The problem with Pinterest.

I like the pictures.

I do. I really do. I'm a visual learner, and being able to gorge myself on ideas is quite satisfying.

However.

I typically troll the home décor section of ol' Pinterest, seeing as how I have an old house that will never be done-ish. I've found Pinterest to be a good way to research period details of my house. This has made slogging past all the McMansion posts to be a worthwhile endeavor.

However.

You know what really kills me? It's the comments.

"Must do!"

"Posting so I remember this when I have a house / baby / garden / bigger house / bigger baby / what-have-you!"

"Wish I'd done this."

Ugh. It's just all these women shoulding all over themselves. Like we aren't good enough, with our right-enough homes and our just-fine interior design.

No. Instead, we have to shame ourselves by publicly posting to-do lists and reminders of our own perceived inadequacies.

Most of my pins have just 1-word descriptions - really insightful stuff like "Entryway" or "Kitchen." Enough so that search can function. But I refuse to attach any kind of action or emotion to them. Because I am a crotchety old biddy who does not have the time to make freakish lists of impractical to-dos or OCD regrets.

And don't even get me started on the grammar on Pinterest. Oh, sweet Jesus.

Of course we talked boobs at the family reunion.

I spent 22 hours in the car this weekend.

Yeah, you know you're jealous.

My mom and I went to a family reunion in South Dakota. Did you know that in South Dakota, the speed limit on 2-lane highways is 65? And on the interstate, it's 75? That right there is reason enough to move to the more tropic of the Dakotas.

Plus, the gas station we stopped at had freakin' FULL SERVICE. The cutest boy in a high school football t-shirt pumped our gas. He was so clean-cut and adorable. I just wanted to make him a sandwich. This might also have been due to the fact that I was delirious with relief at finding a gas station, as I hadn't been paying attention to the fuel gauge on my mom's car and noticed after about 9,000 miles that the red light was on.

Obviously, it was an action-packed weekend.

This was a family reunion where I didn't even find out who was going to be there until I was en route. It was the descendants of my great-great grandparents. Basically, I knew my aunts and my mom's 3 cousins. Everybody else, I didn't know from a can of paint.

But people are kind, and it takes a special breed to either open your farm to strangers who are family, or to travel way out of your way to see family - or meet them for the first time.

I enjoyed spending time with my mom and my aunties. I got a kick out of their cousins, 3 brothers who were clearly up to no good and old enough to know better. And I loved watching the wheels turn as the group tried to decipher spotty genealogical information.

One relative had 2 kids who were 2 months apart in age. Sadly, my fantasy of him having multiple wives simultaneously didn't pan out. He just adopted his second wife's kids from her first marriage. Except that my mom and the aunties remembered the second wife, who lived with them while she was going to beauty school, and there weren't kids around. Or maybe she was the third wife?

Then, there was our host, who was the surprise baby of his family. "Mom was 45 when she had me, and dad was 55," he said, eyes bright. "She said she cried for 2 weeks when she found out she was pregnant. I have nephews who are older than me."

I discovered that my auntie and I are foot twins. Our feet look exactly alike. Surely this information will come in handy some day.

And then, there were the photos. Can you tell the difference between Neva and Laura? Which one is which? And just look at Granny!

My mom leaned across the photos and whispered conspiratorially to me and the aunties. "I just can't get over the boobs! You had to wear a belt to keep 'em above your waist!"

I laughed. "Yeah, they're all very ... bosomy."

My mom straightened up. "I just remember Granny and all the ladies as being really soft and cushy."

I considered genetics and my own NASA-engineered over-the-shoulder boulder holder. I sat up straighter and said a silent prayer to Saint Nordstrom, patron of big-boobied ladies and my personal savior. Then, I realized that high speed limit or no, I couldn't live in South Dakota, so far from the Nordie's lingerie department.

It was a good weekend, full of discovery.

I married well, part 587.

Me: Have you ever read "The Grapes of Wrath?"

My Guy: No.

Me: Really?

My Guy: Well, you've never seen "Jurassic Park." That's way worse.

Me: Uh, you're comparing a 20-year-old summer blockbuster with a novel that is the cornerstone of American literature?

My Guy: It's not just a summer blockbuster. It has DINOSAURS.

Me: Do you even know what "The Grapes of Wrath" is about?

My Guy: Some mad-ass grapes.

Me: ...

My Guy: I rest my case.

A meager PMS prayer.

Dear Lord in heaven, Harold be thy name,

My husband is a good and honest man. A righteous man. A man of The Lord.

He doth not deserve to die in a bloodbath of my own making. He doth not deserve mine wrath, for lo, his only crime is leaving the dishrag balled up in a corner of the kitchen sink, where it festers in its own moisture and sprouts bacteria that will surely beget pestilence and leprosy upon this, our home.

That is his only crime. That, and the loud gum chewing that verily reverberates through the halls of Hades and makes my cramps so much worse.

Heavenly Harold, please protect your faithful servant, my fearful husband. Guard his sweet mug from my hormonal outbursts, for he knoweth not what he hath done. For he hath done nothing. He hath not put the toilet seat down.

Like I said, he hath done nothing. Because I have to do everything.

Like a plague of locusts, I have faith that Aunt Flo, too, shall pass. And the heavens and my husband shall rejoice, and I shall rejoin the flock of People Who Are Not Insane. And all shall be well.

In Midol's name I pray,

Amen.

The Golden Girls are my besties.

It's finally warm, I'm on my computer all day, and I like a bargain.

Obviously, this means I've been online shopping for summer clothes.

I've been trying to explore new shopping frontiers and break out of my fashion rut. While always serviceable, my Gap t-shirt and 8-year-old skirt combo is going to fail me at some point. I recognize that I need to possibly consider maybe trying some different fashions. Or anything that's fashionable at all. I should definitely get outfits that can't be described as "serviceable."

So, I'm trying to branch out. And I know a 38-year-old woman should know better than to peruse Forever 21. But I did. But I didn't find anything for myself. But I did find some things my friends would love.

Yes. Thank you for being a friend, Rose, Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia.

Traveling down the road and back again, I discovered that while Forever 21 caters to the fake-ID crowd, it also offers styles eerily reminiscent of 1989 Miami.

Just try to tell me that Rose Nylund wouldn't love this sweatshirt.

Sure, the model is clearly embarrassed. But Rose would totally wear this to the Senior Center Rodeo Night!

And Blanche would clearly love this pantsuit. Picture it with kitten heels and a glittery clutch, and Ms. Devereaux is ready for a casual date night!

Seriously - these shoes are orthopedic numbers that even Sophia would abhor.

I found a little something for everyone's favorite betuniced Golden Girl. Dorothy Zbornak, this long cardi is for you.

Let us be clear: Dorothy would tell this girl she looked like a Tijuana tramp. But the cardigan? Well ...

As for Sophia? Well, there was really only 1 choice.

I'm pretty sure this is the only appropriate attire for "accidentally" setting fire to Shady Pines.

Sometimes, it's just easier to shop for other people.

Images courtesy of forever21.com and fanpop.com.

Age ain't nuthin' but a number you forget.

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 38.

Yay!

Two things haunted me about this particular birthday:

1. When I was a wee lass, my dad turned 38. And I made up my own version of "Happy Birthday:"

Happy birthday to you

Two years 'til 40

Then you'll be an old man

Happy birthday to you!

I thought I was soooooo funny. But really? I was heartless. Dad, I'm so, so sorry! I was wrong! I was so, so wrong! Please, tell me I was wrong. Please.

2. My husband never remembers how old he is. He will ask me how old he is, like I am The Keeper of Ages. The scary thing is that evidently, I, too, consistently forget his age - I always have to do math when he asks.

I don't understand how My Guy isn't bothered by dirty dishes on the kitchen counter (dishes! on the counter! the world could end!). However, this age business is an area where I need to adopt his zen attitude. What if we all forgot how old we are? How would we act?

I'd probably adopt an all-chocolate-cake diet. I'd dye pink streaks in my hair and sing along to Muzak in the grocery store. I would also throw the occasional impressive tantrum.

What would you do, my ageless friends?

I got ringworm for Mother's Day.

I guess that's what happens when your kids don't have thumbs, are generally unaware of most Hallmark holidays, and, oh, are dogs.

If you've never had ringworm, you are missing out. And if you've never had ringworm in your freakin' armpit? Well, you simply have not lived. The combination of itching and no deodorant means I am one hot mama. Bow-chica-bow-wow!

Fungus or not, I woke up on Mother's Day snuggling with my little 9-pound dachshund. And the first thought that popped into my head was, "This is a creature of God, and he is entrusted into my care." It was lovely.

And then he jumped off the bed and peed on the floor.

It was a nice precursor to the ringworm.

Leading up to Mother's Day, there was a lot of noise about folks who are disenfranchised by the holiday. Anne Lamott revisited her Why I Hate Mother's Day article. And this lovely post begged churches to include all women / caregivers / maybe-officially-moms-maybe-not in their acknowledgements.

This was my first Mother's Day knowing that I am unable to have kids. I watched myself carefully, like I had been exposed to some horrible Mother's-Day-is-gonna-make-you-sad virus, and was looking for signs of illness.

Mostly? Mostly, I was just fine.

Mostly, I was annoyed at the comments to the kindhearted post about including all mama-types. Some of the comments veered dangerously into "How dare you marginalize vegan non-gendered parents of foster guinea pigs" territory. Because we need to include everybody in everything all the damned time.

Mostly, I felt like channeling my mom, specifically after she's spent time with her Minnesota sister and has a bit of a hearty-northerner accent: "Oh, may-eh gayyyyyy-ud. Get a grip."

Mostly, I was speechless when a pal told me she felt "so, sooooo baaaaaad" for me and my lack o' fertility. Evidently, I have a sad, sorry little life. Evidently, I am pathetic.

But mostly? Oh may-eh gayyyyyy-ud. Get a grip. Moms got flowers and kids waking them up. I got extra sleep and ringworm. It's all fine.