You say it's your birthday...

...it's my birthday, too, yo.

Just one year later than my last inspiring birthday post, we have this. I'm 35 today. Whoopty-fucking-doo.

Liv is really into it. She painted a bunch of wooden letters to spell our last name for me to put in our hallway, and she made a treasure hunt of birthday surprises this morning, even giving my cutout letters as clues where to look. Damn cute.

But, I'm not planning much of anything. At this point, my plan is dinner and miniature golf with my girls, then cocktails later somewhere within stumbling distance of home. Oh, and Liv and I are going to a birthday party for one of her preschool friends (it's also my favorite of Tricia's cousins birthday and another friend wedding anniversary).

I'm just worn out. We had people over two nights in a row this week, which is rare and involved cleaning and cooking above the usual levels, which would be fine except I've been running well below usual levels as I transition into the new job.

And that has been crazy, too. Not only was I hired about three weeks later than I ideally should have been, which has me scrambling to catch up, but my lovely new boss lasted one day with me before she ended up in the emergency room with symptoms that point more clearly to lymphoma (which her sister is currently dying of) every day. She's out for at least weeks, maybe more. And she's really a nice lady, and deserves to be in your prayers, or thoughts, or chanting, or what have you.

It is the constant change of pace that is taking some getting used to. A usual work day is a couple hours of cramming in housework and Liv quality time, followed by a half-dozen hours at the theatre trying to learn everything and contact everybody at once, followed by at least another hour or two of housework when I get home.

I know, boo-fucking-hoo. I actually really do like my new job. And Liv and I and one of her preschool friends enjoyed the first perk yesterday with comps to The Green Sheep.

Just too whipped to party much. Which I suppose I should bee getting used to. I'm not getting any younger. My liver is already 73, and my lungs around 80.

Oh, and on that note, probably a good place to leave off - my gifts to myself today are a bottle of whiskey and a couple big boxes of Nicorettes. I made it six weeks before falling apart in early May, and it is time too get it done. With any luck, it'll be my liver that is over 80 and my lungs that are in their spry early-70s by this time next year.

Anyway, happy birthday to me. And Robert DeNiro and Mae West. And Liv's friend Nathan and Tricia's cousin Miranda. And happy anniversary Joe & Steph.

Enough with the summer and the cats already

There are a number of things that make me feel old. Some are pretty obvious, not particularly subtle, like when one of my students said to another (not about me directly, but still) "No, he's pretty old. I think he's like thirty." There's the grey in my beard, the lagging performance of my liver, the perplexed looks I find myself casting towards teenagers talking in public.

(And, you know what sucks? Most of my friends are older than me. My five oldest friends are between 53 and 62. Many more are in their 40s. And none of them has a lick of sympathy for me feeling old as I approach my 35th birthday.)

Here's the newest thing to make me feel old: summer. I realized this morning, as I rushed about getting Liv ready for another summer camp, that I'm already ready for summer to be over, to return to the steadier schedule of Liv in preschool.

Part of it is the new job, which will work well around the preschool schedule but has me scrambling for childcare options right now. But it is more than that. I'm tired of having to schedule so much of Livvie's time (because if she doesn't get playtime with other kids, she becomes quickly intolerable). I'm tired of the heat, and how much more difficult it makes the chores during the day in our sweltering apartment, and how much less energy I have in the evening while Liv is still hard-charging.

I'm tired of summer. Who'da thunk it?

On a completely unrelated note, have you ever noticed that living with cats is a lot like living with slacker teenagers (which, if you asked my step-father, is redundant, though my step-father probably didn't know what that word means)? I mean, seriously, you're busting your ass all morning and suddenly around noon they appear, blinking, squinting and smacking their lips, looking for food. And if you ask them to do anything? I'd almost prefer the teenager eyeroll to the feline long, slow blink while turning the head away, keeping the eyes shut in the calm cat way that says "behind these eyes you no longer exist, and they won't open until you're gone."

I only really dislike teenage boys. But I'm starting to hate all cats.

Goodbye, Unemployment!

Hello, um, employment.

After months of searching with barely even nibbles, I was offered the PR manager job at Seattle Children's Theatre this morning, and plan to accept officially tomorrow.

Should be a perfect gig. I love that theatre, it's part-time and will work well around Liv's schedule, and won't make me give up other pursuits such as writing and regular whiskey consumption.

I'm pretty damned excited.

Wow. A job. Just like a real grown-up.