As a 35 year old women surrounded by 20-something college kids everyday, I will admit that from time to time, I find said kids a bit trying. However, truth be told, I am often more comfortable around this age set because every 35 year old woman I know is drowning in children, play dates, soccer practice, ballet, and Hannah Montana-whathaveyou which makes them completely incapable of discussing other things like the Israeli-Syrian peace talks and the last episode of South Park.

That is not to say that I am fully up front with my classmates about my age either. While I come across as a slightly elder, learn-ed statesman, it is often assumed that I am in my late 20’s, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told, and I’m sticking to that-I might even cling, just a bit.

Which is why I now tell everyone I am 42.

I know, it seems slightly, okay, terrifically crack-pot, but you have to hear me out on this one:

It all started with “Lisa”. Lisa and I met one day in the student coffee shop and started kvetching about the college kiddies. Since we’re the same age, the morning coffee run became a bit of a therapy session as we both bitched about how hard it could be being students around other students of a different generation. Lisa and I ended up in a same class together where I then learned that Lisa was lying about her age. To our classmates, Lisa was not 35, but 26. Solidarity, sisterhood and all things being equal, I did not reveal Lisa’s secret. However, in a group discussion with classmates, someone said something to the effect that of course Lisa and I held the same opinion because we were “obviously the same age”, and I was so pissed at Lisa for lying about “our age” that before I could think about it, I found myself going in the opposite direction.

And Bang! Zow! You should see the reaction this gets! See, while Lisa can pass for 26, it’s a tough 26. Put Lisa next to an actual 26 year old and there’s some noticeable differences. Me, however, I don’t pass for 42, and no one believes that I am, nor should they, but that’s not the point. The point is, at 35, I look good, at 42, however, I look phenomenal. The “No way! You’re not that old!” comments fly, but I just respond with a “Who lies about that sort of thing?” (me, apparently) and that ends the discussion.

This then leads to the inevitable: what’s your secret? questions to which I reply: don’t smoke, workout, sleep, and stay out of the sun. All of which I actually do, so let’s hope the results hold.

(This also gets the young college boys thinking they might want some advanced-age lovin’ and, dudes, what’s up with that? Why am I untouchable at 35 but “hot” at 42? Forbidden fruit? I’m sorry, Sailor Man aside, that mere thought of being called a “cougar” is just something I can’t even deal with in this lifetime.)

So why do any of this? Mostly because my real age is no one’s damn business. So what does lying about being older prove? It proves nothing. But I think it does accomplish something and that is this: getting people to re-think women in their 40’s. As a woman looking down the barrel of the big 4-0, this is something I am sensitive to. So maybe this is my way of practicing for the real thing. Men hit 40 and it’s like nothing happens. Women hit 40 and it’s all menopause-wrinkles-sagging-skin-decline-to-cronedom.

So, harmless white lie? I wonder. I admit, I probably haven’t thought this all the way through. In the meantime, I am enjoying the benefits of being an older women. It’s liberating really. General public expectations for advancing age are so shamefully low, that really, anything I do around campus garners raves. If you don’t believe me, you should see the guys in the weight room at school when I put up 200 on my bench. I know, I know, it’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s preposterous. Don’t think the irony is lost on me.

But for now, I’m a fabulous 42. Of course, pretty soon, I’ll be 43 (start of a new school term). So that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Suddenly, turning 40 isn’t looking so bad, now that I’m getting the hang of it.

Former North Carolina Senator, Jesse Helms, died today at the age of 86. A staunch conservative and fierce supporter of racial segregation, Helms, needless to say, was not what I like to think of being the best America has to offer.

So think it so terribly fitting that Mr. Helms passed away on this day, July 4th, the anniversary of American Independence. I hope, in the end, that Mr, Helms came to see the error in his policies of hate, fear, and exclusion. I hope Mr. Helms recognized the absolute shame of his verbal hate mongering. I hope Mr. Helms came to realize that no country is ever truly free when you fail to acknowledge the basic humanity of all persons, male or female, black, white or otherwise.

I’m feeling generous when it comes to Mr, Helms to day because it is the 4th of July and the birth of a nation that has it in itself to be great although it doesn’t always behave as such. This is a day for optimism. So for for Jesse Helms, I hope.

It’s a dangerous thing for me to get my hair cut when I’m having a bad day. Add to that bad day frizzy, uncontrollable hair due to weather and general hair styling ineptitude, and voila! I’m begging for a close shave to the scalp.

So it was that day, Saturday, that I plodded into the place where I get my hair cut, basically an in-out shop where cuts are cheap and appointments unnecessary, and the place was jammed. My mane was a tangled mess of usual nastiness and I was rather dismayed that no one was available. I noticed an empty chair at the same time the reception-person mentioned that “C” was available if I was interested. I had no idea who “C” was and I was desperate, so one shit-yeah later and I’m being walked to the back just as “C” is walking out.

“C” is the shop’s lone black stylist. I normally see her only working with the black clientele, and by the look on her face when she saw who was sitting in her chair, I gathered that assessment to be correct.

“C” sighed an “okay, here we go” under her breath and asked what she could do for me. I replied that I would be most grateful if she could just shave my head. This provoked a laugh and off we went. I relayed the long, sad, and troubled history of my hair: red (obviously), wavy (and not in a good way), thick (duh), and too much of it (obviously). I have straightened, permed, dyed and tortured my hair for eons and it simply will not obey. As such, I wish it banished from my existence.

“C” laughs, inspects and pronounces that I’ve been styling my wrong. This, I’ve heard before, but I let her do her thing nonetheless. Only, there’s a snag to my rhetoric this time. This time, someone, “C”, is actually right about my hair.

“C” shows me how to blow dry my hair, how to use the straight iron and and what temperature, what shampoo to use, what ingredients to look for, what conditioner to use, and what styling products to use and not use, and what kind of brush I need. “C” then teased me about being the “whitest, white girl with ’sister’ hair”, rang me up and sent me along my utterly grateful way.

Normally, this is all yeah, yeah, whatever, but the here’s the thing: my hair has looked awesome 3 washings since Saturday. It’s straight, it’s smooth, it’s shiny like effen gossamer, and it only took half the amount of time to dry (it usually takes a full 45 minutes to dry my damn hair). Humidity? No problem. Ride a bike to work? Hair is still straight by the time I get there.

I’ve blogged before about trying to clean up my beauty routine act, and my hair is always this biggest bump when traveling down that rocky road. How lame is it that it never occurred to me see someone who would specialize in dealing with hair like mine? Doesn’t matter, now, what does matter is results. It’s so insanely stupid to write this, but I do feel like a whole new person.

So thanks a million “C”, you’ve done this “sister” a solid and have got a client for life.

Dagnabbit! I’ve been memed! Again! But since it’s Turkish Prawn, who graciously loaned me the use of a shower and power tools (not together) while I was camping out at the house in Maine, I feel I can’t pass this up.

So here’s the run-down:

The idea is to write your memoir or epitaph in six words. If you can add an image to go along with it, so much the better. Then, simply sneak up behind 5 unsuspecting friends and whap them in the back of the head with it. Links need to be provided to the person who whapped you and to the originator of the meme, so they can see how far the thing goes. You can check out the place where it all began for a better explanation of the rules.

However, being a red head, and thus, somewhat ADHD with the mood swings, I couldn’t decide on just one submission.

First, The Kinda-Haiku style memior:

Scary Red Hair

Fiercer Than You

Second: The Action Memoir:

Quaffing! Ranting! Plotting! Thinking! Lifting! Drinking!

Lastly, the Favorite Things Memoir:

Music, Cartoons, Comics, Risk, Whiskey, Sailor-Man

I know, I know, breaking “the rules”, but my blog, my choice! But here’s the problem now: everyone I know has already done this damn thing so I have no idea who to pass it on to. So if there’s any volunteers…??? Hildigunnur? Have you been victimized with this yet??? If anyone should come up with something terribly thoughtful and interesting, I’m putting my money on our Icelandic friend here…

I was offered the chance to take a science class this summer on someone else’s dime and I jumped at the opportunity as the class is about environmental problem solving. Anyhoo-field trips abound, which is great because it has introduced me to the Tom Ridge Environmental Center, a community garden, and persons doing research for the betterment of Erie’s environment. All good stuff.

So today we journeyed to the Erie Waste Water Treatment Facility and all I can say is dammmmmmmnnnn. I am a changed human being.

Let’s just get the issue of “smell” out the way right now. There’s 3 levels of odor which can only be described as the following:

1. Stinky. Sure, it’s smelly, but certainly nothing to toss your cookies over.

2. Stanky. Okay, the eyes are watering a bit, but if you focus on breathing through your mouth, you might get through it long enough to find a bathroom and lose your lunch there.

3. Oh-My-Dear-Dog-What-IS-That?!: It’s vile, it’s indecent, it’s the worst thing you’ve ever experienced and you don’t want to describe it, because that just means you have to relive an experience you’d really rather forget. Unfortunately, no, gas masks are not available and a decomposing rat inside a small car on a hot, sunny day smells like fresh spring flower by comparison.

The tour of the facility is provided by Laurann, a small, powerhouse blond who has worked at the facility a good long time and provides a thoroughly entertaining experience. Yes, I said it, entertaining. She knows her stuff, she obviously must like her job to endure such a smell, and she doesn’t mince words which is something no one should do in light of such filth as human waste. The word “poo” gets used quite often and the descriptors such as “stinky”, “flaming”, and “nasty” are, more often than not, involved in the sentence.

The EWWTF is, quite simply, a marvel. It is a marvel of efficiency, ingenuity, and environmental conscienceness. Every acting president should have to work a day at one before they ever consider allowing a reduction in water standards. Hell, every person in this country should be required to spend a day at one before turning on another water tap.

I have a whole new appreciation for our water systems in this country and consider myself damn fortunate to be here and not, say, in India. As of today, my garbage disposal is a White Elephant. All food stuffs are now going directly into the trash. I’ve made a slow move towards biodegradable cleaning products for a while now and I’ve decided that I will complete that turn-over this weekend. I am inspired and determined to make it last.

Right after I burn the clothes I wore to the plant today.

Far be it for me to agree with Supreme Court Justices Scalia, Roberts, Thomas, and Alito, but sometimes my Irish gets the best of me.

The Supreme Court struck down the death penalty for child rape convictions. Justice Anthony Kennedy, writing for the majority opinion, states: “The death penalty is not a proportional punishment for the rape of a child.”

Oh yeah? Tell that to a parent who has to pick up the pieces of their child’s life destroyed. Tell that to any child who has survived such an attack.

The justices cite that such penalties constituted cruel and unusual punishment. I offer a few of the following as rebuttal:

•The typical offender is male, begins molesting by age 15, engages in a variety of deviant behavior, and molests an average of 117 youngsters, most of whom do not report the offense.
-Dr. Gene Abel in a National Institute of Mental Health Study.

• More than 1/2 of all convicted sex offenders are sent back to prison within a year. Within 2 years, 77.9% are back.
-California Department of Corrections.

• Recidivism rates range from 18-45%. The more violent the crime the more likelihood of repeating.
-Studies by the state of Washington.

• 3 in 10 child victimizers reported that they had committed their crimes against multiple victims: they were more likely than those who victimized adults to have had multiple victims.
-BJS Survey of State Prison Inmates, 1991.

• Like rape, child molestation is one of the most underreported crimes: only 1-10% are ever disclosed.
-FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin.

• The behavior is highly repetitive, to the point of compulsion, rather than resulting from a lack of judgment.
-Dr. Ann Burges, Dr. Nicholas Groth, et al. in a study of imprisoned offenders.

And, unfortunately, I could go on.

I don’t have children but I have nieces and nephews for whom I wouldn’t hesitate to cut a thumb off for and you can be damn sure that if anyone perpetrated such crime upon them, I would be hunting that offender down with dogs, guns and immeasurable fury. Children are the most defenseless of our population and if these people are not going to be kept off the streets, then they need to be done away with.

My friend “L” is in town this weekend. And while we haven’t seen each other in 4 years, we can both easily agree this is probably a good thing. See, whenever hanging with L, I have to be very careful with what I say because whenever I utter something remotely predictive around L, it tends to come true.

People’s Exhibit #1:

Me: Hey, what do you want to bet the guy with least amount teeth in this bar tries to by us a shot?

People’s Exhibit #2:

Me: Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if a cop pulled us over while we have the blow-up doll in the car?

People Exhibit #2b (5 minutes later):

Me. Don’t worry, no cop is gonna give you a ticket when you have a blow-up doll in the car.

People’s Exhibit #3:

Me: Hey, what a beautiful day! All we need is for me to get stung by a bee so I can miss it by spending the day in the emergency room.

You get the picture…

So, L is visiting and the magic seems to be off. And I’m not sure what has happened. Of course it’s easy to predict that a bad band will play Rum Runners and that the ear piercing decibels of sound at Molly Brannigans will drive you from the bar, because these things always happened. And betting that 4 Key Lime Martini’s at Scotty’s will be the near death of you is pretty much a no-brainer. Estimative words of probability need not apply.

So what has happened? Where the spontaneity? Where’s the mystery? Is Erie just that predictable? Or have my nights out become predictable?

See, L used to be my wing-man back living on the Eastern Shore of Maryland when while drinking at bars, I would break out an Arkansas accent and become “Candy: The Stripper Who Couldn’t Dance”. She never questioned me, she just went with it and would become “Addfwyn: The Overly Talkative Welsh Woman No One Could Understand Except Her Friend Candy”.

Nights like those tend to lead to a certain amount of unpredictability which made my proclamations all that more remarkable. This weekend, however, not a one. My tuning must be off.

But I have one day. Maybe I can pull a rabbit out of my hat. I hope so. I need an adventure.

So that this does not come across as a complete non-sequitor, I was driving to MY ISLAND last weekend and I kept humming this tune that I could not place. It bounced around in my noggin driving me effin bonkers all weekend.

It finally occured to me last night what it was: The Faygo Boat Song.

I’m from Detroit and back in the day, we used to drink the hometown brews of Vernors, Town Club and Faygo. Faygo released this utterly fantastic commercial way back complete with the a song that kicks the crap out of that Coca-Cola song.

So here’s the thought process, or so I think: Island in Maine was an amusement park until about the 1920’s. You take a boat to get there. In the Detroit River, there’s an island called Bois Blanc which was an amusement park called “Boblo Island” and you took a river boat to get there. Faygo filmed the commercial on one of the Boblo Boats and hence, the mice in brain latched onto repressed memories and here you go:

1. Those punk-ass bitches in their “Urban Assault Vehicles” who mocked my Yaris at the gas station last summer are now sucking up and are soooo impressed with my gas mileage. Bite me losers!! Enjoy that $100 fill-up!!

2. Given #1, feeling smug is fun.

3. Writing down all the NPR stations between Erie and Maine was a fabulously good investment of time. As soon as one station faded to static, presto change-o! New NPR station!!

4. WTF is with Red Necks living above the Mason-Dixon?? Please stay where we can keep an eye on you-down South! I had no less than 3 encounters with Bubbas in pick-up trucks and Confederate flags in the back window trying to pick me up at a gas station.

5. With regards to #4, seriously dudes, you live in the Poconos, Catskills and Adirondack regions and you’re rockin’ a mullet, a racist flag, a rust bomb truck, and a twang???….you’re in upstate New York you loons!! Do us all a favor and learn to ski, scarf speedys, and drink bad wine from the Finger Lakes region.

6. Up-state New York is interminably long….and sooooooooooooo boring to drive across…must.stay.alert….very.bored…losing.consciousnes…….snnnnnnnnnnzzzzzzzzz………..

7. Annoying and awesomely bad music is the best thing staying awake in your car. I recommend Tom Jones Reloaded. The Greatest Hits collection.

8. Having to pull over and scrub the dead bugs off your windshield just so you can see is way gross.

9. Cute and charming towns I noted at night on the way out to Maine-not so cute nor charming on the way back. I suppose I should thank daylight for that.

10. The Hypermiling movement must be catching on because I found a tremendous drop in the acts of douchebaggery out on the open road.

…to be continued…

It was the first thing I did when I saw the house for the first time. The inside was a mess, but the front porch was clearly built for proclamations. So I hopped on the bench (in front of Sailor and the realtor who, oddly, didn’t even blink at my doing such a thing) and proclaimed the island to be mine. Stephen, the crazy little Irishman from the movie “Braveheart”. That’s his line and I’ve borrowed it often.

So here I am, back “home” in Maine where the weather is civilized, the skies are blue, the beach glass picking is in full harvest, the graveyard next to my house is a bit overgrown, and the ravens are in full glory. Ah, sigh….it’s good to be back.

Sailor Man and I have been trying to sell this house forever. However, the market sucks, land values have dropped, and tack on the difficulty of island life (for some people anyway, we loved it), and well, you get the picture. While financially it would be better sooooooo much easier to sell the house, emotionally, maybe, not so much. Frankly, it never was.

I think it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet, pull it off market, and rent it out. I don’t relish the thought of being an absentee landlord, but we can no longer afford to keep carrying the mortgage as is. The market will recover eventually, and who knows? Maybe it will be enough time for us to be back here for good.