A food baby, that is. (Did I freak you out Bill???)

Some time later (hopefully sooner) I will be delivering a 5-pound 8-ounce Tuna Melt and fries.

I’m registered at Carnegie Deli in case you’d like to complete my registry. Pastrami on rye with Swiss, ketchup and a good New York Cheesecake would be nice playmates for my bouncing baby.

Don't let this happen to you...

Ugh, remind me again, why I chose the tuna melt over the salad I intended to order? Was there some kind of aneurysm that caused me to do this? Ugh.  My gut is so bloated right now I look more pregnant than my 8-months-pregnant daughter-in-law.

Send some Pepto Bismol, please.

(Thank you,Debra )

Life is coming at me fast and furiously. I feel like waves are constantly crashing over my head and I’m swimming down instead of up.

X is Me (waves wildly!)

My workday isn’t as long as it’s been recently, but it’s jam-packed from the time I walk in the door to the time I shut my computer down. And it doesn’t stop when I get home. In addition to the never-ending piles of laundry that need to be washed, dried, folded (lather, rinse, repeat), there’s grocery shopping, cleaning, catching up on the piles of mail that have overtaken our dining room table. (I know, cry me a river. We all have to do it). I barely have time to walk the dog—forget about trying to get to the gym. And I don’t have nearly enough time to take care of some of the major things around the house—like digging out the plants I let die in the yard and re-seeding sections of the lawn that are just dirt.

Help me! I'm dying!

I’m tired and on overload.

I used to use weekends to catch up and relax. But lately? Weekends are my personal hell.

Weekends are supposed to be relaxing. They’re supposed to be fun. Weekends should be spontaneous. Do I want to nap right now? Why yes I do. Do I want to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy because I didn’t have time during the week? Sure, why not. I should be allowed to lie around in my PJs all day on Sunday if I want to, or find a spot on the couch and stay there, making my way through my stack of unread books so tall I can use it as a nightstand.

But there are too many other things we need to do. Julie the Cruise Director usually has every minute of every day planned, booked, scheduled, promised and committed. Sadly, I’m getting as bad as he is. In addition to the work commitments we have to honor, there are family events, dog shows, friends that we try not to neglect. But I think we’re neglecting ourselves. We’ve been away from home the past three or four weekends—sometimes together, mostly apart. He went to D.C. I had a dog show in San Diego. I had to go to my parents’ a couple of hours away while he went to a work thing an hour in the other direction.

I’m so exhausted that Sunday night I actually dropped off and fell asleep at 8:30 p.m. and slept for 12 hours. 12 hours! And I didn’t feel any better after all of that.

So I’m going on strike.

We have some family coming this weekend, but for the most part they’re pretty low-maintenance. They are comfortable making themselves at home, which is great because I can sleep in and relax. I’m going to set up shop in my spot on the couch and I plan to stay there most of the weekend. I may move to the bedroom to change things up, but I refuse to go somewhere I don’t want to be or do something I don’t feel like doing.

And the next weekend? I’m going to do even less. I’m not budging. I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not making plans. I actually had to schedule a weekend of No Plans in both of our calendars. If you want to spend time with me, pull up some couch and stay awhile. And bring martinis.

I never thought I’d be the sort of woman who became obsessed with her age. I’ve (almost) always taken pretty good care of myself, going to the gym, (mostly) eating well, taking care of my skin (although not wearing sunscreen nearly enough), and getting enough sleep (ha, ha!). I’ve always thought I’d age gracefully, that a few wrinkles wouldn’t bother me.

Turns out I AM obsessed. Aging is pissing me off.

I’m going to be 40 this summer. There, I said it out loud.

40. I’m not at all what I pictured 40 being when I was 14 or even 25. For the most part I’m okay with it. I’ve grown up, I’ve learned a lot, I’m smarter and more confident. But as the day gets closer I’m frustrated with certain things.

I work long hours and I’ve been under a lot of stress and I’m wearing it all over my face like a big fat Fuck You from life. I look tired all the time. I can’t get rid of the dark circles under my eyes (granted, I’ve always had them, but they’re way more pronounced now). Recently, I’ve noticed that my skin looks ashy—if I don’t wear makeup I look like the walking dead and if I do wear makeup it settles in, making me look like a drag queen after a long night of partying (that may partially be the fault of the makeup I’m wearing. Damn you, MAC Cosmetics). To add insult to injury, I’m breaking out. So even though I’m turning 40 soon, I get to relive puberty all over again. I should just run out and get a spiral perm, braces and glasses to make it official.

I never thought I’d consider any kind of cosmetic procedure—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m all for it if it’s going to make you feel better. But now I’m staring in the mirror, scrutinizing my face, checking out my skin, searching for new wrinkles and other imperfections. And I hate what I see.

I don’t mind the little wrinkles around my eyes—I think they add character. But I hate the furrow I’ve developed in my brow. I look perpetually angry or angsty. And that big divot in my head is making my eyes look dark and heavy. Have you even noticed how much tighter your face is when you have your hair wrapped up in a towel on your head? That’s what I want to look like again. I don’t want to slice open my hair line and have someone tug my face up to my nose, but I am considering Botox to smooth out my forehead.

And a good facial wouldn’t hurt. And maybe a haircut and some highlights.

I know it sounds shallow. Even to me it does. But I’m just not going to go gentle into the dying night. I’m going to rage against the dying of the light. And against the total destruction of my face.

I’m going to fight 40 like hell.

(See? I’m not totally shallow—I can quote Dylan Thomas. Sort of.)
PS: I came to this conclusion today after spending $140.52 at Sephora. (Sorry Bill)

Gracie is __________________________________.

The elevator door opens, people on the inside of the elevator step out, then the people on the outside of the elevator can step in.

When I step out of the elevator don’t rush in, don’t stand in front of the door so I can’t get out. Move your ass to the side and wait your turn.

While we’re talking about elevator etiquette, let’s go over a few more rules:

1. Don’t shout into your cell phone, especially when you’re standing about an inch away from my ear.

2. Put your overstuffed backpack on the floor—or at least somewhere where it won’t knock me over. If you insist on wearing it anyway, don’t swing back and forth so you can whack me repeatedly. I WILL cut a hole in the bottom so all your shit drops out.

3. Don’t press the Close Door button when you see me running toward the elevator. That’s just rude. And karma is a bitch.

Anything I missed?

UPDATED: Please don’t bogart the buttons in the elevator. Press your floor and step away. They don’t belong to you. (This post updated courtesy of my trip down to my car after work.)