13,879 days old, give or take a couple of days to account for Leap Years.

That's 333,096 hours.

19,985,760 seconds.

In case you were wondering.

Because I was.

At 4 o'clock this morning.

Right about the time Dash woke up with an urgent need to complain about the general state of the world.  Or maybe just his bed.  But it was a profound enough wail to seem like one of those larger issues, you know?

Anyhow.

I'm 38 today.  And it seems like a rather appropriate and serendipitous time to take stock.

So I have.

And here's the lowdown:

1. Two beautiful children.

2. One ex-husband.

3. One baby daddy.

4. Six siblings.

5. Many, many amazing friends.

6. One B.A. in Communications.

7. One Master's in the offing.

8. Two freelance jobs.

9. A mother in heaven (or wherever passionate Socialists go).

10. A father, two stepmothers, and a stepfather in California.

11. One attempt at life in Westchester.

There's more, I'm sure.  I just can't summon all the items at the moment, what with the two glasses of wine and the piece of chocolate cheesecake I've downed.

I'm headed out soon to celebrate with Jen and whomever else decides to join us tonight.

I'm not looking bad for my years, if I do say so myself.  I'm going to hold onto that little sliver of confident thought and go enjoy the evening.

Happy Birthday to Me.

No, really...seriously?

I think my April Fool's Day jokes are just starting to come in...

SALSAMANTOO

47 - Fishkill Plains, NY, US 
Seeking: Women 30 - 51

Active within 24 hours

Seriously?

This is how I have to start my day?

italian877

Match (Breaking) Point

With my Match subscription, as with most things in my life (including, let's face it, my children), I tend to go in cycles dictated by my level of boredom with watching recorded television shows while solitarily downing a bottle of wine.

That, and my tolerance for things like, oh, grown men who don't know how to spell and who still send borderline-perverted messages that end in LOL.  And I'm not just talking about those cute little 30-year-olds who spam-wink me after looking at pictures and failing to see the TWO KIDS part of my profile - I'm also including those 53-year-olds who are looking for women 25-40, who think they are appealing enough to ignore those their own age, and who end every sentence with some retarded emoticon or text shorthand, most of which I can't be bothered to decipher. Speak English, people.  Even Pig Latin would be a more innovative and original language.

But I digress slightly.

One of my points is that it's pretty grim out there, with a couple of bright spots every once in a long while. It's why I go in three-month intervals, updating my profile with germane information when it's appropriate - like after a particularly bad date.  Because clearly, I was not adamant enough about NOT LYING ABOUT YOUR HEIGHT.

Anyhoo...

I'm on one of my hiatuses at the moment, enjoying the soft and lulling silence of no winks, no Match emails suggesting someone is my soulmate because we both like dogs and Chinese food. Seriously, isn't there some poor hack writer at Match HQ who has a better sense of humor and a few more brain cells to devote to more creative Matching Points?  Because what I'd really like to know is if one of the many winners picked from the vat of (questionably) male samples enjoys, as I do, the sweet scent of Sharpie Markers.  Or making fun of fashion victims while drinking coffee on the stoop.  

Now, I didn't delete my profile completely - it would take too long to rebuild what has become a three-and-a-half-year masterpiece built with love, patience, and wine.  Not to mention a really good digital camera.  And you never know - in a fit of loneliness and having spent too many nights, ummm, you know...paying ATTENTION to myself...in THAT way...I might be tempted to throw my proverbial hat in the ring, to be judged again via computer monitor, alongside all those other women lustily endowed with more cleavage who have ejected fewer offspring.  Bee-atches.  

The only thing is, I first entered the hallowed digital halls of Match.com when I was newly separated, had just turned 34, and had only spawned one child.  I don't know if it was beginner's luck or what, but the very first Match date I ever had was with someone who flew me to Buenos Aires for New Year's and subsequently knocked me up (unbeknownst to both of us until my monthly visitor failed to show - I swear I was using protection).  So I got an international, first-class trip AND a second son, all with the point and click of my mouse!

In the interim, I've added quite a few one-drink, four-week, and five-month dates to my curriculum vitae, almost all of them coming through Match.  Only now, my very vital vitals have changed - five pounds, four additional (but memorable) years added to my age, three freelance jobs, two kids from two fathers, one divorce, and a haggard-looking partridge in a pear tree.  Frankly, I'm tired.  And as I sometimes tell my kids - I need a break.

So I've deactivated for a bit.

See you in September.

Open letter...feel free to copy and paste

Dear [insert name of latest freak date here]:

You wooed me, you wrote pretty notes, you took me to some scenic places.  I will cherish our [days/weeks/months/years] together.  We laughed, I cried, you rolled your eyes, we laughed a bit more.  Truly, our multi-faceted relationship was the envy of our circles of friends.

But here's the thing.

When you talk about your (sort of) ex [girlfriend; spouse; partner; complacent participant], and don't filter out the parts about you still having feelings for her, it's a real mood-killer.  And if your (sort of) ex is still calling you and you're thinking, well, maybe if she changed just a bit and came back to me with a different perspective, I'd probably get back together with her - DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, SAY THAT OUT LOUD.  Again, a rather efficient mood-killer.  Not to mention the fact that it makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

And when you cancel a [lunch; dinner; movie] date as soon as I get to your place so you can go [bike-riding; coffee-klatsching; cow-tipping] with another girl, it doesn't make me want to come back and sleep with you the next day.  Or the day after that.  Really, ever again.

And when you suggest, in the nicest possible way, really, no offense meant, that you thought you would end up with a [more powerful; more ambitious; thinner; smaller; richer; less-burdened] woman, it would be super helpful if you wouldn't then try to kiss me and get into my pants.  Because that doesn't make me want to sleep with you either.  Especially after I've been watching your [kid; dog; aging parent] for a half-day while you get your sweaty groove on at the gym.  And when I tie your penis into a nautical knot to demonstrate just HOW powerful I am,

please know it hurts me more than it hurts you.

And when you say things like, "I love you.  I love you very much," and then retreat into a corner ten days later like some deranged snapping turtle,

hissing about needing space from this, and acting all irritated and elusive because, you snap, you need to ask questions about this - well, that's just a tad confusing is all.  And it makes me want to graffiti your windows with, "Wormlike douchebag in residence."  

Furthermore, when you call at [midnight; one a.m.; four a.m.] from a business trip, with nothing more to report than a slurred version of the hilarious story of how the friends with whom you are dining are pulling down their pants so you can see their thong underwear, it makes me want to smash the phone into little pieces and shove them up your ass.  And when you suggest that I'm feeling this way because I'm a jealous person, and insecure, it makes me want to retrieve the telephonic debris with a metal rake, light it on fire, and weld it to your balls.

So maybe you should keep those stories to yourself in your next relationship.  

Because I have it on pretty good authority, being of the female persuasion, that women don't particularly find it hot to hear about other [athletic; toned; free-spirited; drunk] women who are removing their undergarments in your presence.  Thong or not.

I'm just saying.

Anyhoo, I wish you so much luck and success in finding the woman you think exists who will be totally okay with all of this.  Maybe consulting the Book of Imaginary Girlfriends can point you in the right direction.

Cheers!  and XOXO and all that cheesy shit...

How to Instill Proper Values, Morals & Confidence

1. Playdate host informs you your son has responded to calls to clean up playroom with, "What the fuck?" Make sure your son is properly rewarded for cursing in context.


2. Take argued-over toys and hurl them out the window. When child says that's littering, threaten to recycle his toes.


3. At random and unannounced intervals, swat child with a fly-swatter and then apologize for mistaking him for a bug.


4. Loudly, and in public, explain the details of how he was conceived.


5. At school drop-off, inform child he must eat all of his lunch or risk being left at school overnight.


6. Send child into pharmacy with Monopoly money with instructions to ask for Super Large Extra Absorbent Tampons because Mommy's bleeding to death.


7. At the supermarket, answer every request for junk food with, "In your fucking dreams."


8. Answer every Why? with Why the Hell Not?


9. Tell child his whining is why you drink.


10. Begin every morning with, "You're still here?"

Flying by the seat of my pants

I was that Mother.

The one you stare at and hope will keep on walking up the aisle, past the seat you so carefully chose when you booked your ticket online, thinking you could insulate yourself from me.  I was the Mother who is whispering to herself about Calgon, wine, and corporal punishment.

The one with the VERY LOUD, VERY ANNOYING, extremely WHINY and BEASTLY children.

I should have seen it coming that morning, when my two-year-old savage got up not just on the wrong side of the bed, but clear in the OTHER room, on the wrong side of THAT bed.  The wild thing proceeded to stomp, protest, and scream his way through the morning, electing to cleave to my side at the playground rather than run and frolic on the slides and jungle gym.

Yes, that should have been the BIG RED FLAG.

Of course, what could I have done with that flag?  It's not like we were going to the movies and staying home instead was an option.  We had to get on a plane.  We had to get to Kansas City, where my little sister was going to graduate from high school the following day.

So off I went to the airport, cranky toddler and wayward first-grader in tow.  In the taxi, I actually started to wonder if maybe the worst was behind me, as the spawn were lulled by New York City traffic into a bit of a lumpy haze.  Seeing as how I hadn't just adopted these children from the local orphanage the day before, but rather had been a parent for SIX years, I'm still unclear from whence that cute little Pollyanna moment emerged.  It's not like I'm optimistic by nature.  Maybe my fight or flight instinct kicked in, and the universe intervened to head off another incident of child abandonment.  

Whatever the genesis, we rode in mostly peaceful silence to LaGuardia, got out at the Delta terminal, and got through security with nary a peep.

What happened next should have been documented through video, as it would be a really good form of birth control for teenagers thinking about having unprotected sex.  Alas, I had forgotten to pack the camera in the craziness of the morning.  Maybe this anecdote can be dramatically re-enacted instead.

Following a coffee & magazine stop for me (ahh, the wishful thinking continued), and a muffin and activity book break for the boys, we sat down near the gate, otherwise known as The People-Filled Space Where All Children Feel the Need to Spill Juice, Fight with their Siblings, and Generally Act Like They Are Being Raised By A Lush Mother and the Feral Cat Next Door. Are you with me?

The flight, horrifyingly, was delayed.

Twice.

By the time we got on the plane, I needed Xanax or wine.  Preferably both.  Again, wishful thinking for my woefully unprepared ass.

Since my younger is over two, I had to purchase a seat for him.  Which meant he had to sit in it. Because the minute that second birthday hits, it turns out, it's illegal for the child to ride in your lap for takeoff and landing.  Of course, how does one explain the vagaries of NTSB rules to a screaming toddler?  So taxi and takeoff were an exercise in lung capacity for Dash.

Note to self: on return flight, lie about little one's age.

Muttering obscenities and sounding like a crazy lady, I went to my happy place in my head until the plane leveled out in the air and I could move seats to cradle my half-insane-with-misery child without incurring the wrath of the flight attendants, whose moods with me were already in the toilet.

The rest of the flight went like this:

No, we're not there yet.

Stop kicking the seat.

We aren't allowed to use that bathroom; because it's for First Class.

Stop kicking the seat.

First Class is for people who pay more to sit in bigger seats.

No, I can't give them my debit card so we can sit up there.

Stop kicking the seat.

Sorry, sir.

We'll be there when we land.

No, you can't have more ginger ale.

Put the window shade up.

Stop hitting your brother.

Put the window shade up.

Stop hitting me.

Stop kicking the seat.

No, really, stop hitting me.

Sorry, miss.

We still have two hours to go.

No, Kansas City is not in Canada.  No, it's not in Brazil either.

It's in Missouri.  No, Missouri is not in Canada.  Brazil either.

No, I don't have any M&Ms.

Put the window shade up.

I don't know how fast we're going.

Stop kicking the seat.

No, we can't call your father.

I don't know why I didn't bring the portable DVD player.

No, I don't have my iPod.

There's an hour and 55 minutes left.

Leave your seatbelt on.

Stop kicking the seat.

We'll be there in an hour and 45 minutes.

I'm so sorry, sir.  Can I rock your baby back to sleep?

Leave your seatbelt on.

We land in an hour and a half.

Do you have to go number one or number two?

Can it wait?

We'll be there when we get there.

Stop kicking the seat.

I don't care if you're thirsty, it's not my fault you knocked your cup over.

I'm so completely and totally sorry ma'am - can I pay to have that drycleaned?

Put your seatbelt back on.

Sorry, miss.

We have an hour and 20 minutes to go.

Stop kicking the seat.

Put the window shade up.

Stop hitting your brother.

Do you hate me?  Because you're acting like you hate me.  Otherwise, you would listen.

I know he smells, I can't get up to change his diaper right now.

Stop kicking the seat.

Stop kicking your brother.

Multiply that times eleventeen; and imagine for a second that the spawn are, intermittently, playing the I'm-Not-Touching-You-Game.  And exchanging bad Knock-Knock jokes with me.

Upon arrival, I think I saw a couple of people weep with relief.  Or maybe it just seemed like it through my own tears.

And then be advised that I had a two-hour drive to the middle of the state of Missouri ahead of me.

Donations to my therapy (drinking) fund may be sent to my home address.  We take credit cards, money orders, checks, cash, and American Express gift cards.

Thank you.