Tuesday, December 18, 2007

I will tell you what being 30 is about: It is about throwing up.

I have been thirty years old for approximately two days now. Of those two days, fifty percent of my time has been consumed by the stomach flu from hell.

No one tells you that once you turn thirty, half your life will be spent embracing the toilet bowl as though it were a cold porcelain mother that never hugs you back. Well, for those of you still under the age, I offer you TRUTHS that those over thirty NEVER warn you of. Based on my own personal assessments, I have gleaned that when you reach the age of thirty, you will experience:

One chapped lip. Not two, just one. The top one.

Profuse stomach cramps and vomiting (or an urgent, frustrating, unrequited need to puke.)

A profound dislike of birthday cake (unrelated to the flu, most likely related to having eaten half your body weight in cake on the day of celebration.)

Uncontrollable urges to tell other people (in their twenties) that they will understand "when they are thirty."

A frequent need to locate at least two mirrors in your house, in order to ascertain if you have suddenly acquired a "mom butt."

Your tailbone will hurt. This may be due to the fact that you have propped a video rocker on the seat of your desk chair to achieve the height necessary to reach your keyboard, rather than buy an adjustable desk chair. Or it's just because you're thirty. Probably the latter.

You will start thinking things like, "I should probably start doing kegels," and "I wonder how long I will keep all my original teeth?" This is just creepy.

You will face the painful realization that you weren't a teenager "a few years ago," but rather "half your life ago". On the upside, this places more psychological distance between the you of now, and the you with bad eighties bangs.

Your kids will remind you that thirty is REALLY OLD! Then, you will necessarily remind them that you may be old, but they still can't outrun you, and you know where the haircutting paraphernalia is.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

I Have Been Science-ing and Have Made Profound Discoveries.

I have always considered science to be an area in which I am less than prone to brilliance. I am turning thirty in couple of weeks, and have been examining myself in all sorts of existential, aesthetic, and aromatic regards.

I have determined that one of the foremost efforts I would like to make in bettering myself concerns my well-roundedness. Not my boobs, tyvm, but my overall knowledge and versatility as a human being.

As such, I spent a length of time today (approximately an hour and a half) engaged in lofty scientific thought and hypothesis and have realized that it is really not that difficult to unearth novel and startling assertions of the nature of scientific stuff.

Thus, I present to you:


1. Tryptophan causes strep throat.

Evidence: Last week, I ate a lot of turkey. Turkey has tryptophan in it. I have strep throat.
Formulaicly: T(tryptophan) + E (eating of it) = ST[cr] (strep throat and possibly crying)

2. Microwave popcorn manufacturers are financially backed by prosthetic arm manufacturers.

Evidence: I was making some popcorn. I opened the bag. Steam poured out and burned my arm, causing me to swing the viciously stinging appendage in a haphazard manner, slamming it into the side of the microwave off of which a large bowl fell, shattering into large, dagger-sharp pieces which could have severed my arm. I would have needed a prosthetic arm, had mine been severed and impossible to reattach. Prosthetic arms are expensive.

Formulaicly: Mp(microwave popcorn) + C (cooking it) + SoAwBfoM (slicing off arm with bowl that fell off microwave) = P (prosthetic arm)

3. George Bush stole the turn signal from my minivan.

Evidence: Someone stole the turn signal off my minivan while it was parked in our driveway. I have seen no reference to Bush's whereabouts at the time my blinker light was stolen. Bush's car seems to have a turn signal. Bush likes to steal things like oil and our children's legacy.

Formulaicly: Mt (missing turn signal) + Nba (no Bush alibi) + Bt (Bush has a turn signal) + Bs (Bush is a stealer) = BsT (Bush stole my turn signal.)

4. I could totally take Condoleeza Rice.

Evidence: I am a lot taller than Condoleeza Rice. I am a lot younger than Condoleeza Rice. I have much cheaper clothing and shoes than Condoleeza Rice, and would not care if they were damaged in a scrap with her.

Formulaicly: T(taller than CR) + Y (younger than CR) Cc (cheaper duds than CR) = Tt (I could totally take Condoleeza Rice.)

5. Changing diapers is a man's job.

Evidence: Diapers, like men, are prone to horrific odors. Diaper changing involves spatial skills (which are typically a male-oriented strength) due to the necessity of proper orientation of the diaper and tabs. Men typically have better arm strength- a necessity for baby butt lifting at the wiping stage of a diaper change.

Formulaicly: O(parallel incidence of male/diaper odors) + S (male spatial skills) + As (superior male arm strength) = Md (men are better designed for the task of changing diapers)

There you have it- scientific delineations of a profound nature from a new, more well-rounded Lara. Tomorrow, I may tackle the intricacies of mathematic principles, using many large numbers and symbols including +, %, /, and my personal favorite, these things: [ ]