The Glass is Half-Empty Without a Half-Birthday

Today is April 30th.  Tomorrow is May 1st.  And tonight, at exactly midnight, if I choose to stay up that late, I can celebrate turning 36 1/2 years old.  But I probably won't because it feels fake.  It feels forced.  The truth is that I do not have a half-birthday, and it's time I come to terms with this painful omission in my life.

Believe it or not, some people do not celebrate half-birthdays.  I don't understand stand this.  We all remember how important age was when we were kids, how important SPECIFIC age was.  Just the other night, I asked a friend's son how old he was, and he told me, "Four… AND A HALF!"  The last three words were practically screamed as he looked me right in the eye and dared me to disagree.  I did not.  I could tell he was serious.

 

When we were kids, a year was a long time to wait for that next incredible number.  Whether it was five, six, or the big double digits, we needed that mid-year marker to tell us we were on our way, headed in the right direction, getting closer to the big day.

So how are we supposed to know we have reached that much-anticipated turning point—the crest of the hill signifying that we are OLDER, that sooner rather than later we will reach that next glorious age—if we don't acknowledge and celebrate the half-birthday?

Half-birthdays were always big in my family.  My dad's is June 6th, my mom's is August 9th, and my brother's is March 17th, St. Patrick's Day.  (Well, isn't HE special?)

I, however, don't have one.

Out of the 366 possible birthdays on the calendar, there are six which do not have half-birthdays (March 31, May 31, August 30, August 31, October 31, and December 31) and one (August 29) which only has a half-birthday once every four years.  We are a small, sad little group. 

Some people just don’t seem to understand our grief.  Plenty before have tried to console me.  

·      "Why don't you just celebrate on April 30th?  Or May 1st?"

o   Because those are someone ESLE's half birthdays.  Not mine.

·      "But April 30th is Willie Nelson's birthday.  Isn't that kind of cool?"           

o   That's really not even relevant, but thanks.  And happy birthday, Willie.

·      "Doesn't having such a cool Halloween birthday make up for not having a half birthday?"

o   It does help, yes. 

·      "How about celebrating your QUARTER birthday instead?"

o   That's just stupid.  And those poor March 31 people don't have one of those either.

·      "Why do you even care?  You're an adult for goodness sake."

o   Shut up.

There is just no substitute for a real half-birthday.

In order to fill this hole in my life and to help others who are afflicted come to terms as well, I have formed a support group.  Today, right now, I am founding the PWAN MYCE.  The PWAN MYCE (People Whining About No Mid-Year Celebratory Event) is an online support system for all those born without half-birthdays, including (because you suffer from a similar pain) people born on February 29.  

Let us all come together to whine collectively about our loss.  When your special day once again fails to arrive, come here.  Air your sorrows.  Share your woes.  Tell us how you cope.  This is a safe space.  The PWAN MYCE are here for you.

And for those of you who DO have a half-birthday, please don’t take it for granted.  Embrace it.  Appreciate it.  And blow out an extra candle for those of us unable to rejoice with you.   

Here are some tips for ways to celebrate your half-birthday:

* Bake half a birthday cake.

* Throw a party, but only invite half of your friends.

* Get spanked on one butt cheek only.

* Ask for gifts that come in pairs (salt & pepper shakers, book ends, earrings) wrapped separately.  Then open only one half of the set.

* Go to a movie and then leave halfway through.

* Put make-up on only half of your face.

* Get just a LITTLE bit drunk.

When Moonlighting as a Nanny for the Third Night in a Row

It is not uncommon

to find yourself wide awake

at 3:00AM

convinced

the only thing keeping

that toddler in her bed

is sheer will.

But then a half hour passes

without incident

and then forty-five minutes

and then an hour

of peace

and you start to close your eyes

relax your focus

loosen the hold on your mind

until suddenly you find yourself

alert once again

at 4:00AM

fingers gripping the covers

eyes piercing the darkness

praying

praying

praying

that the slow

ominous

creak

you just heard in the hallway

is a ghost.

Warning Signs

Car Talk

I love the show “Car Talk” on NPR.  This is not because I am into cars or know about cars or even care about cars that much because I’m not and I don’t and I never have been.   But you don’t have to be into cars to enjoy listening to Tom and Ray Magliozzi (otherwise known as “Click” and “Clack”) diagnose car trouble on the radio.  Those guys are hilarious and it’s amazing how much advice they can give people over the phone.  Tuning in to their show is like listening to Abbott and Costello solve mysteries while blindfolded, and really, who wouldn’t like that?  My favorite part is where the people who call in try to mimic the sound that their car is making.  There are some brave and talented souls out there.

Just because I don’t love cars in general doesn’t mean I don’t love my car.  My car is a 2005 Honda Civic Hybrid named Heidi. She was my first new car to purchase by myself and I approached that very serious and adult decision with all the maturity and expertise of a first grader choosing a retirement plan.  Without doing any research or shopping around at all, I drove to the Honda dealership and bought a car. 

Heidi when she was shiny and new

See, I had decided that I wanted to save the world and I was going to do that by purchasing a hybrid.  There weren’t a lot of hybrid options in my price range back in 2005.  I was pretty much choosing between the Toyota Prius and the Honda Civic, and I thought the Prius “looked weird” so I went with the Civic.  (Seriously, I now spend more time comparing toothpaste brands than I did shopping for a new vehicle.)  Luckily, my extreme naivety didn’t get me into too much trouble at the dealership because there just wasn’t a lot of room to wheel and deal.  I wanted a Civic Hybrid, and that’s what I got.  The only real choice I had to make was the color.  (I went with “Shoreline Mist Metallic” and I’ve never regretted it.)

At some point during the process of putting myself in debt, the salesman explained to me how the “Integrated Motor Assist” system worked and mentioned that a new battery pack would cost $8,000.  But at my look of panic, he quickly reassured me that it was guaranteed for 80,000 miles and said I’d probably be driving something new by then anyway.  For some reason that seemed like a perfectly reasonable prediction, so I nodded and continued signing my paycheck away.

Junk in My Trunk

Heidi is a good little car.  Despite her dings and dents (for some reason people really like to run into her) and my husband’s grumbling that she has no pick-up on the highway (she does get up to speed eventually though, says the ticket he got in Italy, Texas), she generally gets me where I want to go with few complaints.  But when Heidi turned six years old, that big $8,000 battery pack in the trunk died.  (!!!)  The good news was that these days those batteries only cost about $4,000 (yea?) and the even better news was that Heidi only had 78,272 miles on her so the repair was covered under warranty.  (Yea!)

After being told that she was “good to go”, we were back on the road together, singing along to the radio and laughing about the bullet we dodged and things were smooth sailing… for 17 months.  And then the IMA system died again.  This time it was NOT covered by warranty, but the nice man at Howdy Honda got the company to pay for MOST of the new battery due to “the circumstances”.  (The “circumstances” were that a battery that in theory should have lasted another 80,000 miles only lasted 16,000.)

So… after ANOTHER new battery pack was installed, we were back on the road again, though more cautiously this time, with the radio volume on low and very little singing at all.  And yet, STILL something is not right.  Heidi’s dashboard just keeps lighting up with bright orange symbols of disaster.  I fear the end may be near.  But... it’s not fair… she’s so young.

Give It to Me Straight, Doc

I wish I could call the guys at Car Talk and ask them to help me figure out what’s really wrong with my little car.  But I can’t.  Because 1) after 35 years on the air, they retired last month, and 2) that’s not how mechanics do things anymore.  During none of the occasions that I have taken Heidi to the shop have I had to describe or mimic or act out her problems.  All I do is point to the orange light on the dash and they connect a little doo-dad to the computer and read a code and fix what the code says to fix.  I hate it.  It is so backwards seeming to me, so impersonal.  I guess I should be thankful that we have such modern conveniences when it comes to diagnosing these expensive pieces of our lives, but I miss the intuition, the guessing, the exploratory surgery.  After the new barrage of lights came on, I asked my guy at Honda, “When they replaced the IMA, did they check out the rest of the car?”  He said, “No, there were no other codes.”  Well… ok.  But maybe you should have anyway.

"I ate a red candle I found on
the bathtub and my belly hurts."

I can’t help thinking about my dog.  He’s a hybrid too, though we’re not exactly sure of the make and model.  Sometimes I wish Uno could talk so that he could tell me what’s wrong when he doesn’t feel good.  But he can’t, so I have to make my best guess.  And I like the fact that when I take him to the vet and give my amateur opinion of the problem, my awesome veterinarian checks out the whole dog instead of just the one body part that seems to be the trouble.  If I take him in for an itchy left ear, Doc looks in the right one too.  If I take him in for a sore back leg, Doc examines all of his legs and joints.  It just makes sense!

I know that computers run our lives now—my dog already had a chip inside him (which kind of freaks me out if I think about it too much)—and I know that sometimes it would be easier if I could just push a button and find out what my pup’s symptoms mean, but I am NOT ready for the “Integrated Doggy Assist” system to come along and take the place of my vet’s forty years of expertise and know-how.

Yeah, I drew that.

Down the Road

I’m not sure what’s in store for my little Heidi.  We’ll probably keep making repairs on her for a while longer, begrudgingly, rather than shop for something new.  And when we do go shopping, it will not be for another hybrid.  My husband is fed up with them, and I can’t really blame him.  His 2010 Volkswagon Jetta TDI gets better gas mileage than my car AND has power.  Who knew?  (Oh, yeah, he did, because he actually researched his vehicle choices.)

As for the dog, we’ve made the investment for the long haul, though we know there is going to be some body work in our future.  I just wish those legs came with a warranty. 

Serenity Soon

My dog ate my serenity.

I first realized something was wrong when I was carrying a basket of clean clothes from the laundry room to the bedroom.  Things were a little too still.  A little too quiet.  An uneasy feeling hung in the air.  I set down the basket and listened, and I heard a muffled crunching sound coming from the kitchen.  I peered over the bar and, sure enough, there was my dog with his front paws and muzzle buried under his pillow, frozen, his big brown guilt-ridden eyes staring into mine.  I picked up the pillow and there, mangled and soggy on the dirty kitchen floor, was my serenity.

It was my fault really.  I left it unguarded.  Usually I try to protect my serenity, keep it safe from harm.  But yesterday I set it down on a bookcase, discarded it briefly, while I cleaned the house and stressed about work.  I was going to pick it back up again.  I was, I promise.  But I let go of it just long enough.

My dog found my serenity.  He saw it lying there, unattended, and he took it.  Who could blame him really?  Who among us could resist a little free serenity?  Who, I challenge you, would have been able to walk away?  My pup took my serenity, laid down in his favorite spot, and devoured it.  And, for those few moments of uninterrupted chewing, he was blissfully happy.  Until I took his serenity away.

Now my serenity is perched high on a shelf, where no one else can touch it.  Actually, I can't touch it either.  It is just out of my reach.  But I will not give up.  I have plans for getting it back.  Soon serenity will be mine again.

Letter From an Angry Parent

Thank you to everyone who participated in my Mad Lib experiment!  I enjoyed reading all the submissions and have decided to post two different versions of the story.  Thanks to Maggie W. and Sarah D. for your winning contributions.

[The following blog entry is a work of fiction.  Names, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or emails sent to me by parents is entirely coincidental.]

Letter From an Angry Parent

Dear Ms. Wit (or should I say grandiose idiot),

            As you are aware, my daughter Ima is a student in your 7^th grade language arts class, and I am writing to tell you that I am appalled by your teaching methods.

            First of all my subterranean child is obviously extremely dinky.  She writes lovingly and scrambles with such maturity and excitement that anyone should be proud to have her as a bottle.  When my good friend Denzel Washington read Ima’s poems, he said, “Racklefratz!  These should be tickled immediately!”  And yet you gave her a grade of 7 on those assignments.  It breaks my belly button to see Ima’s talent go unappreciated like that.

            And in regards to her behavior in class, I instantly became cerulean blue in the face when I received your email saying my cavernous little girl served a 13-minute detention for perambulating koalas in class and acting foppish to you.  She was simply expressing herself!   How dare you infringe upon her right to freedom of basket!  When my dear friend Meryl Streep heard of this, she said, “Oops!  That behavior simply shows she is creative and surly!”

            Ms. Wit, I graduated number 3 in my class from the University of the Mountains, and I will not tolerate my child being cavorted by such vigorous lips.  That is why I have created a petition to have you meandered.  I have already received 1 signature.  Expect to hear from my street sweeper soon.

Languorously,

Parent of a Perfect Child

Dear Ms. Bach (or should I say stinky idiot),

            As you are aware, my daughter Willow is a student in your 7^th grade language arts class, and I am writing to tell you that I am appalled by your teaching methods.

            First of all my shy child is obviously extremely hideous.  She writes perfectly and dances with such maturity and distress that anyone should be proud to have her as a squirrel.  When my good friend Prince read Willow’s poems, he said, “Cheese Pizza!  These should be swum immediately!”  And yet you gave her a grade of 4815162342 on those assignments.  It breaks my armpit to see Willow’s talent go unappreciated like that.

            And in regards to her behavior in class, I instantly became chartreuse in the face when I received your email saying my rotund little girl served a 7-minute detention for bouncing scissors in class and acting sticky to you.  She was simply expressing herself!   How dare you infringe upon her right to freedom of bookmark!  When my dear friend Zoey Deschanel heard of this, she said, “Geronimo!  That behavior simply shows she is creative and sweet!”

            Ms. Bach, I graduated number 806 in my class from the University of the Land, and I will not tolerate my child being smelled by such a shiny kneecap.  That is why I have created a petition to have you phoned.  I have already received eleventy signatures.  Expect to hear from my time lord soon.

Splendidly,

Parent of a Perfect Child

Fill in the ______

Who doesn’t love a good Mad Lib?  

To complete my next blog post, I need your help.  Fill in the missing words from my story and email them to cariejuettner@gmail.com.  On Tuesday, I will post my blog using the best set of words that I received.  Please remember that I’d like to keep my blog PG-13 and have fun!

1. Last Name ________________________

2. Adjective ________________________

3. Girl’s First Name ________________________

4. Adjective ________________________

5. Adjective ________________________

6. Adverb ________________________

7. Verb (present tense) ________________________

8. Emotion ________________________

9. Noun ________________________

10. Celebrity ________________________

11. (Same as #3)

12. Exclamation ________________________

13. Verb (past tense) ________________________

14. Number ________________________

15. Body Part ________________________

16. (Same as #3)

17. Color ________________________

18. Adjective ________________________

19. Number ________________________

20. Verb (ending in ing) ________________________

21. Plural Noun ________________________

22. Adjective ________________________

23. Noun ________________________

24. Celebrity ________________________

25. Exclamation ________________________

26. Adjective ________________________

27. (Same as #1)

28. Number ________________________

29. Place ________________________

30. Verb (past tense) ________________________

31. Adjective ________________________

32. Body Part ________________________

33. Verb (past tense) ________________________

34. Number ________________________

35. Profession ________________________

36. Adverb ________________________

360 Degrees of Silver Lining

Today was a very frustrating day.  I knew it would be, and it did not disappoint. 

But I am not going to write about the events of my day.  Because the causes of my frustration do not deserve that attention.  Instead, I want to share my silver lining.

This evening, after margaritas and Tex-Mex food with my amazing husband—after feeling the knots in my shoulders relax with every affirmation and feeling my smile stretch with every chuckle and every shared eye roll—I stopped by HEB for some much needed chocolate before heading home. 

When I stepped out of my car, I was greeted by the most amazing sunset lighting up the sky. 

I don’t often get to enjoy the sunset anymore.  Growing up, our house faced a wide expanse of south-western sky, and except for a few power lines and telephone poles, we had an unobstructed view of many a sunset.  My dad, the family photographer, would glance out the window during dinner and say, “Would you look at that!” and then bolt out the front door, camera in hand, to capture the pinks and purples and oranges of the sun’s descent.  And then he would keep popping up for the next half hour to go charging out the front door to snap more pictures as the colors changed, progressed, evolved across the horizon.

I think I inherited my love of sunsets from him.

But now my house sits in a low point, facing north, not a good location for sunset-watching.  Often if I do get to see a brilliant display, it happens while driving home from work when I have to gaze at the sight peripherally, catching glimpses at stoplights and between buildings.  It’s not the same.

But today, while standing in the HEB parking lot, I found myself staring at a gorgeous sunset. 

What was so dazzling was that it did not just light up the western sky.  The entire horizon, all 360 degrees, was alive with color and playful cloud formations.  Everywhere I turned, I was greeted with bright reds and purples or muted oranges and pinks or faded mauves and streaks of yellow.  It was beautiful.

And it gave me the chance to acknowledge the silver linings in my day.  

Yes, on the whole, today is a day I would not care to repeat.  It was one of selfishness and waste and misspent hours.  But that part of my day ended.  And then I came home to someone I love very much.  And who loves me back.  I laughed.  I ate guacamole.  I bought enough chocolate to last me… well, the weekend at least.  And I saw a stunning 360-degree sunset that appeared in the heavens regardless of what kind of day any of us had. 

These are the things I choose to focus on this evening.  And tomorrow.  And this weekend when I am sitting next to the love of my life finishing off a dark chocolate sea salt bar and feeling wonderful and just a tad sick at the same time.  These are the things that matter.  These are my silver linings.

Tomorrow the frustrations will be back.  New ones will appear, some far greater than I can even imagine.  But I will deal with them.  And I will laugh.  And I will come home to those I love.  And I will treat myself with chocolate.  And I will not let those frustrations bring me down. 

Never. 

**Photo Locations in order of appearance:  Austin, Texas; Terlingua, Texas; Multnomah Falls, Oregon; Netarts Bay, Oregon, Marathon, Texas