"There is no such thing as natural beauty..."

This morning I looked in the mirror and my Dolly Pardon was looking back at me. The Dolly Pardon I remember in 1987. And while I love Dolly, I'm being perfectly candid when I say that no one wants to look like Dolly Pardon in 1987.

I am a disgrace to Southern women everywhere.

So I rushed to my nearest Target (since the closest Piggly Wiggly is an hour away) and left with an armful of things to get my pretty back.

Crest Whitestrips (on sale!)

Nair (shudder. winter legs.)

BORN BLONDE hair dye

Then I called my sister and on-call beautician to ask how to dye just the roots of my hair. She got all complicated and started using chemical terms like "toner" and "overprocessed." I kind of lost her at "don't overlap the dye with your already bleached hair. Because it might fall out if you do." Whaaaa?? You mean I can't just slather it on like shampoo???

Carefully pulling out the directions, they said to start in the back of my head. Which I can't see. That's when I knew that they contained nothing helpful and tossed 'em in the trashcan.

So here I sit. My teeth are so sensitive after half an hour of whitening that I feel like I'm biting down on a frozen creamsicle. I smell like a chemical refinery, but at least the hair is gone from my legs. And based on the tingling coming from my head, I think I might have put Nair on my head by mistake.

Am I pretty yet????

Turning 30...

Something terrible has happened.

I have turned 30.

I don't know when it happened. I don't think it was on my birthday in October, because I didn't feel any different than I had the day before. When I was 29. So it must've crept up on me since then. Slowly. Like a haircut that grows out and you suddenly realize the truth: you have a fe-mullet.

That's how it feels to realize that you're 30. And it's about that cool, too. (Let's pause for a moment to consider Kristen Stewart's fe-mullet, shall we? I mean, she isn't even 30. And has millions of dollars. So there is only one explanation: Robert Pattinson is rubbing off on her. )

But back to me and my oldness.

I have lots of proof of my coming of age. For example, I have started washing my grapes. I can't even snatch a handful straight out of the bag without rinsing them in the sink, and I shudder just thinking about rat hairs (an average of 3 per bag of grapes) and grape harvesters going straight from Port-a-Potty to vine. Gross.

I never used to care. I used to just blissfully toss grapes in my mouth, tra la, as I put the groceries in the car. They looked clean to me, thanks. But now that I'm 30, I can't do that anymore.

Also, my car. It was made when I was 16 years old. That does not bespeak youth, my friends. Because "youth" drive cars that either a) bought by their parents or b) are so stinkin' old that they're retro and cool again. I know. Because when I was in high school I had the privilege of inheriting my brothers/grandmother's gold Dodge Colt hatchback. It was a fabulous stick shift that screamed "I'm too young to care! Bwahahah!" As a bonus feature, when you turned it off, it would turn back on again. Like Herbie. You literally had to kill it as you pulled into a parking space. It was the coolest car in the history of the world.


(RIP, 1980 Dodge Colt.)

My current car has none of the above qualities. Sometimes I have a certain impoverished pride in it. Like it's my own version of thumbing the powers that be and all their minions in pristine, new minivans and Honda Pilots all around me. That I am superior from them, in my bumblebee of a minivan. But in truth, I'm sure that it tells them exactly this: "I'm 30 and I don't care."

Other evidence:
I'm suddenly obsessed about putting eye cream around my eyes to avoid the "signs of aging."
I will no longer eat dough that has raw eggs in it. Yech.
I find myself saying "Why is it so COLD in here?" all the time.
All fast food suddenly tastes like grease. I could swear that some of it, at least, used to taste good.
And finally--I have started actually, truly, trying to be frugal. And by frugal I mean "Oh dear! One more day until payday, and we're completely out of food! Oh well, I'm sure I can defrost this unrecognizable meat and toss it in a pot with this limp celery and make a fantastic soup. Ohhh...and while the fridge is empty, I can give it a thorough scrubbing! Bliss!!"

It is official. I am old.