My Real Life

This one hits me the hardest.

Thirteen.

She’s thirteen today.

She was my first baby.

I learned it all with her.

She calls me her BFF and we snuggle and whisper in her bed after her brothers have gone to sleep and she tells me everything that happened during her day.

I wrap my arms around her and try to hold her like I did when she was little, despite the fact that she is my size.

I want to protect her from anything that will hurt her, but it’s started already.

Broken hearts.

False friends.

Feeling like she isn’t enough.

But, oh, my love.  You are enough.

You are more than enough.

I want her to not make the mistakes I made.

Yet, I know that it’s my mistakes that have made me who I am today, so I bite my tongue and hold her hand and kiss away her tears when she makes them, knowing she’s learned, as I learned before her.

She’s brilliant.

She’s kind.

She’s beautiful.

She’s talented.

She. Is. Everything.

And today, my first baby…my mirror…my heart…

Is thirteen.

My baby is three today.

My last baby.

I’ll never have a two year old in my home, again, and for a long time, I thought that fact would kill me.

And, I can’t lie, it does make my heart ache, but this kid makes it all so amazing, that I feel like the journey with him is worth the loss of what we’ll never have again.

He’s a character, this one.

That smile.

That laugh.

He wants, so badly, to do everything his siblings are doing and they let him, and love him and care for him in ways that make me cry silent tears of gratitude.

Because, everyone who meets him wants to love him.

He’s infectious.

It’s amazing to me that, as I scrolled through the pictures in my media library for the blog, to find pictures of Tiny for today, there was a point where there were no pictures of him because the blog came about years before he did.

That’s crazy, because it feels like he’s always been with us.

And today, he’s three.

Last year, I had the pleasure of meeting Nicole Leigh Shaw, one of my co-authors of I Just Want to Pee Alone.

She’s a trip.

Nicole writes a very funny blog, Nicole Leigh Shaw, Tyop Artist.

You see?  See what she did there?

Anyway, one of Nicole’s regular features is the Character Assassination Carousel.

 

It’s not as bad as it sounds.

Well, actually…

On the CAC, a blogger takes a children’s book and finds all of the ridiculousness that is hiding in the midst of a sweet story for children.

Last week, Nicole featured Miss Spartacus who wrote about Harold and the Purple Crayon, which, while I love the imagery and creativity of the story, always has me wondering, ‘Where the heck are his parents?’

As my turn approached, I struggled to figure out which book I would choose.

I have four children AND I’ve been a teacher for 18 years.

At this point, I feel like I can safely say that I know all the children’s books.

So, I decided to go with one that we know well, but that maybe other people didn’t know so well.

It’s a little book that I picked up at a garage sale about ten years ago.

It’s called Bert and the Missing Mop Mix-Up.

 

So, let’s talk…

The story starts out plainly enough.

Bert is painting (which is not a surprise, because of the two, Bert is clearly the worker bee) and he’s working so hard, he decides he’s thirsty.

What else would a grown man who has spent the day painting the kitchen want to quench his thirst?

A glass of milk.

Except, as Bert grabs the milk from the fridge, it slips from his grasp and splashes all over the floor.

Bert, not used to a mess, (because you’ll remember, from your childhood, that Bert is also the neat one) starts screaming for Ernie.

Ernie runs into the kitchen and immediately misunderstands what has happened.

“Bert!  Why did you pour milk on the floor?”

And Bert, who is ever frustrated with Ernie, corrects him.

And then, he asks Ernie to leave the apartment and go find a mop.

This puzzles me.

Bert is known for his neatness.

It’s kinda his thing.

And yet, there is not a mop in the house?

I mean,  I can kinda get on board with this, because there’s not a mop in my house, either.

But, what I do have…what I use at least four times a day to clean up spilled milk…is paper towels.

I find it hard to believe that Bert doesn’t have paper towels in the house.

Or napkins.

Or dishtowels.

Or that it doesn’t even cross Bert’s mind to use the drop cloth that is spread on the floor, right next to the spill.

But, no.

Bert needs a mop.

And Ernie, being the dedicated “roommate” that he is, heads right out to Sesame Street to find Bert a mop.

The first person that Ernie sees is Betty Lou (not to be confused with Prairie Dawn).

Betty Lou doesn’t show up on the tv show too much, however, she’s a big player in the Sesame Street books.

I hear she’s more than a little afraid of the camera and it’s ten pounds.

So, Ernie explains the situation to Betty Lou who immediately offers to help, because what else would someone do on Sesame Street?

Then you turn the page.

Huh?

A map?

Looks like Hooper needs to start stocking Q-tips.

Misunderstanding or not, Betty Lou commits to help and runs off down the street.

She makes a smart choice, here, because she runs directly to Oscar’s trash can.

If anyone has a map (even though no one actually needs a map) it’ll be Oscar, cuz that guy has everything in that can.

So, she bangs the lid, is greeted with Oscar’s usual nastiness, and she asks for a map.

Oscar says he’s sleeping and doesn’t know if he has a map and goes back inside.

When he’s sure Betty Lou is gone, he pokes his head and out decides that if Bert needs a mat, he’ll find one and then everyone on Sesame Street will leave him alone.

It’s at this point, when I’m reading this to the kids, that I do some thinking reading and say things like “Hmmm…I’m beginning to see a pattern here.  Are you seeing a pattern?  What is happening?” and then we discuss the mix-up.

It’s also at this point that, in my head, I start saying to myself, “Aw crap…this is going to be endless.”

Since Oscar’s can doesn’t really move (although I have seen him hop it around on occasion), we need to wait until someone comes to him for the next mix-up to occur.

Who could it be?

It probably won’t be any of the humans on the street because they have actual brains.

So, who’s the biggest dummy on Sesame Street?

 

This guy.

The first mistake Big Bird makes is asking Oscar how his day is, as if Oscar will respond in any other way than “Rotten.”

Because Oscar knows Big Bird will just stand there, looking stupidly at him until he elaborates, Oscar explains that Bert is looking for a mat and he is trying to find one, despite the obvious fact that he hates helping.

If Big Bird were a true friend, he might take this as an opportunity to help Oscar get to the root of his issues.

“But why,” he might begin, “do you hate helping so much?  Did your mother ask you to do too many chores as a child?”

“Have you ever thought,” he could prompt, “that if you bought one of these nice apartments on Sesame Street and moved out of the garbage can your outlook on life might improve?”

But, Big Bird is no therapist.

No, what Big Bird is, people, is an enabler.

He doesn’t just offer to help, he runs home yelling “If Bert needs a mitt, he must want to play baseball!  Maybe I can play, too!”

Big Bird, come on, buddy.

You are not going to be picked to play baseball.

You have t-rex arms and that’s just not conducive to hitting it out of the park.

But, he gets back to his nest and starts rooting through the junk he has stored among the twigs and he finds his bat and his hat, but has to keep looking for his mitt (which no one needs).

And along comes Grover.

And I begin to think, “Yes!  Now it’s going to get good,” because Grover is my favorite Sesame Street character.

He sings the best songs, he has the best characters, the best plot lines.

He’s sweet, he’s kind, he’s sensitive.

Ah, Grover.

Grover will certainly get this mess under control.

So, Big Yellow tells Grover that he needs a mitt for Bert and Grover says he’ll be so happy to look for one and runs home to look.

And damn if that Grover doesn’t immediately tell his Mommy that he needs a mitten.

But, I’m kinda not mad at him, because he still lives with his Mommy and he loves her and he said ‘mitten’ and ‘mitten’ is such a cuter thing that ‘glove’ and so it’s all good.

And then I stand corrected from an earlier statement I made when I said Big Bird was the emptiest-headed Muppet,  because Herry shows up, and when Grover tells Herry he needs to find a mitten for Bert, Herry makes a bee-line for the pet store and gets…

Kids…can you guess?  What might Herry be getting at the pet store that rhymes with ‘mitten?’

You got it…a kitten.

And thank goodness he does because he is the first person to actually find what they are looking for so he can actually go to Bert’s apartment and end this nonsense.

Scene shift back to Bert’s apartment where he is STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE KITCHEN LOOKING AT THE MILK ON THE FLOOR and waiting for someone else to clean up the mess.

What…is he one of my kids?

And, suddenly, everyone rushes through his door, Oscar included, because his feet have now, apparently, come through the rusted out bottom of the can, with their items in hand.

The map, the mat, the mitt, the mitten (aw), and the kitten.

And Bert’s all “WTF?” and “Where the hell is Ernie?”

But then Ernie runs in with a mop and Bert tells him he’s too late and they all look lovingly at the kitten that is now lapping up the milk.

And it’s at this point that my kids tell me we should really get a dog (cuz we aren’t cat people), and I look at my kitchen floor and I start to agree.

___

If you are looking for more of the Character Assassination Carousel, be sure to head to Alice at Wonderland next Monday!

There’s a boy I know.

He’s a pretty serious guy, most of the time.

But his dry wit has his Dad and I in stitches, when he lets it out.

He doesn’t do anything half way, and in everything he does, he shines.

Along with not doing anything half way is the way he feels things.

So deeply that he doesn’t always know what to do with them.

And that makes it tough to be him.

But goodness, I love this child.

He’s busy every second.

When we are outside, we are tossing a football, kicking a soccer ball, playing hockey, having a catch.

When we are inside, we can’t just sit and watch tv.

While we watch, we’re still having a catch, playing indoor hockey, because, unlike the Brady’s, if we didn’t play ball in this house, he would explode from the pent up energy.

He’s so handsome, and he has no idea.

It’s quite charming, actually.

He wants to be with me every second.

So, wherever I am, he is. And the result is that I know him better than he knows himself.

I know his moods, can predict his thoughts before he says them, and know when he needs some hugs before he thinks to ask.

He’s a snuggle bug, and he’s my night-time reading partner.  (Not because he wants to read, but because he has to, but I’ll take it.)

And it’s in those moments, at the end of the day, when we’re snuggled up, sharing parts of our books with each other, and I inhale the distinct boy-smell from the top of his closely cropped hair, that I remember that he’s trying…he’s always trying.

I hope he knows…really, deep down knows, how very much I love him.

Because I love him…so ridiculously much.

And today, he’s 10.

 

He’s awesome.

It’s such an overused word, but it’s the most fitting for my Baby Monkey.

He’s just awesome.

He is laid back, but doesn’t let anyone walk all over him.

He marches to the beat of his own drummer and isn’t too interested in following the beat of others.

He’s kind.

He’s creative.

He’s sweet.

He’s loving.

He’s the kid who would be thrilled to have fruit than ice cream, play an engineering game than football, be alone doing what he enjoys than be with the crowd doing something he doesn’t like.

I love him.

I love him so much I can barely even fathom it.

When he was born, they didn’t give him right to me.

There was a silence.

A silence that I recognized, instantly, because he was my third baby, and I knew that in those moments, there was supposed to be the sound of a baby crying.

That morning, there was nothing.

Real Man stood by my head, and I told him, “Go with the baby.  Find out what’s wrong with the baby.”

I lay there feeling no physical pain as they began to close up the c-section, but in the deepest emotional agony I had ever felt.

He wasn’t breathing.

It was the quietest delivery room I had ever experienced.

And then he cried, and there were tears all around.

As a result of them having to put a tube down his throat to get out the fluid that had stopped him from breathing he suffered from laryngomalacia for the first year of his life, which caused him to make…interesting sounds when he breathed.

And then he grew out of it.

The week before his first birthday, he wound up contracting eczema herpeticum and had to be hospitalized for a rash the likes of which I have never seen and never want to see again.

We were in the infectious disease ward for almost a week.

And then he was better.

When he was three, he began to have, what we called, eye seizures, but what was later classified as nystagmus.

The kid went through numerous tests, spent three days in the hospital hooked up to an EEG, and never lost his good spirits.

And then it stopped.

I always say that my theme song is “Tubthumping,” which has the lyrics, “I get knocked down, but I get up again,” but the truth is, it’s this kid that never stays down, that keeps going, and that does it all with an ease and coolness that defies explanation.

And today, he’s eight.

My husband is a patient man.

He’s the kind of man who thinks things through and waits.

It can be frustrating, for some people, to have conversations with him, because he doesn’t answer back immediately.  He pauses, he thinks, he takes a moment.

I appreciate that about him because I think, too often, we waste our words and when he speaks, you know that he’s not just saying something to hear himself speak.  It’s something that he has carefully thought through and it’s meaningful.

I’ll be honest…sometimes his patience is frustrating to me, as well, because I like to make a decision quickly.  Sometimes, you just gotta jump in.

With my husband, the only time he ever acted spontaneously was the morning he woke up and decided he couldn’t live another second without knowing I was going to marry him, and he called in sick (something else my husband never does), bought a ring, and proposed.

I try to remind him of how great that turned out and that spontaneity is often greatly rewarded.

However, his patience runs deep and comes from a childhood of needing to practice that patience.

My husband is the youngest of four children.

I won’t divulge their current ages, but I’ll say that, at one time, they were one, two, three and five years old.

Their poor, poor parents.

Some people say that being the youngest meant that they got everything they wanted.  That they were spoiled and expected things to be handed to them for the rest of their lives.

For my husband, it meant that he learned to be patient.

Over the years, we’ve watched home movies of their family, and in them, you see his brothers and sister aping away for the camera…jumping and yelling and acting and goofing around, and there, in the corner, is my husband…sitting in his high chair, watching it all go down.

If it were me, I’d have been plotting my revenge.

I was an only child with lots of time on my hands to imagine and create and scheme and…

Anyway…he was just patiently watching.

While I feel for the guy…I do…I have to say, I’m damn lucky to have found him.

Because, my friends, patience and an even-temper are two qualities I have not.

Let me give you an example.

When my husband and I were dating, we lived in neighboring towns.

One day, he came over, after work, and we settled in to watch a movie.

Throughout the movie, he began to cough, and it irked me because he’d been coughing for a week and because he’s a male and has that gene…you know the one…the “I don’t DO doctors OR medicine” gene…he hadn’t been doing anything about it.

I was worried about him, sure, but more than that, the coughing was interrupting the movie and we kept having to rewind, and it was the days of VHS and not DVD, so that, in and of itself, was a huge pain in the ass.

“Are you going to see a doctor about that?” I asked.

“Nah…I’m fine.”

“Clearly you aren’t.  You’ve been coughing like that for a week.  You should really see a doctor.”

“Nah…I’m fine.”

We went back and forth like this for some time, with me nagging, him patiently deflecting and us rewinding, until finally, I exploded.

Wiith great flourish, I jumped up, stalked across the room and grabbed the brand new 150 count bottle of Centrum vitamins I had bought that morning.

I spun around, wild-eyed, shook the bottle and him and yelled, “Fine!  If you aren’t going to take care of yourself, then I’m not going to take care of myself!”

I stomped to the bathroom, unscrewed the lid and began to dump out the contents.

I’ll show him, I thought to myself.

Won’t see a doctor?  I thought.   Well, then I won’t take these vitamins.  Better yet, I’ll dump the whole bottle out.  The bottle I just spend $35.00 on this morning.  $35.00 that took me a half a day of substitute teaching to earn.  $35.00 that I could have bought three books with.  $35.00 that…

Crap.  I’m an idiot.

But, I’m nothing if not committed, and I had already begun the dumping, and there was nothing that was going to stop me from dumping that whole damn bottle in the toilet.

Even if I was shaking my head at my own stupidity while I did it.

When the last pill had hit the water, I looked at bowl.

I had a moment where I almost reached in and started scooping them out, like the junkies in the movies who toss their stash.

But, the thought of him walking in, seeing me up to my elbows in the bowl, mascara running down my cheeks from the toilet water that splashed my face as I was frantically grabbing the pills, crying “No! No!  I need them!  I need them!” made me straighten up and get back to business.

I gave it a loud flush, tossed the bottle in the garbage can with a (less than) satisfying thunk, and walked back to my room, shoulders back, head held high.

And there he sat…hunched over, shoulders shaking, desperately trying not to let me see him laughing.

I threw myself next to him on the couch and said, quietly, “So there.”

He composed himself, leaned back and put his arm around me.

“You sure told me,” he said.

“Damn straight,” I replied.

I’d like to say that my awesome display of righteousness moved him to call the doctor the next day.

Or, maybe I’d really like to say that he didn’t call the doctor and then developed a case of pneumonia and the doctor, standing by his bedside said “If only you would have listened to Amy and come in sooner…this all could have been avoided.”

I’d like to say lots of things that paint me as the winner in this story; that prove that my righteous indignation was well-placed and that my tantrum was rewarded.

However, as he had done with so many things in his life, he patiently waited it out and the cough eventually passed.

And now, when he sees me about to blow my top, he simply murmurs in my ear, “Centrum in the toilet” and I’m reminded that my nonsense is usually just bluster and his patience generally wins the day.

Damn it.

So, I realize I’m a week late with this post, but it’s been marinating in my brain and I decided I’d just go ahead and write it down.

I was fairly good with the Grammy Awards, last week.

I liked the idea of pairing people who normally wouldn’t be together and mashing their music.

It kept things interesting.

So, I was pretty happy.

Until Madonna came on stage during Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’ “Same Love.”

I love that song, and it was a perfect time, if any that night, for Madonna to take the stage.

I caught a glimpse of her and I thought, “Yes!” because I am a huge Madonna fan.

Always have been.

She caught me from her very first song and I have followed her all through the years.

And since I’m such a big fan, I feel like I can say this…she’s not a very good singer.

She never has been.

She’s okay.

A lot of people sing as good as Madonna.

But no one (used to) perform like Madonna.

It’s like the old Britney/Christina rivalry.

Christina Aguilera clearly had the superior vocal cords.

Britney couldn’t (still can’t) sing, but her showmanship was top notch.

Madonna has always been fierce and edgy and a talented, talented performer.

So, I was looking forward to something…fantastic…when she came out during “Same Love.”

But it wasn’t fantastic.

It wasn’t even good.

People said “Oh, I can’t believe how awful she sounded.”

Eh.  It wasn’t great, but then she’s never sounded too great.

Not quite this bad, but never fantastic.

The problem was, we were actually listening to her sing because she wasn’t performing.

She walked out with a cane and just kinda stood there, singing.

It reminded me of how they used to wheel Liz Taylor out in the gowns that just hung on her body and she would meekly lift up her hand and wave.

It felt like Madonna was decades older than her 55 years.

So, I thought, maybe she was sick.  Let me give her a break.

But then I watched the Miley Cyrus/Madonna pairing on MTV’s Unplugged.

http://www.mtv.com/shows/miley_cyrus_unplugged/dont-tell-me-we-cant-stop-ft-madonna-medley/997995/video/

What?

That was so bad (on both parts) it wouldn’t even make our middle school talent show.

But, this isn’t a post to bash Madonna.

Quite the opposite.

I write about these two performances because they made me so sad.

Madonna was fierce.  She was force.  She was power.  She was larger than life.

Now, she’s been reduced to cameos that are lackluster at best.

I mentioned LIz Taylor earlier.  I hated when pictures were posted of her in that chair.  The same way I hated when they’d keep bringing Dick Clark out for New Year’s Eve.

And I hate that I feel like Madonna is reaching that stage.

It’s sad to see.

So, Grammy’s…while I appreciate your intentions of having Madonna join in on that powerful song, maybe we don’t bring people out if they aren’t going to impress.

I mean, I love Chicago, but who would have ever thought that someone would utter the words “Chicago rocked it way harder than Madonna?”

It’s a sad way to end a phenomenal career.

 

Recently, one of my favorite bloggers at Kelley’s Breakroom, posted this post about her experience with a hypnotist.

Her post reminded me that I’ve never shared with you the story of my experience with a hypnotist.

Years and years ago, my parents got four tickets to see The Amazing Kreskin.

So, Real Man, my parents, and I went to a local theater and took our seats.

Kreskin went through the show doing “amazing” things, and he finally got to the point in the show where he invited people to volunteer to come on stage and be hypnotized.

No surprise, I raised my hand.

He picked his way through the audience, and chose about 10 people.

Including me.

So, I made my way to the stage fully committed to try to be hypnotized.

I sat there.  I listened to the sound of his voice.  I did the counting in my head.  I followed every direction he gave us.

I did not go under.

One by one, he made his way down the line of volunteers and gave them instructions.

“Whenever someone snaps, you will bark like a dog.”

“Whenever you hear the phrase ‘thank you’ you will twirl like a ballerina.”

And one by one, they did it.

The audience laughed and laughed, and I was faced with a dilemma.

Do I play along and give a good show, or do I become the grumpy old man on stage who crosses his arms and says “Nope…didn’t work on me.”

I’m an actress, by nature, so I went with the show.

Kreskin gave me my directions and I aped it up and played my role perfectly.

I’d say the whole thing went on for about ten minutes, and then, one by one, he released us from our compulsions.

He let us go back to our seats with a thunderous round of applause from the audience and when I got back to me seat, the people around us were looking and listening and so when my Dad asked “Were you really under?” I said, “I must have been!  I don’t remember anything!  What happened?”

Because the show doesn’t end just because the participants come off the stage.

However, as we got in the car, I said to my family, “That was ridiculous.  You know I wasn’t under, right?”

Real Man looked at me and said “Yes, you were.  You said so.”

I explained my earlier words and he and my parents looked at me and said “No way.  You were under.”

And so, for the past twenty years, whenever the Amazing Kreskin comes up (which, admittedly, is not that often) my family defaults to the belief that I was under.

I don’t even bother to dispute them, anymore, because when you think about it, their belief is really just a testament to how great an actress I actually am.

And, let me tell you something, I don’t believe anyone was under.

I don’t believe that hypnotism works.

I don’t think I have a stronger mind than someone else and that’s why it didn’t work.

I think it didn’t work because it doesn’t work.

I can’t explain people who have stopped smoking through hypnosis or people who go through hypnosis in therapy to help them remember something they didn’t remember before.

The power of suggestion?  That I believe, because I come from two of the most suggestible people I’ve ever met.

(Love you, Mom and Dad, but you know I’m right.)

They hear someone has some type of illness and they are pretty much instantly convinced that they have it to.

So, suggestion, yes…actual hypnosis? No.

So, there’s my story.

I hope you enjoyed it, and if you are someone I ever see in real life, I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from clapping your hands three times when you are around me.

Cluck.

On Christmas night, Real Man and I finally took everyone’s advice and  started watching The Walking Dead on Netflix.

Why we waited so long, I’ll never know, because it is awesome.

We were hooked right from episode one, and the benefit of watching on Netflix is that we could binge watch our way through, stopping only when we realized we had better get some sleep because work was beckoning in a few, short hours.

Much like the virus that has zombies overrunning the United States, The Walking Dead has infected my brain and I find myself thinking about it much more than anyone should think about any television show.

Some of my ponderings are storyline related, but sometimes, I find myself thinking about what I have learned by watching the show.

Because the lessons are vast.

1.  If it seems like a zombie apocalypse is imminent, I am getting myself to the ENT and having some high-powered hearing aids made, because, apparently, zombies are sneaky bastards.

People will be having a conversation right in the middle of the street and then, BAM, zombie right behind them.

See, I always thought that zombies walked around consistently making “Uuuuuuuuggggghhhhh” and “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh” noises, but apparently, that was a misconception.

Occasionally they will let out a sound or two, particularly when they are running or feasting on a particularly tasty human, but for the most part, they shuffle quietly about the town, minding their own business, until some sound catches their attention.

I need to know when they are near, because my reflexes are pretty slow, so I want some high-powered hearing aids to help me hear the shuffle, shuffle, shuffle of dead feet.

2.  I need to create a stockpile of antibiotics.

Who knew there were so many ways to get hurt in a post-apocalyptic world?

We definitely need some more first aid kits, but those first aid kits aren’t going to do us a world of good if we don’t have antibiotics to fight infection, and with my accident-prone daughter, we are going to need them, because I feel like by the time I get to the pharmacies, they will have already been looted, so we need to prepare ahead.

3.  If I’m not right next to Real Man when the zombie apocalypse begins, I really shouldn’t just assume that he’s dead until I see his body or his zombified corpse stumbling toward me.

Because, people, bad things happen when you assume your spouse is dead in the apocalypse.

4.  It’s surprisingly easy, and not that big of a deal, to cut off a limb.

All you need is a belt and a hatchet or a saw and you are good to go.

People can chop off a limb and survive quite well, despite the lack of antibiotics and medical care.

Good to know, because, as I previously mentioned, I don’t have an antibiotic stockpile quite yet, and my first aid kit would be helpful in the event someone skins their knee.

Closing up a nub of an arm?

Probably not gonna cut it.

5.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I find myself thinking things like “Would I be able to shoot someone in the leg and leave them for zombie food to get some medicine back to my sick child?”

“Would I be able to shoot my sister/husband/child/best friend if they turned into a zombie?”

Stuff like that.

6.  Desperate times also make you a fantastic shot.

These people have one gun training session and suddenly, they are able to ride around in cars, shooting at zombies, and hitting them right in between the eyes.

I know people who spend hours and hours at the gun range and still struggle with getting anywhere near the target.

Who knew that the zombie apocalypse would turn them into sharpshooters?

7.  No one likes a know-it-all.

I have spent most of the show wishing for Dale to die, because he is such a freaking know-it-all.

He tried to be the moral high-ground guy, and while he had some good points sometimes, everyone wanted to punch him because it’s the zombie apocalypse.  Don’t talk to us about losing our humanity, dude.  We need to survive.

So, yeah, when the apocalypse comes, I won’t be that guy.

8.  Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.

Someone may seem like the bad guy, but just because they are sweaty and greasy and angry and sullen, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t going to turn out to be your favorite person during the apocalypse.

Like, maybe your favorite person on any tv show, uh, I mean, during any apocalypse, ever.

So, I turned 42 on Friday.

It wasn’t that big of a deal.  After 21, there are no real milestones, except for the decades, and I’ve always been one who believes that age is just a number.

So far, 42 feels a lot like 22, but with a much earlier bedtime.

However, I’ll let you in on a little secret.

I cry, every year, on my birthday.

I’m not really sure why.

I just do.

Not for a long time, and not because I’m concerned about getting older.

It’s just my annual birthday cry.

It’s spontaneous.

It’s not like I think to myself, “Oh, January 3rd…time to start crying.”

It just happens, sometime in the middle of the day and I say to myself “Oh, there you are, birthday cry,” and then it’s over, and I move on.

My friend, Tara, gave me a beautiful blanket for my birthday.

It is covered in literary quotes.

It’s perfect.

As I was thanking her for it, she shared with me that she was looking for an appropriate card last night and she started thinking about me and the year I’ve had.

She reminded me of all that I’ve accomplished in the last year.

I was published in a book, I was on the front page of the newspaper, I participated in several book signings, I expanded my circle of writer friends, I joined a writer’s group, a piece I wrote made the Huffington Post, I left the classroom and moved into administration at my school, and my family stayed (generally) healthy.

It was a very, very good year.

I’m so grateful to her for that reminder.

Maybe I didn’t do all (or most) of the things on my Twenty Wishes for 2013 list, but I did a lot of things that weren’t on the list and are even better.

Sometimes you need someone else to remind you of how good things are.

So, here’s to 41, which was beyond amazing, and here’s to 42 that is rife with yet unfulfilled promise.