucks! Who knows? Regardless, I blame Thirty. That bitch.
- I saw where someone posted to Facebook recently that they were leaving the house without any make-up on… for the first time… ever. Dude. I am so. far. past. that. I go places without a bra on. I go places wearing shit I’ve been sleeping in for two days. Y’all, I go places without brushing my fucking teeth first. Work from home for a while and you too will lose all sense of decency. This – my situation – is exactly how the Walmart People email chain was started. A couple of nice individuals started working from home, needed some Triple Pepperoni Pizza Rolls from the store, and it just spiraled out of control from there. Trust me. I am Walmart People. The only problem is – and, for me, this is the worst part – I shop at Target.
- I shout obscenities at anyone climbing on the trees downtown. That’s right. They’re really old trees, Kyle. So, whyn’t you hop your fat ass down from that there limb, and go take some selfies with your stupid horseface girlfriend over by that fucking brick wall. Thanks! #smilingfacesbeautifulplaces
- The people who owned our house before us had painted a square of chalkboard on one of the walls in our kitchen. Naturally, I hated it and wanted to paint over the square. Tayler, on the other hand, wanted to keep it so he could write “menus” on the wall. He’s written on the chalkboard once, maybe? I write shit on that wall all the time. It’s mostly stupid Pinterest memes, like, “In this house, we will serve tacos. – Margaritas 24:7”
- I am getting married.
- I am getting married and we chose to do it six months after we got engaged. Yeah. It was a choice. Because I’m a lunatic. Not because I’m pregnant.
- The Fiancé has me watching things other than RHO[insert city here] and murder shows. Yep, I’ve branched out. We’re on Season whatever of The Ranch and I don’t hate it. Probs because they say “fuck” a lot and Sam Elliot is a total daddy.
- My bachelorette party – super thirty. We were in bed by midnight every night. No strippers, no naked-wasted drunkenness, no skinny-dipping, no sweaty clubs – no, nothin’. And it was fucking awesome. Actually, to be honest, I wish we had squeezed in more naps.
- There were a few of my main chicks that couldn’t make the Jekyll Island bachelorette party (see #15). Mace was one of them. So, she threw a #2bachshitcrazy in Raleigh for me. You heard right, folks. I went to visit my 21-year-old sister, stayed in a college apartment for three nights, partied in a college town on back-to-school weekend… and literally got my ass handed to me. On Friday night, they had me beer-bonging Mad Dog 20/20. Needless to say, all I can tell you about the rest of that evening is: I was wearing a purple wig, there was a struggle (I have the bruises and scrapes to prove it…), and LipSense really is life-proof. For further information, I will have to defer to my asshole sister and her pusher friend, Lexie7. Saturday night went much better. I remember all the things. Though, by Thursday of the following week I still didn’t feel right. #roofiesRreal. (Oh, and P.S., there were definitely strippers at this bachelorette party…)
- Tayler slipped a few regulars from work a save the date for our wedding celebration. He came home one night and told me they had asked where we were registered. I replied, “Dyson.”
- I stopped taking birth control. Again, by choice. Not because I don’t have health insurance and can’t afford it. (More on this later. Have I mentioned that the Mirena IUD is my arch-nemesis?)
- Sometimes, Tayler and I drive around the neighborhood and talk shit about everyone else’s yard.
- I want everything to be simple. My home, plans, outfits, hair, make-up, etc. If it’s going to be a pain in the ass, I’ll pass.
- A few weeks back, Tayler found me wrapped in a towel and crying on the toilet. “Babe, are you crying? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked. Through my tears I said, “I was listening to my raps in the shower. The guy was saying he had two phones. You know, one for his hoes and one for his homies. Well, Tyler used to have two phones. One for me and one for his real girlfriend. So, I started thinking how screwed up my life would have been if I had married him. But now, I’m marrying you instead. And our life is so good – so much better than my life was beforrrreeee.” He hugged me as I continued to cry, “Aww baby, that is so sweet. We do have a great life. Weird that you would cry over a Kevin Gates song. But sometimes that happens, I guess.” Turns out, I do have a heart. However, it only reveals itself for black men with face tattoos.
- If I am not in the home goods section at T.J. Maxx, I’m in the baby section. Huntin’ up cute stuffs for the nieces and nephews.
- So many of my conversations are about vaginas these days. Like, how much they fucking suck. I live in a house full of boys and I am sure to tell them every. single. day. how lucky they are to have a penis. Because these poorly designed, perpetually damp, smelly, bleeding, leaky, itchy, finicky bitches are always calling out sick. Never once have I heard a man say, “Ughhh, I had strep throat last week, and now, I’ve got a fucking yeast infection in my dick.” I bet not a one of ’em have said, “So, last night, I hooked up with this really hot chick. But I’ll be dammed if I didn’t fall asleep right after, forgot to pee, and woke up with a fucking UTI.” Or I don’t know, how’s about this one, “Got an IUD put in on June 8, 2017. Bled for eight straight months.” Suddenly, I’m allergic to certain kinds of tampons? Awesome. Having a vagina is awesome. At thirty, I’m done. I am done hiding her antics from the world. Hey everyone! I’ve got a raging bitch in my panties and she is not. having. it. We talk about guys and their “two heads”. Well, women are comprised of two completely different beings also. There’s me and then there’s my pussy. Ohhh. Ouch! How could I say such a thing? Humm. Well, for starters, when I bleed for a week+ I die…
- My social media activity has sorta killed off. And my grandmothers are kinda upset about it? Which I find absolutely hilarious because they always gave me shit about what I posted in the first place!
- I drink coffee like fiend. Don’t get me wrong, it has more creamer than a milking cow in it, but hot damn I love that stuff!
- I’ve acquired a huge taste for red wine. This one is so weird for me, as I’ve never been a wine drinker. However, Tayler is practically a sommelier, so I didn’t have much of a choice. When I took him to Uncork (a wine bar downtown) last week, I even impressed myself with how much I knew. I have a great teacher. 😉
- Ugh. This one makes me wanna cry… I allllllways hunt for – wedges. Don’t get me wrong, if they tug on my heartstrings, I’m gonna go home with ’em. But I am on the look out for wedges first and foremost these days. Hell, honestly, most of the time I just wear sandals out because I just don’t give a fuck anymore. My “shoe closet” in this home is huge rubbermaid tubs pushed into the bottom of one of our spare bedroom closets. My most prized possessions aren’t on display, or color-coded on a shelf, or even unpacked. A tiny piece of my heart breaks every time I open those blasted closet doors.
- Another issue I’m running into – wardrobe. The few times I actually do put on real clothes, I hate them. Thirty-somethings have no where to shop. We’re in this in-between – “I’m no longer a crop-top but not yet a track suit” – stage. And well, frankly, I hate a lot of what is in style. Everything looks so Goodwill-chic. Like, I’m not going to pay for something that looks as if it’s been washed 54 times already. I purposely don’t wash my shit so it won’t look like the crap hanging on the racks in stores! And why does everything have to be floral, or flowy, or brown.
- I decorate for every season, holiday, or bank closure. If T.J. Maxx has a display table for it, so do I.
- Finally, I have accepted that I will in no way ever have “it” together. Everyone has a vision in their head of their older self. My 30-year-old self was very put together. Very organized. Clean home. Different weight. Everything just so. I still have this idea bouncing around in my mind. But frankly, I’m fucking lazy. I am lazy and I live with someone who doesn’t share a lot of this same vision. We have five animals. Eventually, we hope to have kids. Thirty-year-old me realizes there are more important things than keeping everything picture perfect. So, I skip doing laundry and go to an Italian Festival with family instead. I let the dogs cuddle with me on the couch because we can always clean the furniture later. I only say something about the mess on Tay’s side of the bed once a week, as opposed to once a day. 🙂
Life has been interesting lately. I am hoping to get back into writing again. If not just to update the masses, at the very least have witnesses to the chaos going on at our home.