The One Where I'm Too Old For This Shit

My brother is 8 years younger than me.

Also, he does not have a bunch of health problems.

So being a younger thirtysomething, he goes out.  Like, at night.  When other people are out, also. Apparently, it's a "thing".

I vaguely remember this type of activity from when I was younger.

He came to town for Thanksgiving, and wanted to go see a cover band that we love:  The Spazmatics.  They are an 80's cover band dressed as nerds. We have seen them live locally quite a few times, and my bro has seen them TONS of times.  It's a good show, I know all the songs, the guys are funny, so I enjoy going out to see them. Or at least, I USED TO enjoy going out to see them.

But being 40 has put a damper on my swag.  Also, having health problems that make sleeping elusive, being on a strict meds and detox schedule, and being tired constantly has put a kink in my tail.  My feet hurt too much to stand or dance for long (thank you, Bartonella), so when I hear, "live band", my first concern is whether there will be comfortable seating.  40, going on 80.

So I was hesitant to say "yes".  But like the awesome Big Sis I am, I sucked it up, and went.  Even as a Designated Driver.

We drove.  And drove and drove and drove.  Because they were playing at an Indian Casino, Cache Creek.  So the location was almost an hour and a half away.  We left right around my normal bedtime.  I felt like a little girl that got to stay up late for something special, like a drive-in movie, or an all-night drive to Disneyland.

Stifling yawns, I warned my passengers (after we were on the road and I had control over the vehicle) that I would maybe stay for the first half. They were happy to have a sober ride with a badass minivan, so they did not argue.

We got there, with 3 minutes before the show was set to begin.

Things do not start on time in the world of Nightlife.  I guess because they have had all day to get behind.  So this meant that I had some time to convince the Blackjack dealers I needed new tires for the Swagger Wagon.  I worked that table like a stripper with 9 kids to feed.  When I was up half a Michelin, I meandered over to the comfy chairs in  the lounge.  Did I mention the chairs were cushy?  Comfy?  Gloriously soft and accepting of my tired ass?  :::swoon:::

I got a beverage to blend in with the cool kids----a Seabreeze.  Except that I'm old, and no one knows how to make a Seabreeze any more.  You'd think I was Don Draper, asking for a damned Old Fashioned.  IT'S VODKA, CRAN, AND GRAPEFRUIT, PEOPLE!  Instead, I sipped a VERY RED vodka-cran-with-lyme.  Which is fine, because it was more cranberry than vodka, so it was practically medicinal.  No UTIs for me.

And then, I danced!  I brought back my GoGos dance moves. Which fit in better than I expected.  It didn't even have to be "ironic". 

But Sky King was worried about me. Being out with Normal Adults At Night, and all.  We texted for a bit:

SK: Took you long enough to get there.

Me: It's DEEP!

SK:  Obvs.  Have fun, keep your bro out of trouble.

Me: I will do my best.


Hey, Progress!!!  You trust ME to not get into a fight!

SK: Yeah, Fun Aimee seems to be shelved, so I worry less.

:::this is the part where I feel responsible, and sorry for myself, missing Fun Aimee and all the potential altercations and hangovers that go with her:::

So I sang til my throat ached, and danced 3 whole songs.  In between, I worked on my kids' college funds.  UPDATE:  Things AREN'T looking good for college.  Maybe a scholarship for sarcasm will be en vogue by then.

I forgot the types that go out late at night, hammer-drunk, dancing in public.

There are the Drunk Chicks. They tend to congregate in large groups.  Herds, if you will.  They yell, "WooHoo!!!" a lot, and make you dance with them.  They are persistent.  And they feel accomplished if they can remember your name, song to song.  It goes like this:

(all caps because it's too fucking loud there)

DRUNK CHICKS: COME DANCE WITH US!  IT'S "COME ON EILEEN!"

ME:  NO, I'M GOOD.

DC:  IT'LL BE FUN.  AIMEE, RIGHT?   C'MON, AIMEE!!!! DANCE WITH US!!!!

Fortunately, I did NOT have to drink a drink bought by him.  But likely only because I left by midnight.  I was not wanting to be in his cologne orbit. is went on.  All night. I relented once in a while. They tried to give me their tequilla shots bought by some stranger.  Either they were close to puking, or wanted to make sure they hadn't been roofied. Even though I hear that Roofies help with sleep issues, I declined.

Meanwhile, to my right, there was a man with more gold chains than hair.  Originally, I was all, "Dude, who's the creepy old guy?".  Then, I decided, "Man, forty looks awful on some people".  it was a sad revelation.  In a sea of sad revelations.

Finally, there was Side Pony Chick.  This chick has issues, which seem to be solved with kitten sweatshirts and Mudslides.  She dances like she has nothing to lose. And her hair is a testament to her desire to put out the "I don't care about life anymore" vibes.  Don't be fooled by her smiles.  Always remember you are still in a bar in an Indian Casino. This chick will give you diseases that have been mostly eradicated through better hygiene and life choices----smallpox, The Plague, scurvy.

I finally escaped the night with less than a $40 loss at the tables (sorry, Harvard) and up two drunks.  We meandered down the road til fuller bladders prevailed, and found respite at the haven of all Drunk Havens, Denny's.

Only drunk people could possibly order this

Then, we finally pulled into the driveway.  I was home!  I survived!  The kids were still alive!  (Can I just say how glorious it is, to have a 13 year old, that will feed and water the 8 year old?  GLORIOUS.)

Princess left me a sweet note:

 

It says, "Avery loves you mom and dad. O and sarah you still o me ten dollers babie sitting chicoe"

Apparently, she said she had babysat the dog, Chico.  And she concluded that babysitters get paid.  Ten dollars seemed fair.  

All in all, she might not need college. 

Which works out well for everyone.

I Thought the Apocalypse Was Coming...

I just got a text from my brother. He's my younger brother who spent the first part of his life getting free meals at school from cute girls.  This has not changed much, except the cute girl buying his lunch is usually me.  I really would love to marry him off, but he has a thing for skanks, and I'm sick of my kids asking, "Why does Uncle M have so many girlfriends" or, "I didn't know they could make tattoos that big", or, "Don't they have dentists near her house?".  Seriously, I could go on for days.  Days, people.  One of the first girls he brought home waited for my mother to have a mouthful of mashed potatoes to tell us she used to work on the phone.  I asked, "Like at a call center?" and she's all, "Kinda.  It was phone sex."  Things have been pretty much going downhill since then.

The thing is, he's really awesome.  He's good-looking, gainfully employed full time, AND loves kids.  It's like an awesome dude trifecta. He has a horrifying sense of humor, which is definitely in the "Pro" column, and he fixes stuff like a champ.  And, he has no gang affiliations (that I know of). One of his few downsides would be his appreciation for classic rock. Some might find this a "pro", too though.

(I'm taking applications....if you are clean and respectable, love kids and have only a small amount of baggage, but dress like a hooker (or would be willing to try) we totally have to chat. You only have to pretend to be a skank long enough for him to fall for you-then you can reveal your wonderfulness to us all, thereby ensuring years of happiness for us all.  Big knockers would help, too.)

"Umm, you were going to tell us about the impending apocalypse...?"

Oh yes.  That. Where was I?  Oh yeah. Here is a text convo between me and my brother:

Uncle M: Hey, got any mason jars?
Me: Fresh out.  Why?
UM: Moonshine

(This is where I am sure the world is coming to an end.  Why, you ask? Because one of the signs of the apocalypse-I'm fairly certain-would be if my brother were to find Pinterest and get addicted, like I-and countless others-already have.  Pinterest is this amazing crack-like website where millions of women (and probably some men with a penchant for satchels murses) spend countless hours searching for ideas where almost everything in the world can be found, including recipes for tons of yummy seasonal snacks, homemade laundry detergent, table centerpieces, etcetera, all for pennies on the dollar.  And, about 75% of the recipes/crafts/ideas involve mason jars.  Which is why I am fresh out.)

Me: ahhh.  Nope, Sorry.
UM:Yeah, it tastes just like apple pie

(This is where I am torn between gathering more information, and running into the streets to avoid the impeding tsunami/asteroid/tornado of death. What are the chances he wants to make homemade moonshine WITHOUT the influence of Pinterest?)

Me: Sounds good!  Are you on Pinterest?
UM: No, why?
Me: :::deep sigh::: Cause that's the kind of crafty shit they would have there, "homemade apple pie moonshine" LOL
UM:Oh. No, my buddy makes it.


See?  The world is NOT coming to an end today.


All this, from a girl who put her panties on backwards, and took three trips to the potty to realize it.



Score today:
World: 1
Brother: 0 (sorry, Uncle M.  Just be glad it took this long to put you in my blog. I was running out of material, and, well, let's face it. You're nothing BUT material....)
Metrosexuals: 0
Skanks: 0 (good thing they can't read)
Me:1 billion for such an informative post about the apocalypse and Pinterest, as well as moonshine, minus 1 for the backwards panties

Sick-Tired

As homage to my super-awesome brother, I named this post after him.  Cute story: You know how children parrot what they hear, and manage to regurgitate it at a perfectly appropriate/inopportune moment?  If you say “no”, you are lying.  For instance, ever had your kid drop their sippy cup full of apple juice, and say, with furrowed brow, “Dammit!”?  Or maybe your 4-year old is crying, and you ask what is wrong, and they very sweetly, with tear-swollen eyes, say, “My fuckin’ boo-boo huts” (‘cuz they can’t say their R’s yet…). No?   LIAR. 

Anyways.  My mom must have said, “I’m sick and tired of….” (Our messy rooms, doing all the chores, making dinner, listening to us whine, whatever.) About a million times.  Because whenever my bro-we’ll call him Greasy Monkey, shall we?-would be mad, he would tromp in, stand in front of you with his cute-as-shit pouty mouth, and say in a sweet little 3-year-old voice, “I sick-tired!”.  It became a “thing” in our home. 

Now, more than ever, his words resonate with me.  I am sooooo sick-tired of this health shit.  I have been diagnosed since Jan 2011.  In pain for much longer-dealt with mind-numbing sciatica for 12 years, other pains for longer.  And I know I get in this mood every once in a while (every 28 days, if you ask Sky King), but this shit is getting OLD.  I’m sick-tired of being sick, and tired.

Especially when there is no reason. I have not been up since 5 am, working in the yard to de-weed in time for a late crop. I have not sorted through 5 years of files, then schlepped everything off to the shredder.  I have not helped a friend move, packed my own home, played an intense sport, run a 5k, or prepared a week’s meals for my family.

This is what I have done today:

I put away some of the Halloween crap, into their totes.  I am missing a tote, or some of the crap has multiplied, because I still have some left. I don’t have the energy to seek out more totes. Maybe later I will get over to Target for one.

I thought about putting out the fall décor, but I don’t know where it is. I thought it would be mixed in with the Halloween stuff, but it wasn’t, and I don’t want to wake Sky King to get him to find it.  Because I don’t have the energy to look in the cold garage.

I have looked in Pinterest, because I am feeling crafty. I want to do a wreath and plan my Thanksgiving centerpieces.  I have to go to the craft store, and I am hoping I don’t run out of energy to actually MAKE what I bring home. But that will likely happen, and the crap I buy will end up in a closet somewhere.

I have searched some easy recipes for dinner tonight-with the plan to watch some football while the Crockpot does the work.  I am pretty sure this will get done.

I checked my email for a cookie recipe someone sent to me, with the intention of making them-they are spice cookies, and they are very easy. I don’t however think I will get to them, especially since I have to convert them to GFCF.  Oh well, I guess I don’t need any cookies, anyways.

I have made coffee, and put some crap in the sink, taken the filled garbage out of the kitchen can and relined the can, leaving the heavy bag for someone else to take outside.

It’s 9 am, and I am almost out of energy. And Princess wants me to take her to see Puss and Boots today.  In order to keep this promise, I will likely have to skip the craft store, skip the décor putting-out, skip the cookies, skip the laundry I just remembered still needs to be done.

Life: 6, Aimee: 4.

I am sick and tired of being tired. I am exhausted, and I have almost nothing to show for it.  Quality of life, this is not.  I don’t demand that I get this much done each day. But really, is it all that much? Maybe I am unrealistic. Maybe regular humans don’t seek to get this much done on a regular day-maybe I am being unreasonable. It happens, believe me.

Am I asking too much of a normal person? Because, really, all I want to be is normal.