As I Hurdle Towards the Sweet Relief of Death.


I just had my 45th birthday.  At least I think it was my 45th.I Need This Car.

At this point, I’ve lost track.  And really don’t care.

My theory is any birthday from this point forward beats the alternative.

If I really think about it (and I try not to), my life is probably half over.

It’s probably more than half over, but I’ve convinced myself with advances in medicine, an occasionnal walk around the neighborhood, and only eating17 cookies instead of 21, I should live until at least 90.

Not that I want to be that old, but again it probably beats the alternative of a dirt nap.

Since the clock is ticking I should really get on with accomplishing something (anything) before it’s too late.

I shouldn’t waste my last few remaining good years watching TV, tweeting, mowing my yard, or even going to work.

I should be making the world a better place.

My time should be spent on charity work.  Traveling.  Maybe building a school for the less fortunate.

Meanwhile, I’m shuffling paperwork and worrying about mandated testing.

This doesn’t seem right.

I’m on the clock.  I have things I need to do.

And first on the list:  Mid-life crisis.

So if you need me, I’ll be driving way too fast in my brand new red convertible I can’t afford sporting a mustache and wearing a tight shirt unbuttoned two buttons lower than appropriate.

Once I get this phase out of my system, I can help build a school.

Or at least mow my yard.

*Note from editor in chief…aka…tech-geek wife or whatever it is you call me on this "blog"…ummmm…it’s 46 and no…just no…on the mustache and unbuttoned shirt that is…I am totally good with the brand new red convertible.  Maybe I am having a mid-life crisis too…after all I turned 39 this year.

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You Say It’s Your Birthday? It’s My Birthday Too!


Happy Birthday to All of Us.Another birthday has come and gone.

My official age can now be best described as old. I know its official because the last time I was in the sporting goods store looking at running shoes, the young lady helping me asked if I was going to use them to walk.

I said, “Yes, possibly upside your head if you insinuate I am old again.”

I didn’t really say that, although I did think it.

Actually, I don’t mind birthdays anymore. It is just a number and like I have said before, getting older certainly beats the alternative.

Around my house a birthday is cause for celebration, because my daughter loves to celebrate.

Like all 7 year olds, she loves many things… ice cream, pizza, milk, pop tarts, French fries, SpongeBob, her friends, singing, crafting, school, sleepovers, and most of all presents.

She loves everything about presents. She likes to receive presents. She likes to give them. She absolutely loves to open them.

And most of all she loves to give herself presents on my birthday.

Actually, that isn’t completely true. She loves to give herself presents on any day that we should be celebrating me.

Christmas, birthdays, and Father’s Day are all occasions readymade to head off to the mall and buy something nice for herself.

Sure, she says it’s for me. She has to. It would be tacky if she put her own name on the package.

And she would never do that, because we have raised her right (and by right, I mean like most parents we are just trying to survive… mainly the upcoming teenage years).

I hear about dads who get ugly ties for gifts. It makes me jealous. That would be a gigantic step up for me. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about her wearing my tie.

She always buys me something that she has talked about for months.

For Father’s Day, I got the Wii that she has always wanted. For my birthday, she got me Wii accessories. I am the proud new owner of Mario Kart and the 3 steering wheels that she has had her eye on (the whole family can now play “together”).

I am assuming that at Christmas I will be receiving a pink and purple cell phone with a fancy case that sparkles. Or possibly getting my ears pierced (suddenly, the phone doesn’t sound so bad).

I am giddy with excitement.

All of this is bad enough, but I am also paying for my/her gift.

Yes, that’s right.

She goes shopping to buy me/herself something on my dime.

When did I lose control? My best guess is it occurred roughly 4 seconds after she was born and announced that she was now in charge.

She didn’t make this announcement out loud, but there was definitely a look that told me she was now calling the shots.

I can hardly wait for 2017.

For some reason, I am thinking that will be the year I get a car for my birthday.

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