More reasons why I am seriously troubled

I just finished prepping the house and food for a party we are hosting tomorrow night. Not the kegger party of my youth, but a nice refined BBQ with 30 of my closest friends. It will, probably, be crazier than a keg party because of this simple mathematical equation:

Beer + Syringed jello shots (seriously, my nurse friend is bringing these) + a 35 and older crowd = crazy party animals that don't get out of the house enough who will barf all over themselves and my dog and probably tumble to their death at the bottom of our ravine.

I can't wait.

Thankfully, I have 911 programmed into my speed dial. I may or may not call, depending on who falls over. I may in fact just leave the carnage in hopes that it will decompose and transform my shitty clay soil into soil that is worthy of Mr. Green Thumbs.

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Actual convo between my mother and I tonight:

BM: Hi Mom.

MOBM: Hi BM. Are you drunk yet?

BM: No, I'm just getting things ready for tomorrow.

MOBM: Wow, that is a first. Don't you know that it is beer thirty? How are things going?

BM: OK, but I am worried that I don't have enough food.

MOBM: Tell me what you have. And please tell me that you got me a bottle of Yager. You know I can't get down with my bad self without a few shots....

BM: I've got ten pounds of burger meat, 20 brats and 20 cheese infused sausages. I also made cole slaw and a few other sides. One L (sister) is bringing her world famous cheesy taters. A few others are bringing appetizers. You think that will be enough?

MOBM: How many people?

BM: About 30, give or take.

MOBM: Well, I don't know. Maybe you should go out and get some more meat. And make some potato salad. People like potato salad.

And so on and so forth. You get the idea.

Both of my parents, but especially my mother, are famous for making 100X more food than necessary for a party. My sister and I have inherited this trait from them. I have never done a Punnet Square to prove this, but I have enough empirical data to prove it. I am going to start a support group for this: Overfeeders Anonymous.

I have come to the conclusion (because I'd rather sit down with a beer and not worry) that if we run out of food tomorrow we will have the following choices:

1. Cannibalism. I know of at least one small child who will be attending. Everyone knows that children taste good. Like veal.

2. I will channel Jebus and have him turn my ten pounds of meat into enough to feed millions. Hopefully he will provide us with some delicious bread as well. It might be kind of awkward though, when I ask him to leave the party post-miracle. You see, he didn't RSVP. Plus I don't want to hear all night how there is no hope to save my soul from the eternal fire of hell since I frequently say his name in vain, in nasty, albeit creative ways. The guilt I got from attending 10 years of Catholic school is enough to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

3. Raid neighbor's garden.

4. Order pizza.

5. BBQ the dog. But she is old and probably not very tender.

So there you have it, I'm moving on. Even though I am still torn between option 1 and option 4.......

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Yesterday I was working in Mansfield, and then Marion, so I stopped at a farmer's market in order to get a few things for the party. I picked up 2 watermelons as I am making a delicious watermelon salad. They were the mini ones that don't have seeds. When I got home and carried them into the house, I actually held them up to my existing boobs and imagined what life would be like with huge, melon sized fun bags. I seriously wonder sometimes if I am in fact a 15 year old boy.

Wikipedia is a bitch. A young, wrinkle free bitch.

9:34pm, Monday, September 1. In a few short hours, I will go to a place that I have never gone before. It is not a place that I thought I would ever go. It isn't glamorous or worth visiting again, but it is a place that I will be stuck in for the rest of my life.

The place you ask? Middle aged purgatory.

The US Census lists middle age as 35 to 44, while Erik Erikson sees it ending a little later and defines middle adulthood as between 40 and 65. I think Erik Erikson, man with two first names, you are my new best friend.

Tomorrow I turn 35. Tragic, isn't it? Now don't you dare post, "I'm 55 and I haven't had a solid shit in 15 years, shut up you twit!" This is my blog and I'll cry if I want to. To me, 35 sounds so suburban, responsible and I guess a little boring. I am grinding my heels into the ground. I will not go without a fight!

Since I no longer am a researcher by trade, I am allowed to look to the eternal source of information, Wikipedia for facts. Here is what they say:

"Some people [5] challenge the concept that middle age is something to dread. They assert that with the right attitude and careful planning, middle age can be truly a person's best years." When I clicked on the "5" reference, I got nothing. I'm certain now that "5" must be the manufacturers of Metamucil. "5" clearly has no idea what it is talking about. This is a scam to get us middle aged folk to buy crap that we probably don't need, but buy because it will reduce the lines on our faces and allow us a few good, healthy non-roid inducing craps each day.

Wikipedia goes on to say:

"Those age-positive groups range from advocacy groups such as the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) to purely social clubs like the Red Hat Society." Um, I'm pretty sure I typed in middle aged, 35 and not, middle aged, almost dead. If say, in another 30 years I'm posting about my new cool lady friends from the Red Hat Society, please kill me.

The "Health" section spells out all that I have to look forward to:

1. "Middle-aged adults often show visible signs of aging such as loss of skin elasticity and graying of the hair." Yes and yes. You think you can scare me?

2. "Physical fitness usually wanes, with a 5-10 kg (10-20 lb) accumulation of body fat, reduction in aerobic performance and a decrease in maximal heart rate." I'm guessing that the decrease in max heart rate leads to death. I can get past the death part, but the 10-20 pounds! Of fat! Seriously, no! If I have to take up binging and purging, so help me god I will. Damn you.

3. "Female fertility declines significantly after age 30, and an advanced maternal age increases the risk of a child being born with some disorders such as Down’s Syndrome. Some conditions are also correlated with advanced paternal age. Most women go through the menopause, which ends natural fertility, in their late 40s or 50s."

Now we're talking. Finally, to the benefits. Menopause. Ahhhh. The freedom. No tampons in the purse, no need to swap your cute undies for your grotesque granny pants for fear of ruining said cute undies. No bloating, pain or bitchiness. Count me in, where do I sign?

4. The "Further Info" section list this reference: "Does Age Quash Our Spirit of Adventure?, a segment on NPR's "All Things Considered" on an aging study done by middle-age neuroscientist Robert Sapolsky." Oh NPR....I have loved you for so long. Now you are turning on me, you bastard. I guess I'll have to start listening to Sunny 95.

5. The "See also" section lists: youth, young adult, old age, aging and mid-life crisis. From now on, I am boycotting Wikipedia. You suck slimy dick balls. Old, wrinkly dick balls.

It is now clear to me that Wikipedia, like it's cousins Facebook and YouTube are plots engineered by the youth of today to drive the middle aged crowd insane. While I teeter on the brink of insanity AND death, Ms. Facebook and Mr. Napster are out on their 50 foot yahcts, drinking Cristal with P-Diddy laughing all the way to the bank. At least I hope they pour one out for their middle-aged homies.

Bitches.

Zed is dead, baby

And I know this because he died in my stomach, several times.

On Friday, we packed up the family truckster and headed to Chicago. My city. The city that I love more than Dove Chocolates and cookie batter. The city that I love even more than Dove Chocolates dipped in cookie batter. I haven't seen my niece and nephew in many months, so we paid them, and the rest of the Big Momma clan a visit.

One of the reasons I love Chicago is because of the food. So many choices, so little time. The only thing I didn't eat was my niece and nephew and not because I didn't try. They are so very cute and yummy looking. I told Mr. Big Momma that I wanted to melt them down and spread them on some delicious, crusty french bread and nom, nom, nom, nom them until I couldn't eat another bite. But, thankfully for my clan, Mr. Big Momma shoved an Italian Beef in my mouth and I quickly went on with my day.

My BIL E is the master of restaurant selection. Not that he could really pick a bad spot in Chicago, but he truly looks at it as an art form. Saturday night we went to ZED which is one of those Brazilian meat places. For the bargain price of $55 per person, you can eat as much delicious meat as you can handle. There are magic rocks on the table, that when put next to your plate, POOF, meat shows up. I thought that I must have died and gone to heaven. At least until the next morning when Zed died a gruesome death inside my tummy. I got the died part right, but heaven it wasn't. Next time I will need to show some restraint or master the art of binging and purging. Not sure yet which I will choose.