Goodbye 30's. The Final Push

I have a little more than a week left before I turn 40. I should be trying to enjoy the fleeting days of my 30's, and although they say "40 is the new 30", I can't help but contemplate what a difference turning 40 vs. turning 30 really is:

Over the past year or so, I wake up looking less like the girl I was in college and more and more like Benecio del Toro. Yesterday, I was so puffy that you 'd a thunk I'd spend the night before at Joe Francis's house doing shots with Lindsay Lohan and Mischa Barton til 4 am. As I result, last night I smeared approximately 2 tablespoons of Preparation H under my eyes and this morning I looked less Benecio del Toro like and more like his younger brother, Paco. That stuff works!

I'm convinced that if I was on the show "Survivor" I'd be the only contestant who actually gained weight. After years of yo-yo dieting, I'd like the thank my metabolism for being slower than a one-legged, blind turtle.

I forget words all the time. Yesterday it took me over 30 seconds to remember the word "Clip Board."

Some mornings I wake up and am so stiff that I have to do a jelly roll off the bed. I'd like to thank my dad for the hereditary arthritis and weak discs.

I've always been moody - but the older I get the meaner I become. Yesterday I went to return a pair of jeans at Macy's and the lady in front of me had a Santa Claus-sized bag of children's clothes that she needed to return (as well as about 30 new replacement outfits for her precocious daughter who chatted and danced aimlessly about during the 20-minute transaction). I honestly thought I was going to have an aneurysm or go into a turrets-filled tirade over having to wait. Lately, when someone cuts me off in traffic I practically grit my teeth into whittled stubs. I may have to take up quaaludes.

But in all honesty, turning 40 isn't all bad. There are a few upsides to getting old(er):

For example, at 30 I was changing diapers, buying formula and carting two toddlers off to day care every day - while working full time. Today I work part time (by choice) and make the same amount of money I was making full time at 30.

I live in a much nicer house (of course with a much larger mortgage.) I also have more discretionary income - and a teenager who spends it all vicariously on candy, video games and music.

I don't have to go through the grueling process of dating, puberty or shyness. I also haven't had a zit in almost a year.

Back Where I Belong (in front of my TIVO)

After an exhausting and very busy past week and a half, I am happily back where I belong: on my couch catching up with a weeks worth of TIVO.

Last weekend, Parker and I met up with a few other high school friends for my "Pre-40th girls weekend" at a resort in Arizona. Although we had a blast, getting together with old high school buddies only reminded us that, clearly we aren't in "High School" anymore. We sunbathed, had pedicures, drank and ate and were in bed by 10 pm every night. Our most exciting adventure might have been the friendly bond we formed with our driver, "Luiz." Luiz picked up Parker at the airport on Friday (in a white Lincoln with Cartier interior). Luiz was (for lack of a better word) our "bitch" (and personal photographer) for the weekend. He drove us to and from all of our shopping/restaurant destinations and after a few cocktails, "Luiz" started to strongly resemble a Mexican version of John Stamos. Henceforth we (I) began to call him "Juan Stamosa." Lucky for me - I'm pretty sure he took it as a compliment. Meanwhile, Parker made the mistake of making small talk with him about his personal life, which I think Juan Stamosa took to mean "I want to be your sugar mama." When he showed up at 6 am to pick up Parker for her early-morning hangover flight, he wearing suit and a crap load of Axe body spray. And although I'm sure Parker (with her Alice Cooper eyes and tequila/dragon breath) was tempted to leave D.W. to live a life-long fantasy life with Luiz the single-dad Lincoln Continental driver from Mexico city, she somehow managed to resist his lady killer ways and returned home to Dallas.

Surprisingly, we did not get a picture of Juan Stamosa, but we did take a few pics of us trying to relive days of yore (unlike our high school days, we would be sound asleep in our beds watching CNN a few short hours later). Parker is the one blowing kisses at the $80 bottle of Silver Patron tequila, our friend Christie (who has no inner censor when it comes to blurting out politically incorrect random statements) is hiding behind the ginormous bottle, and I am the one inexplicably sucking my thumb.

Why (almost) 40-Year Olds Should Stay Away From College Bars

Last Saturday night, I headed back to my hometown to visit an old friend from High School who was turning the big 4-0. It started innocently enough. Her parent's threw a lovely garden party for approx 50 people. Meanwhile, when I turn 40, I'll be lucky if we can round up a party of 5. Maybe it was the fact that the only thing I'd eaten all day was a Baby Ruth bar in the Phoenix airport, but by the third plastic cup o' wine I was happy as a clam. And Loud. And Friendly. Needless to say I was in no mood to argue when after the party, someone suggested heading down to 4th Ave.  - a mecca of hedonistic college bars where I haven't been in almost 18 years.

Going to a crowded college bar is mind-blowingly different at the age of 39 then it is at say the age of 19. For example, I'm pretty sure at 19 I didn't find myself repeatedly screaming at the top of my lungs, "Jesus this band is so loud I can't even hear myself think!" Also, I ordered 5 drinks and pulled out $40, wondering if that was enough to cover the tab and tip. When the bartender told me, "that will be $13," I stared at him cross-eyed in disbelief.  Ordering $3 drinks at a college bar made me feel like I was Ivana-freaking-Trump. I gladly handed him a $20 and told him to keep the change.  From the expression on the bartender's face, I'm guessing the poor guy doesn't get a lot of $7 tips. He practically creamed his pants and offered to walk the drinks to our table (maybe he felt sorry for us old gals, who had clearly parked our "Lil' Rascals" out front). Either way I felt it was my duty to tip liberally considering all the times I used to steal $1's from the tip jar at the seedy bar I frequented as a poor, underage 18 year old (seriously, some nights I'd come home with more money than I left with. Once again, going to hell). 

In retrospect cheap drinks aren't always such a good thing. When a good friend turns 40, cheap shots and vodka/red bulls certainly seem like a good idea, but it all went south when shortly after the bar closed, I found myself being held up in the air on my back ("stage dive" style) by two skinny college girls and their big gay friend who I think might have been the gay in the movie "Mean Girls" and who thought I was the 'bees knees" because I was a housewife from Orange County. My girlfriend took a picture of this (probably because I was screaming at the top of my lungs from my rock and roll stage dive position "Take a Picture!!"): the result was something that you might find in the pages of the 2009 Webster's Dictionary under the word "Muffintop". 

Our designated driver (who ironically was a 21 year-old, full-bearded, Latin teacher with the personality of a day-old bran muffin, who unlike us cougar ladies, hardly drank at all) took us back to my girlfriends house where even more bad decisions were made. I guess it's time to call it a night when you find yourself doing a shot of warm Smirnoff Green Apple Vodka out of your girlfriends daughter's mini tea cup from her plastic My Little Pony tea set at 4 a.m. Game over. 

The next morning, just like in High School, my mom came to pick me up (but this time to take me to the airport) and I looked and felt like Courtney Love after shooting heroin and doing shots of  tequila with her band Hole. It didn't help that my girlfriend had a gas leak at her house, i.e. no hot water, i.e. no shower, i.e. smelly drunk lady with Alice Cooper eyes on a plane. I actually bought a pink fleece blanket at the airport to hide under during the flight which was terrible, to say the least. The 4 year-olds in front of me pulled out their greasy, stinky McDonald's cheeseburgers and the lady next to me ordered a chardonnay - it's called Karma, I know.

When Tom and the kids picked me up, I felt like I'd been rescued from a deserted island - one with no food, but lots of liquor. Never had I been so happy to see my family. I told them I was very "tired"(my code word for hungover beyond belief) and Tom tucked me in on the couch and served me grilled steak and Parmesan mashed potatoes and it was then that I remembered that being 39-going-on-40 (as opposed to 19) isn't so quite bad.

-Val

NOTE: The above picture is not me or anyone I know - just some lame old cougar trying to relive her youth. So pathetic!

F*&K, I'm 40!

Staring down the barrel of 40 during my 39th year always made me throw up in my mouth a little. I imagined waking up on my 40th in a soccer mom twin set,
khakis, and my hair styled like Sally Field's. I tried to remain positive
and because of the miracle of Botox I don't think I look quite 40. Besides, women are supposed to reach their sexual peak at 40, I don't have any kids but at least I don't have 6, and maybe I will not get as worried about all the little things
because after all I'm 40 and I know some hard lessons about life at this point.

One thing is for sure on my 40th I wouldn't be at work or anywhere near the white trash city where my company is located. Having gone to college at "Bobby Bouche" University in Lafayette, Louisiana, I loved new Orleans and Daddy Warbucks and I would visit all the time when we first started dating. New Orleans would also be a easy destination for our friends and family from Dallas and new York to join us, so New Orleans it was.

I told D.W that I would leave all the planning to him. I'm a control freak and this one time I would do my best not too get involved. Before we left I did however remind D.w. there were two W Hotels in the French quarter and to make sure we were at the same one as our friends.

Needless to say I was just a tad angry when D.W. had indeed made the reservations at the wrong W and for various reasons we couldn't transfer to the other W hotel. Our limo driver who drove us  the "wrong" hotel asked how are day was? To which I replied, "Fine except my husband is a fucking idiot." D.W. turned from the front (since I wouldn't let him sit in the back) and told me to "shut the fuck up". Needless to say the limo driver decided to no longer make small talk with Ikeand Tina and my 40 th was off to a rough start.

After a few more choice words for each other and some angry texts to Val (who was unable to attend my 40 th due to a previous engagement, and who of course took D.W.'s side) we headed off on a bar crawl drinking and eating like Mario Batali at a really great All-U-Can-Eat Italian buffet. Mid-afternoon in true D.W. style he bought me gorgeous painting by one of our favorite artists (and all was forgiven, sort of).

Our friends all arrived early the next day and the celebrations were in full force. There are now Absinthe bars in new Orleans much to our delight. We didn't meet a Po Boy we didn't like, even the sub-par one at Acme Oyster Bar. I am pretty sure they put crack cocaine in the cafe au laits at Cafe du Monde, they are that good. The amount of powdered sugar on the beignets is so wrong yet so right.

The morning of my 40 th I walked into the bad lighting (or at least I hoped) of our bathroom and took a good look at my 40 year old face somewhat expecting to see the crypt keeper staring back at me. I was so dehydrated from all the previous nights' cocktails that I instead was a dead ringer for Benecio del Toro left for dead in the desert in the movie "Traffic". I'm pretty sure I used half a container of moisturizer on my face that morning and drank a gallon of water with my Eggs Benedict and cheese grits at breakfast.

That day I would tell people "today is my 40 th" hoping I would get a response like "No shit? You look 26!" Instead each person just said, "Well happy birthday." Even the drunkest, not-quite all there barflys I experimented on didn't respond as I had hoped.

All in all turning 40 wasn't as painful as I thought it would be, although I have noticed I don't get out of bed or into a car without grunting like a 80 year old.

Here's my advice for all of our young readers: Put 75 SPF on your face when in the sun, start a
fund to save for future Botox treatments (you may say you won't do it, but you will) drink lots of water, go ahead and have fries but eat a salad with them, and exercise - if even just a little each week. Doing these things will allow you to party like Tommy Lee circa 1996 and still recover.

Next up Val turns 40 in September '09. Should be a doozy, I predict it will be a less graceful turning of 40 for Val based on her current level of 39 and holding denial.

(yeah, yeah Val and I were in the same grade although I'm almost a year older, I was held back in the first grade, but that's another story) cheers!

-Parker