Dear May 1975, thank you for giving me a husband. xoxo, Julia

Dear May 1975, thank you for giving me a husband. xoxo, Julia.

I'm alive and well. Clearly the blog isn't, though.

A quick update: I survived 18 miles on Saturday, and then some. Well, and then 0.4. It took us 3 hours and 14 minutes or so. We took the train up to Oceanside, and then ran back to our cars. It was fucking incredible. I felt so powerful. And tired.

Today is my sweet Erik's thirtieth birthday. I'm throwing him a "30 is the new 21" party on Saturday, the theme of which I completely ripped off of someone else. Regardless, I'm excited because his hip, pierced Aunt Trudie is coming to town for the party. I want to be like her when I grow up.

I remember a few weeks after Erik and I met, he invited me to his 25th birthday party, at a bar. I had to graciously decline because I was too young to get into the bar. I'm convinced I would have nabbed him six months earlier than I did if he'd only had the party at a restaurant or all-ages high class venue like Chuck-E-Cheese. However, then I wouldn't have wanted to date someone who has Chuck-E-Cheese birthday parties and God knows where we'd be today.

I can't believe we and our friends are no longer just "in our twenties." We're in our "twenties and thirties," hereby destining us to an age bracket solely reserved for church singles and couples groups, and not much else. Consumers are grouped in separate brackets, but church singles are always bunched into the two decade combo. Soon, we'll all be in our thirties, and I'll undoubedly have another post that looks much like this and mentions the hit 90s namesake TV show. In fact, I think I'll use the title as the post title that day. Look at me, not posting for a few days, but then planning out post titles 5+ years in advance. Hopefully blogging will still be hot by then.

In other news, I'm going to donate my hair as soon as possible. The hair is freaking omnipresent. Pictures of me look like I photoshopped a giant head onto my body. Kind of like those creepy Steve Madden ads that always make me divert my gaze.

Work is fine but crazy, where we're having several product/customer-related emergencies and I'm also concurrently working on a "buy/do/make/cook" list for the party. Making lists is one of my fortes, and I'm highly proud of it. You may remember an ill-fated attempt to publish those list on a sub-blog. Making the lists public is like letting someone read your diary but then continuing to write. You'll never write the same again. My lists always had to be one step up, one step wittier, one step more profound. This made it difficult to write the chore lists I actually needed to write, or the grocery lists, so I ended up neglecting my true love.

Well, the IT guy needs to play on my computer so I should finish up. I'm currently in full strength IT-Guy Charm Mode, because apparently I'm low on the list for XP upgrades. Everyone else has it but me, and every straightfoward request I've given to get XP and the fancy photo file explorer "Filmstrip" view just gets ignored. Therefore, enter: charm. I even spent the majority of one happy hour a few weeks ago discussing high school marching band with one IT person, within earshot of my coworkers, many of whom formerly thought I was cool, stylish and maybe even enigmatic. That's dedication. I want XP, damn it.

Anyway, I had originally planned on making a beautiful, prolific-vocab post about my sweet thirty year old husband, but look, here I am talking about lists, Steve Madden ads, Chuck-E-Cheese's potential impact on my marriage, and IT guys. So I'm just going to walk away from my painfully-non-XP computer and forget I ever posted.