The Perils of South Superhighway and other Meaningless Conversations

Feel free to skip reading this. It has no point, no meaningful social commentary and no literary value whatsoever.  If however, like me, you feel the need to sit back for a few moments and just let your mind go blank, then go ahead.  (However, you have been warned. I will not be held responsible should you accidentally fall asleep and hit your head on the desk in front of you.)

Let me tell you about…traffic.

Yes, traffic.  

The horrible, horrible traffic I have to endure two and a half to three hours every day.

The kind of horrible traffic that has caused to me unconsciously memorize the order in which billboards appear along South Luzon Expressway – my personal favorites being the one with Judy Ann Santos gazing sultrily at a plastic water bottle and the one with the new (to my vocabulary) word “Jeggings” (which apparently, are a form of clothing being a hybrid of “jeans” and “leggings” – in other words, baston pants. What’s next?!! Acid wash?!@!#@). 

The hideous, mind-numbing crawl home every night which ends in….

Traffic and the meaningless conversations you have with your spouse in the car whilst stuck somewhere along SLEX (damn you Skyway 2 project!@#!@#!).   So without much ado, here are our top conversations….

On irritating sales girls, poverty and alien civilizations: 

Ron      :           So what did you do today honey?

M        :           I had lunch with my friend Emily at Bistro Boheme – you know where Blanvil was?

Ron      :           How was it?

M        :           It was great, except the chef kept walking around…looking at you. Like he’s not gonna be happy if you don’t look happy eating the food.

Ron      :           I know! I hate that.  I also hate those salesgirls that follow you around stores.

M        :           Hmmm….I get that a lot. I think it’s because I look poor.

Ron      :           SO what did you have for lunch?

M        :           Gravlax.

Ron      :           Gravlax? Why would you order that?

M        :           Why not?

Ron      :           It sounds like an alien civilization.  Like “here come the Gravlax to take over the earth and enslave humans”.

M        :           Actually I think it sounds like constipation medicine. You know, like Dulcolax.

Ron      :           Why’d you order it then? You’re a weirdo.

M        :           Really? Who’s weirder huh? The weirdo or the one that married the weirdo.

Ron      :           Well I didn’t know you were a weirdo until I married you.

M        :           Dude, the fact that I agreed to marry you in the first place should have tipped you off!

 On music, medical emergencies and bad hair…..

M        :           I would never watch Michael Bolton in concert.

                        (Gesturing to radio, over which aforesaid MB is belting out “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You”)

Ron      :           Me neither.  I’d get a headache from all the screeching.

M        :           Actually, I’d be scared to sit in front.

Ron      :           Huh?

M        :         Do you think it hurts when he screeches like that? What if he pops a vein in his neck and then dies on stage or the blood splashes on you in the front row. Ugh.

Ron      :         Well if he does, I hope they give him a haircut before the funeral. Bald men with long hair in the back are really scary.

M        :         I know! Does he think growing it long in the back will compensate for the lack of it front? If you ever have hair like that, I’ll leave you.

Ron      :          Ok. Ditto if you ever start wearing dusters and walking around with curlers in your hair.

M        :           (Offended) Hey! I thought you liked my duster!

 On homosexuality, disappointments and life time goals.

Ron      :           Did you know Ricky Martin is gay?

M        :           Of course not!

Ron      :           No really. It’s in the news. He admitted to being gay already.

M        :           Oh no! How do we break the news to Beng?

Ron      :           We’ll tell her he turned gay because they didn’t end up together and his heart is broken.

M        :           My heart is broken too! Now I’ll never get to shake my bonbons at a Ricky Martin concert. I always wanted to shake my bonbons at a Ricky Martin concert. Sigh. Sigh.

Ron      :           Miscen, he didn’t die, he just             admitted he was gay.

M        :           Yes but since he’s gay, he’s not gonna care about my shaking bonbons!

Ron      :           You’re…

M        :           Yes, yes, I know. I’m weird…

On politics, the next president and Philippine cinema…

Ron      :           So have you decided who to vote for?

M        :           I’m leaning towards Gordon.

Ron      :           Gordon?

M        :           Yes. I would have voted for Noynoy but I’m afraid Kris Aquino will end up running the country and we’ll all be forced to make obeisance before her.

Ron      :           I hate to tell you this but you kind of look like Kris Aquino

                        (OMINOUS SILENCE FOLLOWS)

Ron      :           Just kidding.    So anyway, I think she should just stick to her television shows and leave politics alone.

M        :           Yes. It would be a waste of SUCH talent.  Think of all the movies that never would have been made --- Humanda Ka Mayor! (Bahala na ang Diyos), The Vizconde Massacre (God Help Us ), or the Myrna Diones Story (Lord Have Mercy) and  Patayin sa Sindak Si Barbara.  The Fatima Buen Story.  You massacre it, they’ll make a Kris Aquino movie out of it!

Ron      :           Why do you know all this stuff?

M        :           I googled it. Don’t you notice that in most of her movies, someone wants to kill her, tries to kill her or actually kills her?

Ron      :           Why is that, you think?

M        :           Well…probably because people want to kill her? I don’t know!!

Ron      :          That’s just mean.

M        :         You can say that because you’ve never actually had to sit through one of her movies.

Ron      :           Like you have.

M        :           I did! My friend Noni was in one of them and he gave us tickets to watch him – it   was his first movie.

Ron      :           So how was it?

M        :           Let’s just say it was probably wrong of me to root for the homicidal maniacs…but that was the only way to stop her from screaming….(shudders)

Ron     :          That's just mean.

M        :           You keep saying that. You know what else is scary?

Ron      :           What?

M         :           Most of those movies were directed by Carlo J. Caparas.

Ron      :           Maybe he wants to kill her too.

M         :           You have a point there.  And he's running for senator!

Ron      :           So who ARE you going to vote for?

M         :           Carlo J. Caparas  

Ron     :            No, for president.

M         :          Fine. Fine. Noynoy then. 

                      But at the rate we're going, you could still end up with Kris Aquino as President one day.  Then they could really make a movie about her life and why she should never have run for public office…they could call it “The Kris Aquino Story – God Save the Philippines and the Whole World”.

Ron      :           You’re weird.

M        :           Are we BACK to this again?

Freedom of Speech (...and Other Myths Your Political Law Teacher Told You.)

My bad.

I am now persona non grata in certain segments of the population as a certain blog entry offended and outraged particular segments of society (hereafter referred to as “SOS”) who  do not share my (admittedly) warped sense of humor.    

In fairness to them, I admit I was very harsh. But then again, I am no less harsh with myself when I make fun of things I do or say – and again admittedly, I do a lot of (usually unintentionally) dumb-ass things - which invariably end up here, in my blog, being made fun of, by ME.

I am always the first to laugh at myself and don’t mind if others do it too.  Life would be sooooo boring if we just sat around being perfect. Plus, there would be no room left in heaven for all of us saints.

In fairness to myself however, I always made it very clear that this blog was sardonic and satirical and that it should be read not just with a grain of salt, but with a whole saltshaker and then some.

sat·ire : Pronunciation: \ˈsa-ˌtī(-ə)r\,  Function: noun ;  Etymology: Middle French or Latin; Middle French, from Latin satura, satira, perhaps from (lanx) satura dish of mixed ingredients, from feminine of satur well-fed; akin to Latin satis enough;  Date: 1501   1 : a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn; 2 : trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice or folly.

Thus in my blog, the use of hyperbole as a literary device is not only to be expected, but is in fact, celebrated as an integral part of my mordant and periodically morbid sense of humor. 

Otherwise, I would be writing about the weather. And since we only have two kinds - "hot"  and "hotter than hell"  - I would be boring you all (and myself) to death. 

But then, I should have seen it coming.  Or more precisely, I should have listened to my best friend Rutchie – “If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything”. 

She said this so often in college I can hear her voice in my head now.  Or perhaps, certain SOS are correct and I just need a shrink - hearing voices in my head CANNOT be good....

As I recall, neither Rutchie nor any of our other roommates - paging Michelle - followed this advice. Nonetheless, she was right -which is not to say that what she says is possible.

 In that ideal world, not only would everyone only say nice things (and I probably would be mute), everyone would also obey traffic laws and Santa Claus would really exist.  Also, I would be a perfect size 2, politicians would be honest and there would be no famine, no bad hair days, no war, no Kris Aquino movies, no disease and no natural calamities.

Ah…the perils of free speech. 

Clearly, the founding fathers did not foresee the extent of the violent reactions and self-justified wrath that would be unleashed when I chose to exercise my right of expression.  (I need to pick a bone with the Constitutional Convention delegates of 1987 – clearly, the enshrinement of the right to free expression was NOT properly screened. )  

Admittedly my exercise of the right was NOT kind, flattering or politically correct, but then again, you also have the right NOT to read what I write – you can even use the paper it’s printed on as toilet paper. 

It IS after all, a free country and as they say, it’s your butt (I was about to write “ass” but thought the better of it – See! I am capable of improvement.).

They say eavesdroppers will always hear no good about themselves. I don’t know exactly who “they” are - but they were right.   The same goes for blog lurkers.

We Filipinos have a saying – “Bato-bato sa langit, tamaan ‘wag magalit.”  It bears no translation - even a rough translation. (Or maybe I’m just intellectually challenged since because I can’t find any English words to replicate the elegant alliteration and graceful cadences of aforesaid phrase). 

It sort of means that when words of criticism (and all caution, apparently) are thrown to the winds and like rocks, they fall from the sky, those who get smacked in the head by aforementioned generic rocks shouldn’t complain. Otherwise, they run the risk of identifying themselves as the persons adverted to.   

(Ok, that’s very convoluted – you’re probably lost – I lost myself somewhere in the rock analogy as well.)

So to put things simply, I realize that it is only when some small (but noisy) part of you actually believes you could possibly (even a teeny, tiny bit) wrong or guilty of the accusation, that you are most outraged, vehement and defensive.  This is why the truth hurts - otherwise, you really wouldn’t care.   So thanks Rutchie for putting me in the proper perspective.

And this is why I admit I was wrong.  Not for thinking the things I thought, because clearly, I am entitled to that – but for putting them down in writing.  In other words – I should listen to Rutchie more often.

Because as I have discovered, freedom of expression is NOT really free.
(I really need to review my Political Law notes...)

And by way of penance, I’m going to Makati Cinema Square to locate the complete DVD Collection of Kris Aquino’s dramatic films and watch them over and over to atone for my sins.    

Paging Ben Barnes

It's Saturday lunch and my poor unfortunate sister is once again the center of attention.  She's pretty, a doctor, little kids love her, she's very smart, is funny and yet inexplicably,  is still unattached.   Since she's 32, my mom and dad have been paying very unhealthy attention to her social life lately.  

Dad             : So did X (a persistent admirer) call you?

Sister           : (Scowls at the poor, blameless, unoffending plate of food in front of her)

(Meanwhile Ron tries to not to laugh and envisions the impending fireworks)

Dad           :  So did he call you?

Sister         :  (Exasperated) Yes, yes he did. I wish he wouldn't.

Dad           :   E bakit e makikipag-usap lang naman.

Sister         :   Ano papag-usapan namin? We really have nothing to talk about.

Dad            :  Well if you talked to him, you might find something to talk about.
Ron            :   It's ok Beng. I get it. I support Beng.
Miscen to Ron :  Sip sip!

Miscen       :   Dad, let it go. Baka they have nothing in common and she just doesn't find him cute.

Sister         :   (Rolls her eyes)

Mom          :   Aba, hindi pwede yung basta cute! Aanuhin mo ng guapo nga tapos wala namang trabaho.  Ano ang magyayari sa yo? Paano kung  guapo nga tapos papaglabahin ka naman! Sa  palagay mo ba magiging maganda ka pa rin kung sampung taon ka ng naglalaba?

Ron            :  Tama ka mommy te.
                     Miscen! Mag-laba ka!

Beng          :  Mommy, hindi lahat ng guapo ptoor. At hindi lahat ng pangit mayaman. 

Miscen       :  Oo nga mommy, si Ben Barnes guapo yon! At siguro naman may washing machine sila!

(Mommy does not find this funny. Leaves the table.) 

End of lunch.

When we were growing up, my very smart parents (who knew their daughters very well) had a very simple, yet effective strategy to make us stay on the path of the straight and narrow. 

In the case of my dad, he spoiled us to the best of his resources and abilities - always with the aim of making sure that when we grew up we would not be easily impressed by some guy in a nice car or who took us to a fancy restaurant.  He had to live up to and well, surpass the standards set by dad. And it case that failed, there was always brainwashing --- let's not forget the immortal maxim  : "Boys in motorcycles smell bad anak. Don't go out with them."

All this was done in tandem with my mother who for her part, emphasized how horrible it would be to young, married, jobless, penniless and (gasp) pregnant. "Maglalaba ka!",  followed by "Sanay ka ba maglaba?!!",  "Paano kung buntis ka na, makakapaglaba ka pa ba?"   and  "Kaya mo bang mabuhay mag-isa? Kung wala si yaya?"

Now given all of that, it was the clear and the obvious choice to just behave and stay in the nice, safe,comfortable cocoon at home with mommy and daddy?

This strategy worked very well. I think too well, as a matter of fact - I didn't get married until I was 34 and as mentioned, my sister still hasn't gotten married.

 

So the point of all this is (and yes, there IS a point) that I think people should just leave her alone. (And I promise, starting tomorrow to never ever discuss her love life with her ever again.)  She's happy as she is, she has a career that she likes, she gets enough "baby time" with Tempest when she feels motherly (with the convenience of being able to return said baby when the urge has passed) , she answers to no one (except Mom) and her room is always spotless! 

And I realize that  maybe, she doesn't WANT to get married.  Or at least not yet.

Even without having to do the laundry, marriage is not exactly the easiest thing in the world.  I know so many miserable married people - a lot them used to be my clients. After all of the nullity of marriage cases I've handled, I'm truly amazed and in awe of  couples who have managed to make their marriages work for decades.  Like my mom and dad. So I guess, this is why they keep bugging my sister to get married - because they have such a happy marriage themselves.

The one thing I've realized is this : Marriage is something you commit to everyday. Not just on your wedding day. Every single day you wake up, every time your spouse does something gross like burp in your face, or something irritating like leave her dirty clothes all over the floor, or messes up or gets caught cheating on you, you have make the commitment again.  Do you really want to wake up next to this person until your toes turn up and your heart turns off?  Can you really love her forever, even after she removes all the camouflage..er..make up?    You DECIDE to stay married and to love this person, even if they have turned back into the frog they were prior to all the kissing business.

In conclusion (and since I'm not starting the abstinence regarding Beng's love life until tomorrow ) does anyone know Ben Barnes? I know a girl I'd like him to meet....

The Second Theory of Relativity

PREFATORY STATEMENT

Tempest : “Mommy what’s a brioche?

Miscen : “It’s a loaf of bread with delusions of grandeur.”

Tempest : “What’s a croissant?”

Miscen : “It’s a pandesal with an inflated ego.”

Needless to say, Tempest was just as confused as she was prior to asking me these questions. While normally I enjoy conversations of this sort with my daughter, my brain was too foggy to engage in verbal calisthenics after a full day of work. This was further exacerbated by the fact that at the time, the entirety of my (limited) focus was held by the gooey waffle sitting in front of me and demanding my undivided attention - hence, the snappy albeit non-responsive answers.

On hindsight, I realize that my responses were unconscious expressions of my state of mind that day. Which brings me to………my second theory of Relativity.

ISSUE:

What proportion does the truth bear to the person’s concept of self?

In other words : Are you really as smart (pretty, sexy, interesting…ad nausea um)

as you think you are?

DISCUSSION

I just realized that I am too nice.

So nice that I have been on the receiving end of various forms of abuse from over-inflated (translation : hibang), excessively self-confident (translation : mayabang) and overweening (translation : mayabang na mayabang) albeit completely deluded persons for far too long.

Enough is enough. I am tired of nodding politely and agreeing, when in my evil heart, I know the opposite is true. So just to get it off my chest, here goes libel:

While walking around the office one day, a particularly unattractive office mate who thinks she’s hot, told me:

“W” : MMD, bakit ang taba-taba mo na!

(“MMD why have you gotten so fat!”)

Miscen : Ah….ganoon ba? Oo nga eh, nag di-diet nga ako eh.

(“You think? I know, I’m trying to lose weight”)

MMR (Miscen's Mental Response) : “Buti ka pa W, ang payat payat mo! Kaya lang PANGIT ka.”

(“You’re so lucky you’re thin! Too bad you’re UGLY)

“In fact, pangit ka na nga, masama pa ang ugali mo.”

I was once asked if I agreed that it was ok to ban children (one of them being my only child) from a wedding, even if (1) these were close relatives, (2) the parent had specifically flown in to attend the wedding and (3) the parent would have to SKIP the wedding because she couldn’t leave a 2 year old alone in a hotel room.

X : Don’t you think everyone is being mean to “Y” just because she banned kids from her wedding? No one told them to fly in from the States and bring their kids!

Miscen : Well…it IS her wedding after all. I guess she can do what she wants... (smiles)

MMR : Aren’t weddings about family? Maybe random kids shouldn’t go to an adult reception, but relatives? Relatives who flew in thousands of miles to be here?

Is she afraid of the competition in the cuteness department? It's not even like she's cute!!

Ok , maybe cute, like Shamu is cute.….. But then Shamu has a better personality.

At a wake, after a slideshow supposedly honoring the life of the deceased, my friend sarcastically whispers:

N (whispers) : Miscen, sino ba namatay? Si “X” ba o yung tatay nya?

(Who died? Was it X or her dad?)

Miscen (diplomatically) : Hindi ano! Bakit mo natanong?

(Why do you ask?)

N : Kasi yung slideshow mas maraming picture nya kaysa sa namatay!

(Because she had more pictures in that slideshow than the person who died!)

MMR : Girl, I’m so agreeing with you. However, I think X feels that everything, including a funeral service , is all about her. And that if isn’t, that it SHOULD be.

Or one day while in the bathroom at a former office, minding my own business and brushing my teeth, I was ambushed by a completely unsolicited declaration.

A : I would never wear fake anything. All my LVs are real and all our cars are white.

(Miscen Grabs holds on to the sink top to prevent being carried off by the ensuing hurricane of kayabangan and thinks, does she want me to genuflect? give her an award?)

Miscen : That’s great! I don’t have an LV. All our cars are white too! We have one car, it’s white.

MMR : Girl, if we WRAPPED you in Louis Vuitton and chained you to ten white Porsches, you still would look like our yaya.

CONCLUSION

Life is too short to suffer fools gladly. However, while you cannot control the delusional tendencies of the brioches and croissants around you, you can control your own delusions of grandeur. Or at least reduce them to a minimum acceptable level (i.e. the level where people like me will not write about you in their blogs).

To reduce your tendencies to turn into various forms of french pastry, remember the second theory of relativity: you are at most, only half as smart (i.e. funny, pretty…etc.) as you think you are.

I for example, am self aware that I am overweight, passably pretty, occasionally smart (always smart-mouthed), but ALWAYS polite and nice.

However, applying said theory (and after reading this last blog entry) I now realize – I am not as nice as I think I am.

---

Miscen's First Theory of Relativity

PREFATORY STATEMENT

"Mommy, how come our house looks tiny when it's far away but it’s bigger than me when I'm near it?" my four year old asked me over the weekend. "Uhmmm, because light travels at the speed of....errrmm...because...hmmm. I know! Let's ask daddy!" (Miscen smacks herself on the forehead.)

ISSUE

What exactly is the theory of relativity?

THE "DISCUSSION"

I have always been an indifferent student. Any good grades I "earned" were more the fruits of luck (a.k.a. “tsamba”) than any sincere effort on my part to learn. Come to think of it, while I MUST have actually learned enough to read, write and do simple math, most of high school seems to have passed me by in a haze. Case in point : the Theory of Relativity and a mental note I made in high school to make an effort to understand the same, at some future time, in the event that the need to actually know what it meant ever arose, possibly in college.

College passed me by equally quickly, although probably not quickly enough for my poor parents who were probably deathly afraid every day of what new mischief I would come up with (a completely groundless fear since it was my friend Myk and NOT I who would come up with these escapades). Once again, notwithstanding (a) the fact that I was in pre-med (b) my roommate Rutchie’s frequent reminders that I should study for my physics class, I STILL didn’t learn said theory. After all, this was UP Diliman in the’80s – and there were just too many other “interesting” things to be doing than sitting in a hot classroom which always vaguely smelled of the formalin wafting over from the Biology pavilion, to exert the immense (at least on my part) effort to learn what E = MC2 meant exactly.

Fortuitously, I realized early on that continuing on to medical school was not going to be my life plan. This being settled I then proceeded to coast along the rest of college in the quest of “finding out what I really want to do.” Luckily, my I had very wonderful friends who (a) included me in their group work, (b) reminded me when we had a test or a paper due and (c) generally ensured that I did not get kicked out of the pre-med program until I had gathered sufficient courage to break the news to my parents that I wasn’t going to med school. Thereafter, I drifted in law school – for the sole reason that my friend was taking the Ateneo Law School entrance examinations and was too chicken to do it by herself. So for a staggering P500.00 bribe (the cost of the application fee), I agreed to take the test too just to keep her company. In law school, I DID study – it was either that or utter and complete humiliation in front of my very competitive and grade conscious classmates.

Unfortunately, the Theory of Relativity never came up. This brings me back to my current dilemma. So I frantically Google “Theory of Relativity”. After tearing myself away from a mental tirade on Einstein and his perpetual bad hair day, I finally come up with…. 1. The laws of physics are the same for all observers in uniform motion relative to one another (principle of relativity) 2. The speed of light in a vacuum is the same for all observers, regardless of their relative motion or of the motion of the source of the light. Not very helpful. Hmm…. what pray tell is “uniform motion” and what exactly IS the speed of light in a vacuum? And assuming arguendo that I ever understand these concepts, how exactly will they improve the quality of my life?

CONCLUSION

After suffering an agony of indecision... all three minutes of it. I have come to a conclusion. Since I couldn’t find a site called “The Theory of Relativity for Dummies”, I have decided to give up and let Ron explain it to Tempest. After all, I feel I have already done my duty by carrying her in my womb for nine months, gaining 40 pounds and suffering through labor for eight hours. And then...(to plagiarize) Eureka!

Miscen's First Theory of Relativity : Relative to nine months of pregnancy, eight hours of labor and forty pounds of stubborn fat, explaining the theory of relativity (and other difficult scientific concepts) to a four year old is a piece of cake. And thus, as a corollary, the spouse that got pregnant, fat and stretch-marked is already exempt from performing the aforementioned educational duties.

Age is Just a Number ( but so is 666)

I hate that my birthday snuck up on me again. I've been ignoring it for almost three months, but unlike pesky telemarketers, the current brainless fads and my dentist reminding me of my missed appointment, it just will NOT go away. I therefore must face the cold harsh truth. I'm one, teeny, tiny year (or more precisely, 9 months) away from the big FOUR O. There's something infinitely more horrible about being 39 than being any other age -- it just seems so well...OLD. It's so horrible to me that every time one more person tells me age is a state of mind or that age is just a number, I worry that I'll end up in court on charges of assault and physical injuries if i don't restrain the urge to hurt them. Instead, I retort "Yes it is. And so is 666". It was perfectly fine when my husband turned 40. That's fine. I don't mind being married to a 40 year old, I just don't want to be one myself. And yet, here I am barely nine months away from my 40th birthday. Now before all the 40-year-olds and older organize a lynch mob to hunt me down and dismember me, let me well...as my blog says...defend my life. I have nothing against growing old. It IS inevitable after all. I just resent the fact that the last twenty years of my life seems to have just dissipated into thin air. One minute, I was in my dorm room in UP where my most serious dilemma was deciding what to wear (i.e. baston pants? stirrups?) and whether or not my Three Hundred Peso weekly allowance could possibly stretch long enough to cover yet another clandestine trip to Tia Maria's with Rutchie, Michelle and Ekay and then, bamm! here I am, balancing a check book and checking the business section of the newspaper for the current forex rates. Yikes. I'm working in a BANK for crying out loud. (The 17 year old me is probably cringing like I just uttered the words of death). What happened to the girl who could survive on three hours of sleep, party all night and still make it to an 8:30 class (running all the way from Molave to AS at that!) ? I now find her sleepy at 10:00 pm and a useless zombie unless recharged by at least six hours of sleep. A few months ago, a (much younger) friend invited me to her party at Alchemy - apparently "the" place to be (which may have changed by now, but for the life of me, I don't know). I was excited to go, notwithstanding the fact that I had a very demanding 3 year old waiting for me at home. I excitedly announced over lunch that I would be coming to the party but that I could only stay 'til eleven. A few embarrassing moments later, I was advised that parties now don't even START until eleven. Hmmmmmm. (I am apparently even more out of it than I thought.) And don't get me started on the shocking metamorphosis from a size 2 to a size 8 which inexplicably happens overnight once you hit 35. One night you go to sleep looking perfectly fine and wake up the next morning to find that a sneaky, evil elf somehow snuck into your closet and SHRUNK all your clothes!! (Or maybe you just got fat.) Turning forty is no big deal if you're one of those 40-year-olds who already has BMW, a yacht, the 2.5 kids, the house with the white picket fence and a pension plan all set for when you retire. But if you're a mommy with a 4 year old, going hormonal from the fertility treatments your OB GYN insisted you MUST have to have a baby before you turn 40, with bills that seem to magically multiply if you ignore them for more than two days, your 40th birthday is not exactly something to celebrate. Just thinking of all the things I still need to accomplish in the next twenty years is making my almost-forty-year-old brain go into migraine mode in self-defense. (Short break while I run to the bathroom to check for new lines on my forehead). That being said, I love my life. I have a beautiful, adorable daughter (who ahem....everyone says looks like me) and a husband who loves me enough to put up with my periodic bouts of insanity. And although I need to give away the size 2 clothing and give up the hope of ever fitting into them again, I think I look ok considering my age. Thus, in an attempt to mitigate the psychological blows of being almost forty, I have dredged the utmost reaches of my brain to list 10 things to think about and may be even celebrate, as an older (and may I add) wiser, soon-to-be-forty year old:

1. Your favorite pants from the ‘80s are back! They have been re-born as “skinny jeans” (baston pants, anyone?!!) and as long as acid wash doesn't come back into fashion too, I find that I am once more, a reasonably fashionable woman.

2. Younger women may not have weight loss issues, but then again, they can't afford the liposuction. Now cheer up, because YOU CAN.

3. It's extremely non-constructive to get depressed about your age. Go shopping. (A pair of new shoes never hurt anyone.)

4. Life is short. Don’t settle for salad or for frumpy shoes when you can have steak and buy stilettos. If God meant for me to eat vegetables all the time, He would have made me a rabbit.

(And no, the shoes don't hurt THAT bad -- as long as I don't walk long distances or stand up for more than 2 minutes.)

5. PMS is not necessarily a bad thing…it has been used as a perfectly legal a defense for manslaughter.

6. At our age, you have earned the right to occasionally be a cruel, heartless bitch…just make sure that when you are, you’re damn good at it!

7. You are not really a nagging wife, think of yourself as a motivational speaker.

8. Chocolate is your friend. When was the last time you heard a Hershey bar attack anyone?

9. The restorative powers and health benefits of a new lipstick are highly underrated.

10. And lastly, remember that girl from college you used to hate? You know, the one that was pretty, who had the nicest clothes, had boys falling in line and was so cheerful and perky that you had to stifle the urge to smack her every time you saw her surrounded by her fans in CASAA? Well, the good news is, she's turning 40 too!

Remind me again about these things in 9 months - it may just be enough to stop me from the indignity of lying about my age. At the very least, it will give me an excuse to go shopping and buy new shoes.