My Next 30 Years

Hey, guess what? I turned 30 on Tuesday! I know, I didn't make a huge deal about it. No big "Birthday" post this year. It got me to thinking about my friends who make huge deals about their birthdays. You know the types, they begin discussing it in detail for several weeks leading up to the birthday, that way nobody can have an excuse for forgetting. They will often declare that their birthday isn't simply one day, that they celebrate a birthweek or even a birthmonth. For these friends, a sheet cake and a card are never sufficient. At the minimum, there is a party, but ideally there would be an entire vacation.

I have never been one of these people, and this is partly because of when my birthday occurs. Being born in a month like October, I cannot plunge a flag into the calendar and call the entire month mine. I can't change the name to "Samtober". It's not mine to take. October belongs to Autumn leaves, and football season, and Pumpkin Spice lattes, and Halloween, and Oktoberfest, and pumpkin patches and Columbus Day. If all of my family and friends can manage to stop whatever they're busy doing to call me/text me/Facebook me within the 24-hours of my actual birthday, I consider it a Happy Birthday. There is no big 30th bash for me. My birthday is on a Tuesday. My husband left for a week-long business trip that happens every year at this time. And I have a toddler who is with me constantly. (No, I still haven't hired a babysitter. I have control issues.)

Ok, so everybody makes a big deal about turning 30. It's a milestone birthday, and milestone birthdays are a time for self-reflection and goal setting. Well, let me clarify: milestone birthdays can be for self-reflection and goal setting, but I'd say that 30 is probably the first milestone birthday for this. The previous milestone birthdays are associated with other things:

1: cake
13: insert chosen "teenage" privileges here (makeup, phones, whatever)
16: driving
18: voting and legal adulthood
21: drinking

And...then you're 30. Turning 30 means joining a new club, a new demographic, taking on a new identity. You're a "thirtysomething". It also means that your membership in the twentysomething club is abruptly revoked, and that a major part of your identity--the age group to which you belong--is gone. Think about it, advertisers trying to win my business will market to me differently now. True story.

How does it feel to turn 30? Well, imagine you've never been to...Italy. You've heard about it. You've studied it in school. You've seen photos and movies set in Italy. Your friends have been there. You have an idea of what it would be like to visit, and you've thought about it. You've just never experienced Italy. So, one day, you fly to Italy. You step off the plane, take a look around, and--much to your surprise--discover that Italy looks a lot like Austin, Texas. You've been to Austin, and you love it. Italy is remarkably similar. It isn't mysterious or unknown. It's a lot more familiar than you expected. Now, this is just an analogy of course. I really haven't been to Italy and I'm not trying to say that it in any way resembles Austin. But, what I am attempting to illustrate, however poorly, is that turning 30 is like a long-awaited voyage to a far away land that feels surprisingly comfortable. Unlike, say, a trip to the moon, which is how some people act when talking about a looming milestone birthday. 

Of course, there are other issues to face when turning 30, because this is the first milestone birthday where people begin to think about things like aging and mortality, and let's be serious--that can be sort of a bummer. I have a friend who turned 50 a few years ago. He's a darling man. Imagine if Rock Hudson had collagen lip injections...

He explained to me that milestone birthdays in and of themselves typically aren't a reason to get the blues. It's when you reach a milestone birthday while at the same time feeling unhappy or dissatisfied with your station in life that a person gets a case of the sads. If, for instance, you are in a co-dependent relationship with an emotionally unavailable commitment-phobe, or that temp position you took as a receptionist right out of college has turned into your job for the past five years, or you're living in your parents' basement, a milestone birthday can shake you to the core. It can send you down a shame spiral, or it can be a catalyst to make you stop being complacent and start a fresh new chapter. Maybe take that trip you planned to take "someday" or take a risk you've been putting off out of fear. 

So, I've made it to 30. I have a happy family and I enjoy my life, but now what? What does "thirtysomething Samantha" want to do? I've got a few ideas:

1. I want to be a jogger. Why? Because honest-to-goodness "joggers" are physically fit pretty much 100% of the time, and jogging is free. Seems like a logical decision to maintain my overall wellness. Full disclosure: I have never run voluntarily unless I was earning college credit. Seriously, I took a class in college called "Jogging". I made an "A". For the Final, I think I ran a 15-minute mile or something equally ridiculous. To help me ease into running I am attempting the Couch-to-5k program. So far, I have run exactly once. Stay tuned.

2. I want to participate in something that isn't all about me. Perhaps something in my future neighborhood, some sort of charity work. I didn't even want to talk about it here, because I don't want to sound like some sort of do-gooder announcing "Look how charitable I am. Aren't I a great person?", but it's something I'm thinking about. I haven't really thought this through completely, but I figure there is more to life than online shopping and Pinterest and attempting to jog, so I'm gonna check it out and get back to you. Also, it would be nice to meet other grown-ups. At this point I spend most of my days jibber-jabbering with Robinson in some made up language that only he can understand. I may be losing my grip on reality.

3. I am decorating my new house in neutral colors. I know, shocking. The kaleidoscope color scheme that appeared in my current home will not be repeated. It's time to live in a grown-up house, and my grown-up house should have grown-up things, such as...

4. A wine refrigerator. I think my new house should have a wine refrigerator, and other accoutrements that say, "I'm a sophisticated, grown-up lady". I don't know why the wine fridge speaks to me on this level. I think it says, "I am an adult, so I drink wine, and I am successful, so I have enough money to purchase a wine fridge along with several bottles of wine at one time to necessitate a wine fridge, and I'm sophisticated enough to care about serving my wine at the proper temperature".  I've given this some thought. Help me out, what other items or possessions make up the trappings of sophisticated adulthood?

5. I want to be the friend who remembers birthdays early enough to send out a birthday card. In the actual mail. For some reason, that sort of thoughtful attention to detail says "I'm a grown-up" What other habits or behaviors should I adopt now that I'm the big 3-0?

I Saw the Sign, and it Says "You're Old" | I'm a Grown-Up Now

I thought The Hangover Part II was great!

So, the highly anticipated sequel to The Hangover was released Memorial Day weekend, and I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard! The general consensus among viewers was "Yeah, it was pretty good, but it was basically a remake of the original movie." Uh, you say that like it's a bad thing. What did we expect? We don't want to see the characters grow into deeper human beings. Please. We just want to see these guys getting into hijinks that we would otherwise never experience. I thought it was hilarious. This was the movie equivalent of the turkey sandwich you enjoy on the day after Thanksgiving that is made from the leftover turkey. No, it's not terribly imaginative, but it is delicious. Know what I'm sayin'? Besides, this was the first movie I had seen in 18 months, and it was the first time my husband and I had gone anywhere together without our baby since the Super Bowl (translation to girls: it was the first time we had gone out since the first weekend in February). And they served beer in the movie theater. Seriously, the projectionist could have replaced The Hangover Part II with Glitter*, and I still would have Tweeted** later; "OMG, having such a blast at the movies today! LOL!"

*When trying to create this scenario to illustrate that I would have thoroughly enjoyed myself no matter the movie, I considered a few notoriously horrible films as examples. I realized that I have to choose a movie title that is recognizable to the general public, and that is universally considered awful, even by people who haven't seen it. I considered Gigli, Smokey and the Bandit II, and Throw Mama from the Train. When you think of a movie that is so bad that it makes you want to stab yourself in the eye with a fork, what comes to mind?

**I don't Tweet, but sometimes say that I do to sound cool. Is it working?

My vision is failing.

I've been getting by without glasses, but began considering it recently after I was unable to distinguish between "EAST" and "WEST" on a road sign and took the wrong Interstate entrance ramp. Then there was my recent case of...mistaken identity. I was taking Robinson for a stroll, which sounds nice, but it was hotter than Africa outside, and by the time I was so sticky and miserable that I just wanted to collapse, I had power strolled well into the next neighborhood, a good half-mile from home. As I'm debating whether to turn back, or continue burning calories, (spoiler alert: I chose to burn calories) I notice a chicken crossing the road. Intrigued and amused, I take out my camera phone to snap a picture. I'll upload it to my blog with the obvious caption "Why?" Get it? It's funny in an ironic sort of way. Ha. Ha. So, just as I'm about to snap a photo, a car drives past, prompting the chicken to take flight. I know that chickens can sort-of fly, but they don't have the kind of wing span I'm seeing here. Oh no. That is so not a cute chicken I've been scoping out. I've been staring at a vulture feasting on fresh roadkill. Icky! I'm horrified. It's like The Crying Game: Poultry Edition. Vultures are just creepy freaking birds. Proof that vultures are vile: I've never heard anybody say "Oh, I love vultures!" I've never seen vulture stuffed animals, or a vulture charm bracelet, or flannel pajamas with little vultures all over them.

Recounting the story to Steve later that day, he laughed at me and said "I think that was a buzzard." My reply: "Are they different?" Apparently. I Googled it. They are two different species, but I still think I saw a vulture. [Shiver] And if you're thinking I'm a dumb-dumb for believing I had a chicken in my neighborhood in the first place, you should know that last month I totes saw two legit ducks hanging out on my street. And there is not a body of water near my house. Unless you count the neighborhood swimming pool.

The Edge of Seventeen

So, I'm a little late reporting this, but I watched the most recent season of American Idol with mild interest. The final two Idol hopefuls were high schoolers, and throughout the season I kept remarking that Lauren Alaina was "such a darlin' little girl", and that Scotty McCreery was "such a nice young man". I think it's a sign of my quite grown-up age when I stop viewing teenagers as my contemporaries and begin viewing them as kids. I mean, I'm only twelve years older than Lauren and Scotty, but I found myself having warm, maternal feelings towards them, as opposed to feeling inclined to buy them beer. You know who doesn't share this sentiment? Judge Jennifer Lopez. There was one point, late in the competition, where during one of Scotty's performances, he interacts with the judges, and I think there was something in the lyrics about giving a kiss, and he is playful with Jennifer. You know, it's all part of the act. Afterwards, during the judges critiques, host Ryan Seacrest teases Jennifer about letting Scotty give her a kiss, and rather than play along, she scrunches up her face and says something like "I'm a married woman!" like she's horrified by the idea. She's about 41 years old. I'm 29 years old, and I'm bouncing around my living room with my baby on my hip, trying to keep him awake and happy until his father gets home, and I'm all, "What?! You're 'a married woman'? How about you're old enough to be his mother?!" I'd let Scotty kiss me. I'd let him knock me a little peck on the cheek like he's my nephew or something. She is more than twice his age. Just because her creepy Svengali husband is watching doesn't mean she has to act horrified about somebody else kissing her. News flash, J. Lo, not everyone is trying to get with you! 

P.S. I am from the previous generation, where I was actually in college when the first American Idol, Kelly Clarkson, was crowned, and rumors swarmed for months about whether she was romancing runner-up Justin Guarini. Maybe I am not reading the right teeny-bopper magazines, but how did Lauren and Scotty avoid such rumors? They are super cute.

I am my own plumber
My bathroom sink has not been draining properly. I did not ask my husband to look at it. I did not call a plumber. No, I looked it up on the Internet and I fixed it my damn self, thank you very much. Twenty-something Samantha would never. Yes, I believe this to be a sign of the times. I am slowly transitioning into thirtysomething Samantha. She gets shit done.

Mom: Are you on amphetemines? Because this is just not something you would do.

No, Mom, I'm not taking speed, I'm taking initiative!

Building a Mystery: My New Obsession with Ancestry.com

I have fallen into the rabbit hole that is Ancestry.com. What I have uncovered in just a few days has been illuminating. Most ancestry research findings wouldn't interest anybody outside of that family, but I'll share with you some general, interesting discoveries. It has to be more interesting than the post I wrote about baby bibs. I'll need to separate it into a few posts, and this post explains my motivation for doing this in the first place. If the mention of geneology is making you doze off on your keyboard, at least skip ahead and read Reason 3.

I broke down and signed up for three reasons:

1. The damn commercials got to me. You know the ones, they start out looking like eHarmony ads, but instead of meeting a real person who found their soulmate online, we meet people who discovered extraordinary facts about their ancestors. I wonder what my family tree will reveal? Whatever it is, it has to be more interesting than whatever Khloe and Lamar are doing.

2. While you're drinking appletinis at the club on Friday night (or whatever it is you hip, single people do) I'm sitting on my couch watching TV. Who Do You Think You Are?, the show where famous people unlock family secrets, has captivated me. It's amazing what you can learn about family members who have been dead a hundred years. Sometimes I sip on a glass of chardonnay while I watch it. It is the weekend, afterall!

3. My son. When I evolved from daughter to mother, my perception of previous generations also evolved. People I once viewed only as parents or grandparents now appear as more dynamic figures with complex histories. I suspected all along that the people I know as Mom, Dad, Nannie and Bobby had lives and stories that stretched beyond parenthood. I've seen the photos of the leggy blonde in hot pants (Mom). I've read the yearbook inscriptions of a precocious teenager (Nannie). I've seen the tattoos (Bobbie). I guess in my new role as mother, I have a new awareness that I don't know the whole story. 

Becoming a parent in and of itself isn't the only factor driving my curiosity. I named my son Robinson Reid after my maternal grandfather who died when I was ten, who I've always called Bobby. This shared name has caused me to think of my grandfather a lot. That entire limb of my family tree is nothing but ghosts whose names I don't know. I didn't ask many questions as a little girl, but I knew a few facts:

1. Bobby was raised in Ohio, and represents the only segment of my family that isn't southern.
2. Bobby lost his father before he reached adulthood. His mother died from childbirth--his birth. His brother died when my mom was a kid.
3. Bobby lived in military boarding school from the age of seven.

Perhaps understandably, I didn't push the issue. In the absence of information, I drew my own conclusions. Whether accurate or not, I always felt sadness over what must have been a lonely childhood for Bobby. I'm sure a shrink would want to explore the symbolism surrounding my decision to name my son after a motherless child.

My Robinson's birth ushered in a new generation, which forced me to acknowledge my previous generations in a more meaningful way. I know virtually nothing about a major part of my heritage. Realizing that many of the answers are at my fingertips has proven too tempting, so I'm just diving into it.

Money for Nothing and the Chicks Aren't Free | I'm a Grown-Up Now

I was watching Kathie Lee and Hoda and drinking a cup of coffee when they began talking about a new dating site called What's Your Price. They explained it like this: if you join this dating site, you are either the "attractive" one or the "generous" one. The generous members peruse the site, viewing profiles of the attractive members, and when they see somebody they like, they make a monetary offer for the date. The attractive member, in turn, names her price as well. This monetary offer is in addition to the generous person paying for the actual date. Cash only. 50% at the beginning of the date, 50% at the completion of the date is the recommended protocol according to the site. If this sounds a lot like an escort service, it says that it isn't because there is no mention of hanky panky or even a disclaimer assuring that this site isn't about sexual favors exchanged for money. So there you go.

I'm sad to say I actually know women who already do this sort of thing. They prowl Match.com for older men with money. They go to dinner with them, exchange playful text messages, and then later, the women call these men from the hair salon and say in baby talk, "Daddy, I need hair extensions!" and the next thing they know, the man is giving his credit card number to the salon receptionist and paying for $500 hair extensions for this twenty-something girl who may or may not go out with him again. Some women seriously supplement their income this way.

After explaining the premise of the dating site, I continued to listen to Kathie Lee and Hoda discuss the topic as I walked into the kitchen to unload the dishwasher. They were hypothetically discussing what their price would be for a first date. I also considered my own price. The very first thought that popped into my head: do I have to pay taxes on this? Because that would affect my price considerably. I'm a grown-up. I have to think about these things.

And, in case you were wondering, I decided that in an alternate universe, where I'm single, and I think this sort of thing is a good idea, my ballpark price (being the attractive person, of course) would be $500, payable in either cash or Outback Steakhouse gift certificates. What? I like steak.

What's your price?

Did I Paint My Nails for This? | I'm a Grown-Up Now

I can remember a time, in the not-so-distant past, when I thought nothing of spontaneously inviting a pal over to my house to drink wine and watch The Bachelor. Impromptu happy hours at the end of the work day were a regular occurance. I could meet a friend for a Saturday lunch at the drop of a hat. Those days are over.

Now that my days are spent with my little boy, I require a bit more structure in my schedule. Ok, a lot more structure. If I want to see my friends, we have to get out our planners and schedule our get-together weeks, even a month in advance. We arrange for childcare, put on our lipstick, and dust off our favorite high heels. And now that it's an event, and it's a rare event, it has a name: Girls' Night Out.

Amy and I have been longing for a Girls' Night Out. It's been nearly two months since we last spent time together. We've had the date circled on our calendars, we've been counting down the days, and sending text messages to each other: "T-19 days until Girls' Night! Woo Hoo!"

We're getting decked out in our cutest outfits, and leaving our husbands and babies behind--so that we can sit on a patio somewhere and talk about our husbands and babies--while drinking an ice-cold Coors Light.

Because Girls' Night Out is an organized event, there is protocol that should not be ignored. It has come to my attention that some people are unaware of Girls' Night Out protocol, and so I am here to shed some light on this neglected topic. You're welcome.

Now, I use "Girls' Night Out" as a broad, general term. It doesn't have to be at night, and it doesn't have to be out. It could be Sunday Brunch, it could be Bunco night or a book club meeting at your home. Girls' Night Out's only requirement is that it is a gathering of two or more female friends for the purpose of recharging one's batteries and renewing the bonds of female friendship. This is important. It helps us to retain a sense of self and it makes us better wives, mothers, bosses, employees...whatever.

Girls' Night Out is the perfect place to talk about your new boyfriend. It is not the perfect place to bring your new boyfriend. Do you see the distinction here? I have a husband. I like my husband. If I'm going to spend the evening with a man, I would prefer it be him. I don't want to hang out with your dude. Even if you have declared he is "The One."

"Hey, Samantha. Stop being such a bitch."

Fair enough. But if I only get one night out in six weeks, don't I have the right to choose with whom I spend that time? Sure, my friend thinks this guy is "The One", but she thought her last boyfriend was "The One". She called him The One as they waxed each other's eyebrows. She called him The One as they whispered baby-talk in each other's ears while gently caressing each other's face and hair and calling each other "Babe" . She called him The One as they made out at the dinner table in the middle of a crowded restaurant in front of my husband and brother. She called him The One as they disappeared to the bathroom for 25 minutes without explanation and missed dinner entirely. Old Boy was totally The One. He was The One until they were separated by an ocean. And later by a court order.

So, yeah--call me what you will, but going forward, if I'm being invited to a meet-and-greet with this friend and The One, I'm gonna RSVP "No".

So that's our lesson for this week, Grown-Ups and aspiring Grown-Ups: Girls' Night Out is a chicks-only affair. For co-ed mingling, let's plan a cookout, let's drink beer and watch the ballgame somewhere with a big-screen TV. Trivia night at the neighborhood bar is always a good time. Outside of Girls' Night Out, I rather enjoy the company of the fellas, including your new dude.

All images by Anne Taintor

I Might Be a Grown-Up If...

...I rip-off a fifteen-year-old Jeff Foxworthy joke for the title of my post. Ugh. I am so trite. As I mentioned before, I'm catching myself in little moments throughout my day that make me feel like such a grown-up adult-type lady. Here are just a few:

I referred to a female high school student as a "little girl"

Who's that old hag calling a "little girl"? Certainly not us!

I have very strong, positive feelings about both my Shark Steam Mop and my Dyson vacuum.

While discussing household cleaning products on the phone with my friend Kristen the other day (as you do), she told me she had considered purchasing a Dyson during an after-Thanksgiving sale (they normally retail at $550 and up). My exact words: "Oh, you must buy one. It will change your life." Yeah. I said that. Full disclosure: Steve gave it to me as an Easter gift two years ago, and I was thrilled.

I am suddenly very concerned with preventing limescale and rust buildup in my dishwasher.

We must stop it!

Issues of Redbook have inexplicably begun appearing in my mailbox, much to my delight.

All my life, Redbook has been a "grown-up ladies'" magazine. Not like Seventeen, which 12-year-olds begin reading because they think it's for high school girls. By sophomore year, Seventeen readers graduate to Cosmopolitan, because 15-year-olds think it's written for 21-year-olds. But guess what? You won't find a 21-year-old girl casually picking up Redbook because she thinks it speaks to the hip, sophisticated woman she wishes to embody. Redbook doesn't represent the type of woman you aspire to be. It represents the woman you inevitably become. My early twenties were spent flipping through the pages of Vogue and Harper's Bazaar, which, while beautiful and entertaining, celebrate a sort of upper-class, jet-setting fashionista lifestyle that is so far beyond my reach, it's completely unrelatable. It's all highly impractical, and filled with ads for shoes and handbags that cost more than our mortgage. Now, Redbook...these editors know their audience. Their content speaks to me. Quick, easy recipes to cook for dinner tonight? Where to find this season's tasteful, stylish trends at affordable prices? Weight loss tips? Stress reducers? Tips on how to make more quality time with your husband? Yeah, it's all in there. It's just been waiting for me to realize that yes, I'm old enough to read Redbook. It's not a glamorous life, but it's my life.

When my mom asked me what I wanted for my last birthday, I asked her to paint the interior trim of my house.

Maybe if there's time later, we can steam clean the carpets or clean out the gutters. It is my birthday after all. We should spend it doing something special.

I'm a Grown-Up Now

There have been many occassions where I thought to myself, "I'm a grown-up now." Turning 18, graduating high school, grieving the loss of my childhood pets, graduating college, landing my first big job, getting married, moving away from my hometown...

I am sure everybody has experienced that feeling of being older, grown-up, and mature. There is no set timeline for these personal realizations, and there is so singular rite of passage or milestone that makes somebody a "grown-up". I'm sure you can all think of specific people in your life who serve as proof that "grown-up" things like working in a high-pressure career or having a child do not automatically make somebody a mature adult.

In recent months, I have gone through a lot of changes that make me feel different, and more like a grown-up than any of my previous milestones or achievements. In the past twelve months, my high school graduating class celebrated our 10-year reunion, I became a mother, celebrated my fifth wedding anniversary--which is something of a milestone--and this year, I turn 30. I could consider it a "perfect storm" for creating personal growth, but I have begun to notice changes--some subtle, some very profound--that on many occassions have made me feel my age.

As I run down my mental list of future blog topics that I will write about whenever Robinson's naps allow for it, I find this grown-up metamorphosis I'm currently experiencing to be a recurring theme. This is why I am writing this post, as a sort of introduction to what I guess will be a new series. I'm even creating an "I'm a Grown-Up Now" tag on the blog to collect the posts. I think a lot of people who read my blog are probably experiencing these same things, regardless of age or your station in life.

When did you know that you had officially joined the ranks of the "grown-ups?"