How I Became THAT Girl

I am not a pink and pretty, pampered and pedicured, foo-foo girl. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It just seems out of my reach. Except for the pink part. I make pink look fierce.

I'm just not that girl.

Nor am I a fix-a-flat, hawk-n-spit, tomboy-girl. I have enough trouble putting my old, hand-crank pencil sharpener back together, and I always forget to spit with the wind, not agin' it.

I'm not that girl, either.

That said, I'm no stranger to hiking in the woods, playing in the mud, or sweating (if need be). I would just prefer to be wearing a color-coordinated outfit and appropriate footwear while doing it.

So why was I hiking along the muddy banks of the Minnehaha Creek in downtown Minneapolis, wearing fitted, white capris, a swingy, trapeze tank top, and strappy, wedge heels?

I'm not that girl.

What can I say? Assumptions were made. Lessons were learned.

It all started with the prospect of a Girl's Weekend Out. It all started with the promise of shopping, and a fancy dinner, and a Very Special Birthday celebration for a Very Special Friend.

Let me point out that there usually is no difference between my “goin' to the mall” outfit and my “goin' to the woods” outfit -- or my “settin' on the couch” outfit, for that matter. My go-to, “goin' to” outfit usually consists of jeans or jean shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes. The stores where I usually shop end with “-Mart.” My idea of fine dining is anything I don't order from my car.

Still, we were headin' to the Big City. We were headin' to The Big Mall, yes, that one, America. And we were helping a friend celebrate a Big Birthday (the latest to join the “Who's Counting” club). I didn't want to look like I just fell off the turnip truck.

My travelin' partner-in-crime always looks effortlessly put together. And the birthday girl always looks perky and classy. I always look like I just fell off the turnip truck.

But this was a Girl's Weekend. A Girl's Weekend with four women traveling in one car with one small hatchback for luggage and shopping bags. I did NOT want to be that girl. The one with a pile of luggage and different shoes for each outfit. So I packed light. Extremely light. As in one-outfit-per day light. I brought just two pairs of shoes, chosen for fashion, not function.

Prior to this excursion, during this month alone, I have hiked muddy trails through overgrown woods, explored caves, waded through creeks, zoomed down a mountain (ok, a hill) on an alpine slide, struggled to keep up with some serious Fitbit fanatics, and participated in a mini-triathalon. There is a better than average chance that I have, at one time or another, made fun of women (and men) wearing inappropriate footwear or clothing during these activities. (Seriously, hiking in dollar store flip flops?)

And yet there I was, one martini glass shy of looking like an extra in Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie, picking my way around tree roots, trying not to slide down the steep declines and shuffling across the sandy sandbar.

I had become that girl.

My mantra became “Don't slip, don't sweat, don't swear out loud.” Because the only thing worse than being that girl, is being that whiny girl.

The good news is no ankles were turned, no shoes were ruined, no bodies needed to be hidden. No one wound up wearing an orange jumpsuit.

Although if I do wind up in an orange jumpsuit some day, I have the perfect pair of strappy wedges to wear with it.

Carpe Birthday

I wanted to make my 49th birthday special and -- boy howdy! -- was it ever! I started celebrating by preparing a bribe for Billy Joel and ended up on stage at a concert.

But first, the backstory.

I realize 50 is supposed to be the milestone year, but I figured why not celebrate everything leading up to the milestone? It’s like celebrating Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, or TGITh.

Forget carpe diem. Carpe anum!

In that spirit I began celebrating my birthday, which officially occurred Sunday, on Thursday. How else to kick off a big celebration, than by baking nearly eight dozen cupcakes and almost as many chocolate chip cookies? Those treats were the key to my brilliant plan: Operation Bribe the Students to Bribe Billy Joel.

Carpe Piano Man.

I figure Billy Joel might be able to ignore my request for an autograph, but how could he ignore a bunch of junior high and high school students writing him in support of their teacher's request? In exchange for a cupcake or a cookie, I asked students in my classes (and any random student who happened to wander by) to write a short note to Billy Joel explaining what makes me so special and why he should send me his autograph.

What I wanted was an autograph. What I got was a day as one of the most popular teachers in the school (who doesn’t love cupcakes, cookies or the person who gives them to you?), and a bunch of complimentary notes that made me feel warm and fuzzy. 

Carpe Sugar Rush.

Not everyone who took a treat wrote a letter, but that’s ok because the smiles and thanks (and puzzled looks of disbelief) they gave me were a gift, too. I had almost forgotten how much fun it is perform random acts of kindness.

Carpe Pay It Forward.

The down-side to my brilliant plan is that kids are already asking me if there's been a reply yet. Obviously I didn't think this through. Some how, some way, someone's autograph is going to have to be hanging on my wall by May.

Carpe Snail Mail.

Flash forward to Sunday and the concert.

After I managed to not embarrass The Princess at the One Direction concert this summer, she graciously invited me to a concert for my birthday: a concert she wanted to go to, but couldn't convince any of her friends to go with her (or they couldn't convince their parents to let them go, not sure which).

Carpe Cool Mom.

And that's how I wound up at a bar in Iowa City on my 49th birthday with a bunch of 21-and-youngers at a concert by hip-hop artist Huey Mack.

I'm going to give you a moment to let that soak in.

I'd like to say I was offended by the language. But let's face it, I'm the woman who gives up swearing for Lent. Every. Year. (Or as they would have said at the concert, “every mother f****ing year.”)

Carpe Potty Mouth.

I'd like to say I'm appalled by rap and hip-hop lyrics. But let's face it, as an English major and writer I admire the story-telling and that poetic ability to create rhythm with words.

Carpe Mad Writing Skills.

I'd like to say I didn't like the music. But let's face it, I was jumping up and down and waving my arms just like everyone else.

Carpe Dance Shoes.

I'd like to say I didn't get a kick out of it when Huey Mack said “We've never had a Mom in the audience before. Come on up here!” But let's face it, I did.

Carpe Are You Kidding Me?

I'd like to say I didn't chug a beer on-stage with a 22-year-old hip-hop artist. But of course I did.

Carpe Budweiser.

I'd like to say going to a concert with my daughter, laughing and dancing with her, and having her think it was cool that I was on stage with Huey Mack was probably one of the best birthday presents I've ever had.

Because it was.

Carpe Birthday.

Birthday Decree

I hearby decree, by my royal authority (granted by me), that if you are unable to sit down and eat your birthday cake with family and/or friends it does not constitute an actual birthday, and you are not allowed to add another year to your age.

I can hear the commoners cheering now. "Huzza! Huzza!" I acknowledge the the teaming masses with the royal wave.

Therefore, following my own decree, I shall remain 42 for another year.

What I had planned as a low-key birthday turned out to be more of a no-key birthday.

There was careful planning on my part. I angled to get what I wanted without inflicting pain upon those that I love. Yes, yes. I know. I am far too kind.

I wanted to do something cultural. So I took the little Prince and Princess, and her friend, (another Princess, of course) to the C.R. Museum of Art to see an exhibit of work by the illustrator of Harry Potter. The Princesses enjoyed Harry Potter. The Prince often says he plans to be an artist when he grows up. It seemed a near-perfect match.

Apparently enjoying the act of reading or creating art does not translate into enjoying an art exhibit.

I believe the highlight for the kids was jumping on the beanbag chairs. This, of course, was the worst part for me. Who puts beanbag chairs in a public place?

Lunch at Appleby's was a passable hit. The kids were freezing but the food was hot. The dessert was gone in a flash. Happily, no fingers were lost in the feeding frenzy.

To make up for the museum debacle, and because I am certifiably crazy, I took the kids to "Planet X," super arcade and fun land. And because I am super cool, (and it was my birthday we were celebrating) I took part in all the activities.

The youngsters bounced with excitement as we pulled into the parking lot. They sang my praises as I purchased the nearly full-access (Laser Tag included!) passes.

They nearly carried me on their tiny little shoulders as we toured the facility.

Then reality set in. Laser Tag is played in the dark with sometimes faulty equipment. The cries of joy turned to cries of frustration.

I recalled my fear of heights about half way up the rock climbing wall. Luckily that was only about three feet off the ground, and rappelling is much more fun than climbing.

The trampoline-basketball thingee -- the kids loved it -- would have been fun if I didn't have post-childbearing bladder. It's hard to jump and cross your legs at the same time.

Putt-putt golf and the arcade games were huge hits. Although the automatic ticket counter may have been the biggest hit of the day.

All in all, about a 7 out of 10.

The other part of my devious plan was to stay home by myself and watch movies I wanted to see. I planned to send the King and royal babes off to the football playoff game, leaving me alone, by myself. With the TV all to myself.

There were seven movies in the Iowa City Public Library's catalog I wanted to see. Not new releases. Not super popular movies. Not movies you could find on Red Box at HyVee, or even at Mr. Movies. And not, as it so happened, movies you could find at the ICPL.

All seven of them were checked out. Some with waiting lists.

What kind of weirdos live in Iowa City anyway? Hello-0, not first run movies here, people. Get a freakin' life.

I could have understood it if one or two of them were out. But all seven? What are the odds? I'm sure they are right up there with the chance of me winning the lottery.

But I recovered, settling in with my own copy of Pride and Prejudice. This is a movie best watched alone, without anyone around to ask things like "why are they talking funny?" or "why is he wearing those goofy clothes?" or "why do they spend so much time just looking at each other like that." And those are the questions the husband asks. (Just kidding, dear.)

A happy, quiet time watching 4 of 6 VHS tapes, and a thorough cleaning of the house: a solid 9 out of 10. Wine would have bumped that to 10 of 10, but the frozen chimichangas didn't set right.

On to the great cake debacle.

The Royal Book of Rules requires that, at a minimum, a birthday must be celebrated with a meal not prepared by the Birthday Person.

Unfortunately this rule does not take into consideration the obliteration of the royal family by various stomach ailments.

Mid-afternoon (with nary a dining out offer) I sought refuge in the comfort of a chocolaty, Betty Crocker Warm Delights. No sooner had I licked the spoon clean than the royal family approached bearing gifts and cake.

Oh. Hmm. That timing thing. Not so good.

Gifts were opened and enjoyed. Candles were lit and blown out, songs were sung. The cake was cut.

The little Prince didn't want any because he had a tummy ache. This was most likely brought on by unfettered eating of Halloween candy.

The King declined, also because of an upset tummy. This one of the flu variety. After a polite interval, he lay down and slept for a day and a half.

I didn't want any because I had just finished desert, and I didn't want to end up with an upset tummy.

The little Princess, however, did enjoy a large slice with extra frosting and ice cream.

Leftovers, microwave brownie, and chicken noodle soup. On any other Sunday this would have scored pretty well (it was easy, anyway). But on the birthday scale, factoring in the cake debacle, it's about a 3 for festive birthday fare.

Clearly a Sign From God. A heavenly "pass" or "do over." A "Get Out of Aging Free" card, if you will.

And now, by Royal Decree, available to anyone else with unbelievably bad birthday luck.

You're welcome.