I turned 36 last week. Seriously, 36… and I’m just not vain enough to lie about my age. Mostly because I’m not noticing any new wrinkles or crow’s feet and I’m okay that the reason for this is simply because my face is just pudgy enough to fill them out.

Gray hairs… nope. None of those, thankfully. Although, who could tell, considering my stylist talked me into a platinum blonde streak (just one, bold and up front) and a few, ahem, teal peek-a-boo chunks hidden underneath here and there.

I’m happy, it’s cheaper than a sports car, boob lift, younger boyfriend and far more exciting than a rest home. ( Elder Care Portland )

I’m thinner this year than I have been in probably oh… 4 years at least. In fact, all my jeans are my skinny jeans even if skinny is in the eye of the beholder.

What did I do for this momentous occasion?

Earlier this month my husband gifted me with an early present, a Kindle Fire. One of my dearest friends, Chickie, sent me a box full of the most delicious smelling bath bombs on the planet just barely outdoing the shotglass/necklace and dancing chicken card from last year!

On my birthday my husband made me dinner and I was presented with a gift that almost got me a little teary. Non-plant people probably won’t get this… but through the years I’ve always had “dream plants” my husband always smiles and usually goes along with whatever I want to grow at the time. I’ve had beautiful hydrangeas, roses, butterfly bushes and crepe myrtles all gifts for my birthday, Mother’s Day or Easter.

But the Holy Grail, for me anyway, has always been a lilac tree. Holy Grail, indeed, I even found an old post mentioning my desire for a lilac tree:

My great grandmother used to say that the best cure for a headache was putting your hands in the dirt. She was absolutely right. What I would give to have the lilac tree that my grandmother transplanted to her backyard from my great grandmother’s yard!

My grandmother had a lilac tree in the backyard and it was easily one of my favorites of her plants. I knew she had grown it as a cutting from her mother and I believe it was from an original tree in Oklahoma. I had never really seen them around here or available at nurseries and so had given up on ever having one of my own.

Until a few weekends ago when a sunny day sent me perusing the garden section at Lowe’s. They had a huge selection of bare root lilacs. I sort of looked like Agnes in that scene from Despicable Me with the unicorn, there was all sorts of gasping and ooo’ing and ahh’ing and “I MUST HAVE THIS!!!!!!”

Mike grumbled, began asking questions like, where was I going to plant it? How big would it get? Was it going to be like that butterfly bush that has to be fought back from eating his redwoods 200 times a year?

My husband deserves a Golden Globe or Oscar or something because I barely spoke to him for the rest of the day for “dashing my dreams” and his follow up to the act at Lowe’s was to pretend he didn’t notice how annoyed I was with him.

Fast forward to my birthday when I was presented with what Maggie described as “an AMAZING CARD!!!!” which was a giant pop-up card with all sorts of cute, cartoon animals on it. I was later told it took her almost 45 minutes to pick out my birthday card (she took her assignment VERY seriously) and she probably molested every card with a puppy, kitty or other cute animal on it in the stands before selecting this card for it’s unique “pop up” feature.

After much time spent ooo’ing and aaah’ing (I do a ridiculous amount of this, no?) my TRULY AMAZING CARD (just in case Maggie reads this) I was presented with a lilac tree. Not just any lilac, but one my husband and daughter spent about as much time as Maggie with the birthday card, selecting just for me.

I’m really proud of it, but I’m going to spare you a full length picture because it’s only about 18″ tall and is essentially some sticks on a very short, skinny trunk. BUT… check out this beauty of a bud!!!!

I might have some LEAVES this year!!!!!!!

It’s taken many years, but I think the girls have finally beaten Mike down almost completely. Three of us in very different life stages makes for a constant, demanding, eye rolling, “if looks could kill”, screaming, “who took my gray eye liner?”, hot mess kind of life.

More than once someone has joked that if Maggie is bad now, no one wants to imagine her with PMS. Kate is probably the most easy going out of the three of us but that is no invitation to cross her. And, let’s just be honest, when the time comes I have a feeling I won’t be the only one in the house searching for menopause relief. (Amberen on twitter. Amberen on Facebook)

It was never more clear than last night. Kate was on her way to a friend’s house and I noticed Mike silently navigating traffic as Kate and I discussed pictures from formal on facebook. We were debating dress lengths and you could actually feel the testosterone draining from the vehicle. I expected to look over at my husband and find a withered husk driving the car any second.

Surrounded by women, Mike always seems to have a grin on his face either from sheer enjoyment or the “never let them see you afraid” strategy. Which, for the record, almost never works because women can smell fear in men and the bead of sweat on his upper lip is always a dead giveaway. In this house he might not always be wrong but he’s certainly never right.

I’ve observed Mike taking great comfort in “A Christmas Story” as the Old Man blusters through the house, making everyone quake in his wake, and proudly displaying a leg lamp in the center of the picture window declaring it, “a MAJOR AWARD!” Mike has no leg lamp. Mike does not bluster through the house, although he has been known to yell at the neighbor’s dogs who are more Bumpus like than Mike can tolerate.

I had a moment of sympathy while we were cleaning the kitchen. I said something about how it must be a difficult life for him, Mike replied, “I don’t even argue anymore…”

The arrival of Mike’s Harley seemed to provide some sort of testosterone boost. He strode about the house with a renewed sense of manliness, we were amused until this new invigoration took on an air of cockiness. We don’t play fair, it was a game of cat and mouse that the girls enjoyed until they got bored. Now the displays of manliness are kept to the garage and an occasional tirade on facebook.

Not that we have him beaten completely. He’s just become sneakier about it, he knows better than to fight the women on open ground. He admits, he’s no match for us. His strategies are subversive and almost ninja-like. The rare moments of defiance are often subtle, like finding a new project in the middle of a current project where his help his needed or fiddling around in the backyard “waiting for the grill to warm up” when we are all starving. Oh! Lest I forget one of his favorites; after quietly waiting for us to be ready to leave the house he leaves us all assembled at the front door to do some last minute chore or to find that one hat that he just has to wear.

More often than not his silent protests are usually performed in the most absurd way possible. Like insisting on leaving the house in cargo shorts, a t-shirt, sandals and a Harley-Davidson beanie… in January.

There was also that moment after Christmas while we took down outdoor decorations and barked orders for Mike to “check this bulb” and “take this apart” when he clearly couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I looked up just long enough to see our car going down the street dragging the Christmas tree behind it. We stopped and stared as he rounded the corner, our 9 foot tall tree bobbing and weaving behind the car silently, Mike behind the wheel, window rolled down and arm hanging out nonchalantly as if degrading the last vestige of our holiday season was just another errand he had been sent on.

In this house, passive aggressive isn’t just a character flaw, it’s become a survival tactic.

I’ve never been a huge magazine person. I remember my grandmother having stacks and stacks of National Geographics and I remember reading them a lot.

I’ve subscribed to Better Homes and Gardens and enjoyed it, but after a while I had stacks of unread magazines and sort of felt guilty throwing them out.

My husband absolutely devours the magazine for appraisers that he gets every couple of months. I admit, I’ve been sucked into the articles from time to time because they about something impacted my life.

I would venture to say that if I were a nurse I might subscribe to nursing magazine 2012.

Where are you on magazine subscriptions? What do you do with your old magazines?

About a month ago I wrote a post on choosing a cable service. More accurately, I wrote a post about how I was having a tough time choosing a cable service.

Admittedly, it was getting tough keeping up with the shows I love via Netflix, Hulu and the internet in general. Plus, Maggie now has this obsession with football after attending some high school games and she is now going down in history as the only Doran who argued FOR the sports channel package.

We finally decided and restored our access to the real world cable is back. I’m getting used to a crazy new remote and an odd channel line up and realizing that I already need to go up to the next channel package because, OMG, I am missing Investigation Discovery, Bravo, Oxygen and the Hallmark channels.

I recently caught my first episode of “Pan Am” and I really liked it!

I’m looking forward to watching my current favorites:

Parenthood
Psych
Bones
Mike and Molly
Sons of Anarchy (yes, the season is nearly over, don’t rub it in)
Blue Bloods
Hawaii 5-0
Harry’s Law
Burn Notice

Those are just my top faves.

I’m dying to check out:

American Horror Story
Grimm

Is there anything else I’m missing or should check out? Is there anything I need to know NOW before I jump into American Horror Story or Grimm? Let me know!

That bit of ridiculousness was brought to you by me, courtesy of Katie who has played it roughly 8 billion times and turned lines from it into the most obnoxious earworm on the planet. I swear. Personally, I thought it was just “okay” the first time I saw it. What made it funny was our good friend, Nate, who would recite lines in response to completely unrelated conversations.

Which, brings me to my next thought, I know what you’re thinking out there, oh yes, I really do. Something like:

“Zomg. She never blogs anymore and when she does it’s this cheesy drivel or nonstop talk about fishing and OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG… that SUCKS.”

Indeed.

Why you’d almost never know that I am a huge fan of Russell Brand as a stand up comedian (Arthur, sucked out loud, I’m afraid) and that I really love a good dirty joke, would you?

*seagulling*

Bwahahahaha.

Nope, around here it’s all glitter and unicorns and ridiculousness.

You see, the interesting happens when I am safely ensconced in my Facebook tower of magnificent ivory glory. The interesting often includes uninhibited snarky, bitchy rants and yes, the occasional tipsy utterance that even then is safely relegated to only a few eyes on a very exclusive list. Said list is fairly tough to get on, I either have to know you very well or you have to happily imbibe on a regular basis.

The number of wonderful souls who actually fit into either category is far too small.

I was watching Jim Jeffries (a standup comedian from Australia that my darling, Nate-R-Tots turned me on to) the other night, look him up on YouTube only if you have a legit sense of humor and are not a prude of some sort. Sadly, THAT list is far too long! Nevertheless, you’ve been warned.

Anyway… *sigh* he has a great bit about how you just can’t trust people who don’t drink. Lord, isn’t that the truth? You really can’t. Most of the people I adore most imbibe now and again. Now, I’m not talking about sloshing around fully-loaded all the time or full-blown alcoholics! I’m talking about people who know how to loosen up and have a good time. If you can’t manage that… well, get on with yourself then and no, don’t give me the old stink-eye because I enjoy a lovely pint of Stella Artois or Peroni with my pizza on Friday nights.

or a gorgeous Modelo with my chile verde.

or a cold, dark Guinness on a chilly winter evening.

Time and place, people. That’s all I’m saying.

Time and place.

I have attempted almost everything imaginable to break my husband of this blasted obsession with fishing, including breaking my ankle WHILE fishing. His interest goes away for several months to a year at best and reappears out of nowhere with the enthusiasm of someone just offered a full-time job drinking beer and fishing for trout at a secluded mountain lake.

I used to enjoy fishing when it was part of an annual family vacation with my grandparents. I enjoyed it when it was part of an annual camping trip with the kids. When it becomes an every other weekend ritual of blood worms, sand worms and what the kids are now referring to as “stAnky bait” (said with annoying southern accent that only a kid from California can muster up) it starts to lose it’s sense of fun.

A couple of weekends ago I allowed my husband to wrangle me into a Catfish Derby out at Buena Vista Lake about 30 minutes from our house. It’s a man made pit of a lake that I grew up water skiing on. Since the Derby started at the ass crack of dawn my husband thought it would be great to camp out at the lake as well.

The weather report had claimed “cloudy, overcast with a chance of showers” and temps in the high 60′s. Being the good sports that we are, the girls and I trooped out to the shoreline, cast out and plopped into chairs. Katie and I brought books and our knitting bags, Maggie had her backpack with video games and books. Mike was gleefully going through his fishing bags pulling out his “highly recommended” jars of vomit colored bait paste and the special hooks with sponges meant to soak up the questionably colored miracle bait.

Mike looked at me with a gleam in his eye that I’m pretty sure is strictly reserved for 13 year old boys who have just discovered their dad’s stash of Playboy magazines. He said, “The guy at Bob’s Bait Bucket said that this (motioning to the jar) is the guacamole and these (motioning to the sponge hook contraptions) are the chips!” He opened a jar of bait and people 20 feet down wind from us gasped. Mike stood over the jar with his eyes watering, “Hoooo! This stuff stinks!”

Understatement of the year. I swear.

By 9am the sun was in full force beating down on the tree-less shore line with a blinding ferocity usually reserved for late July. I had forgotten sunscreen and couldn’t help but be reminded of the camping trip to the middle of mosquito infested nowhere when I had forgotten the mosquito repellent.

For hours we sat in the sun looking up and down the shoreline at our fellow fishermen, disappointment had settled over the lake not unlike the stench of “stanky bait” and possibly even more putrid. People who fish are a dedicated lot and will withstand all sorts of disgusting conditions as long as they are getting nibbles on their lines. They don’t even have to be catching anything as long as they feel an occasional tug and someone across the lake is reeling something in every once in a while. The sad truth is that at the end of the day fishing is really a game of hope.

But, the game was going badly and hope was dwindling that Saturday. It was so bad that a ranger cruising through with a bullhorn reminding everyone of the 4pm “weigh in” time paused to ask someone to pull up their net that had a few carp in it and said, “See! For those folks out there saying that the fish aren’t biting – show ‘em your net there. Now, get back to fishing this ain’t a CARP derby!”

The rest of the guys on the shoreline didn’t find that nearly as funny as Kate and I did so we kept our chuckles to ourselves. By noon I was more lobster and less Amy. The fish weren’t biting either and Maggie was on the verge of staging a full blown mutiny that would have ended with Mike left in standing on the shore with a jar of stanky bait jammed somewhere pretty uncomfortable.

We headed back to the campsite where Maggie and I fell asleep for most of the afternoon. We woke up in time to find Mike trying to make it up to us by grilling some killer steaks. Then Kate and I discovered those creepy looking earwig bugs crawling all over our campsite. It’s not much fun to have a good case of heebie jeebie, crawling skin when you’re sunburned to a crisp.

We had a group of jet skiing teenage / twenty-somethings next to us that we dubbed “the bros” and proceeded to narrate their adventures as they climbed the trees in their campsite, swung on ski ropes, and played some strange version of “extreme duck, duck, goose” with a lit stick. It was honestly better than any reality television I’ve ever seen.

Around 4am the rain finally showed up. We had forgotten to put the rain canopy over the tent. Maggie slept soundly while Kate, Mike and I shivered in the wind putting the canopy on. Around 5:30 we woke up to winds so strong that part of our tent was caving in. We decided to call it a day and packed up camp in the wind and rain, thirty minutes later we were home and fighting for the showers.

Here I am a week or so later. The sun burn has faded to a nice tan but I’m still peeling which has me walking around looking like a dandruff machine – YUCK. I have yet to catch a fish this year and am starting to think the 2011 fishing season is going to end up a lot like that whale watching tour Mike suckered me into a few years ago.

Oh for the days when buying panties meant tagging along with your mom and deciding between Care Bears and Strawberry Shortcake. Boys never really grow out of that. They stop in at Target or Costco and pick out a package of briefs or boxers in their size and move on along with their business.

Women never have it so easy. But, then again… there really isn’t much that is easy about being a woman, is there? Suffice it to say, much to my husband’s dismay (Well, not anymore, he’s well broken in now) I can’t just leap on any sign that says panties on sale and refresh my lingerie collection.

Although, the “lingerie” department at Target leads to me to believe that many women have no problem buying underwear in bulk. I’ve learned the hard way that it just doesn’t pay off to buy panties like men buy underwear, t-shirts and socks. Call me picky! I’m okay with that.

I’ve always really liked the Jockey brand but the only place to get a decent price on them is at the outlet and the closest outlet is about an hour away so it’s not something I go out of my way to do very often. I keep an eye out online for good deals on Jockey but they rarely come around. And, when they do it’s always some absolutely insane color combo (leopard print in fluorescent green? Really? No, thank you.) or it’s only a sale on pink panties which I would probably only indulge in if part of the proceeds went to the Susan G. Komen foundation or something. Not that I have a problem with pink. I just don’t wear a lot of it.

That being said I’m not the “spend $50 on a pair of panties because they promise supreme butt lifting” type either. Bras – that’s a whole other ballgame and suffice it to say – you get what you pay for 90% of the time!

Where are you shopping for your unmentionables that I just made all too mentionable? Any tips? Any sales?

I read the other day that Ed Begley Jr. has signed on for a new sitcom. I’ve always really liked him especially in all the Christopher Guest movies. One night I couldn’t sleep and found myself channel surfing and landing on Planet Green (I really love this channel) and I started watching “Living with Ed” and I love it. It’s really funny but really informative too. My only bitch is that it’s only on at 2am and that it doesn’t appear that they are still producing episodes which is a bummer.

I fantasized about a “Living with Amy” but I assure you it would be far less informative and decidedly more violent also there would be screaming. A lot of screaming. Then there would be hate mail, assassination attempts and people going through my garbage – which, by the way, since I’m not all Ed Begley Jr.’d up in this place there would be a lot of garbage. We recycle but we don’t recycle everything and that makes me far less green friendly than I’d like to be and I’m stopping right here to prevent any hate mail. Not that I get hate mail but I’d hate to break that streak by copping to how not eco-friendly I am.

A few years ago we installed solar outdoor lighting in the backyard and I think we’re going to look into more of that for the front yard this year as well. But, it’s time to go beyond eco friendly toys and gifts and reusable shopping bags in terms of being more eco-friendly.

Actually, I should be honest, our utility bills are enough to make me want to be more energy efficient. Summer will be here soon that always causes a huge spike because there is no way you can live through 105+ degree heat without air conditioning.

We’re looking into ways to improve our home insulation. We’re also looking into solar screens and possibly a couple of awnings for the front of the house. We have a north-south exposure and that makes the backyard nice, but the front of the house bakes and therefore so do the inhabitants. I’m none to fond of being a human souffle.

Okay, so my birthday was a couple of days ago. I’m okay with admitting that I’m 35 now, unless my dad’s around and then I only admit to being 25 because, as my dad puts it, that’s a win-win situation for both of us. But, for the record 35 is not old.

It’s not!

Having a birthday on a Wednesday really sucks almost as much as having a birthday a month after Christmas. Which is why any formal celebrations of the day of my birth are scheduled for tomorrow, a Saturday, because that is more conducive to partying and merry-making than a freaking Wednesday.

Let me give you an idea of how much a Wednesday birthday sucks… first, unless you are Charlie Sheen – having a birthday on a day notoriously referred to as “hump day” just isn’t going to work out.

Everyone is still at work or in school even though Maggie tried to convince me that she should totally take the day off to help me celebrate. I got the old stink-eye look when I suggested that taking a day off from Spanish might just delay her plan of ruling the world a bit.

Around noon UPS pulled up in front of the house and I just knew better than to get excited at all. Good thing too, it was a delivery from Cabelas for Mike – a new fishing pole. My birthday – he gets a fishing pole. To be fair he ordered it weeks ago and it took this long to arrive and just happened to be delivered on my birthday.

I cleaned the kitchen, made lunch, worked and managed to scald my hand when hot tea sloshed out of my cup. By that afternoon I was desperate for a beer (or six) and I grabbed an ice cold St. Pauli Girl from the fridge and ninja’d my way upstairs hoping no one would stop me and ask me about dinner or any of the other 8 million tasks I handle on a daily basis. I had a backup plan. If anyone saw me I was fully prepared to clap my hands over my ears and sing, “La la la la it’s my birthday I can’t hear you la la la!”

I was on a mission – pure, uninhibited “me” time for MY birthday. I ran a bath but was so focused on lighting candles and burning my finger with the lighter (note – bring the candle TO the flame not vice versa!) that I didn’t pay much attention to temperature and while I’d have been happy scalding my rear end I instead ended up in something just slightly warmer than tepid. I soldiered on, determined to have my own little mini-birthday celebration and solidly refusing to let a poorly run bath put a stop to it. Twenty minutes later I had happily given up on my lukewarm bath and ended up in bed knitting while watching Two and a Half Men reruns.

Ahem. That should not be seen as defeat. I was alone, I love knitting, I had chocolate AND beer… it was not defeat. It was a carefully planned strategy to ensure peace, solitude and not having any bodies to bury later that night.

Most importantly, I’ve been assured that this does NOT indicate my being old because I wasn’t watching Wheel of Fortune and shopping for double recliners or things of that nature. I’m secure in my knowledge because I consulted both Google and Facebook! In spite of a couple of smart-assed friends I’m confident that knitting in bed at 6pm does NOT make me old.

It was my birthday, dammit!!!!

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a post about Maggie. Shall I catch you up a bit? She’s no where near her desired position of “World Ruler” but she’s gaining ground. Currently, she’s learning Spanish, I suspect Italian will be next followed by French and then God knows what but I really doubt it will be Latin unless her plan is to make it the new world language and then eliminate anyone without the mental capacity to learn it fluently.

If so, I’m sure I have some pull with her and in which case, I’ve got a list of people to spare and an even longer list of people to put at the front of the other line. Said line will probably follow her sister’s plan which goes something like:

“a rather long list of people to be punched is being formed… I will need a long line with one of those annoying zig-zag things like at Magic Mountain..”

If anything, Maggie has just become more resourceful and school has given her the ability to read – which is only a good thing when discussing children who don’t want to rule the world, hoard animals and torture unsuspecting family members. Let’s be honest, everyone suspects and Maggie doesn’t care if we do or not.

The other night Mike was finishing off the remnants of soup from lunch because he cannot stand for anything to go to waste. I finally shouted from the other room, “If I hear any more slurping I am going to break something!” Then I saw Maggie run into the kitchen… she didn’t want soup, she just saw an opening. Her plan was to slurp loudly to see exactly what I might do to her father. Thank God he caught on because I was already picking up my stapler.

Later on (same evening) she was loudly trouncing her brother while playing Mario Kart and Mike was on the phone a room away but within unfortunate earshot. It was clear that Maggie was totally and completely swept up in the moment when I heard her shriek (and simultaneously Mike’s eyes bulged and his chair sucked right up his arse), “AHA! Take THAT BITCH!!!!!!”

Thank goodness it was not a serious phone call, just someone wanting to buy some fishing poles Mike had listed on Craig’s List. Let’s face it, men and fishing poles, there is a solid chance Maggie’s scream wasn’t even a blip on his radar. Wish I could say the same for her father, although he must not have been that fazed by it because he got off the phone and said, “I’ve got someone coming over to look at my pole!”

And, yes, I snorted and giggled like a 13 year old.