My 50th Birthday

This is a piccy of me born exactly 50 years ago.

The day I was born 50 years ago

Three things I'm noticing about the photo (yes, I'm making loads of lists now I'm old.) Firstly: my parents, Madeleine, 23 and Arthur, 25 look so young! Secondly, my mother gave this picture to my elder brother two years ago saying it was him (clearly there was an abundance of sprogs in their lives.) Thirdly, as a bubby, I was so wrinkled with scrunched-up eyes. Things have come a little bit too full circle. On the eyes front.

Course the best thing over the weekend was my mother arrived from New Zealand and calm descended immediately.

50 years later, me and Mum at my birthday bash. Theme: 1962

My birthday bash on Saturday was themed 1962 and I had bought a vintage frock from local store Bella Vita.  As we'd already done a Mad Men party two years ago, we opted not to go with the iceberg wedge with goop dressing and onion dip this time. And, as there was 100 people coming we decided to hire caterers.

We've never had a big catered affair or a wedding so this was my first experience of that big-bunfight-meltdown-madness. The tablecloths for the bar arrived and they were grey, not white.

"Don't let one grey tablecloth ruin your party" said my mother sagely.

Another first: Mum and I got our make-up done professionally. I was hoping against hope to be transformed into the soft kittenish Betty Draper. I got the authentic matt red lips, chalky matt foundation, huge lashes and big black brows.

Before: me being made-up by lovely Rachel at MAC

All okay in the light of day, but as soon as night fell, every wrinkle on my face showed. I became that episode of Seinfeld where his date looks weirdly scary and ugly in a certain light. Friends, Betty Draper became Bette Davis from Whatever Happened To Baby Jane (don't enlarge this photo below)

Baby Jane: no lollipops for you Blanche, you didn't eat your din-dins

My scary Baby Jane black brows aside, we all had a good chortle...

Curtis and Sandy

Men in hats

Me and my bookclub

Hits of the night:
* Lychee cocktails and "The Joannie" (vodka, Poma liquer, lime and cranberry juice). Noodles in mini Chinese take-out cartons eaten with chopsticks. And freshly BBQ-ed chicken skewers - perfect if you have 100 guests.

Wendy and Fredi tasting the Joannie

Caterers cooking the chicken skewers fresh in the backyard

Laura and Vicki: cocktails and chopsticks chic

*We hired a vintage photobooth - everyone looks fabulous in photobooth photos. Two copies came out and guests pasted the second copy into a scrapbook for me.

All the characters from the night including Sgt Pepper

*Kevin and my friend Lesley made a slideshow of my life. Even if you feel rubbish about your life, it turns out you have done stuff after all.

Me and Lesley jumping (just because we still can)

* All the guests had to answer a two page quiz about me, most of which I didn't know most of the answers to. My bookclub won -  to hisses of cheating (they talked to my mother and Google apparently.)

Sixties kissy cool...

* The Conga line (very early Sixties) that gets everyone into the dance room...

Conga line into the dance room!

* The "50 sucks" lollipop sculpture made by my friend Lisa

Made by Lisa

And did Don Draper appear as expected? Well I went down to the garage looking for him or rather the life-size cardboard cut-out of him. He was last seen with Joan at our Mad Men party two years ago.  Spoiler alert! I can only assume he ran off with Joan. Or the Christmas lights in the next box.

And finally...

I did not blow my arse on the night. Or get mulleted or dusted. I only had two drinks. I busted my moves on the dance floor until 2am. I did not embarrass myself or others by falling over or cause others to fall over or show my underpinnings. Too much.

Peter, me and husband Kevin busting our best moves

And I did not feel at all fragile (hungover) the next day.

Have I finally grown-up? Gosh it only took 50 years. 

Age Cannot Wither Her...Much

This weekend hubby Kevin and I took off for Healdsburg, a charming little village two hours away in the wine country. Cy, seven, calls it "WineTown". It was my birthday yesterday and I turned a glorious 49. As my husband gleefully pointed out, I'm now in my 50th year. Kevin bought me a Metal Earth necklace made by my friend Rebecca.

J Vineyards, Sonoma

It may interest you to know that until eight years ago my husband was not fully appraised of the fact that I was - and still am - five years older than him. If we hadn't met up with an immigration lawyer in London, Kevin would have remained blissfully unaware of this fact. At that stage we had three children.

Notting Hill, London

It wasn't that I ever lied exactly, just that I didn't correct him when it became evident that he thought I was much younger than I was.

The truth was I have always been older than everyone around me since I was an AFS exchange student in the US. Because of opposite seasons I had nearly finished my final year at  Whakatane High School in  New Zealand, before I started senior year at New Canaan High School where I was just that bit older. At Uni in New Zealand, I was a year older than everyone again.

New Canaan, CT

Being a contrarian I trained for seven years to be a barrister, then switched careers to journalism, so I found myself toiling away for no money (literally, this was the last recession, no jobs) at a local radio station while all my friends took off to Europe for their  "OE" . That's Overseas Experience, the Kiwi tradition of enlightening oneself for at least two years whilst travelling in a combi van round Europe. This entails being a bloody idiot with other bloody idiots Running With The Bulls in Pamplona, steeping oneself in the history of Bavarian castles and Michelangelo's church ceiling and of course unravelling the recondite mysteries of Oktoberfest beer songs.

That meant I arrived in London much later. It meant I was a 30-year-old chalet "girl" in Champery, Switzerland (an optional, but I feel, vital part of "OE") where most everyone else was 19 years old.  They affectionately called me "Grandma." I met Kevin when I was nearly 33 and we had baby Harley when I was 35.

It wasn't that I was deliberately secretive or even "economical with the truth" or even that Kevin was excessively obtuse -  more that I was evasive. He never saw my passport clearly though we flew all over the world in our first three years together, including to Peru when I was four months pregnant with Harley.  Somehow our exact ages never came up.

After three kids we decided to move from London to the US and when we met with an immigration lawyer she advised us that we had to get married in order to live in the US.  Then she exclaimed rapturously - looking at my birth certificate - "Hey, Jody! Celebrations are in order!!!Happy Birthday for this Sunday -  THE BIG 40!"

"Oh no" said Kevin, "She's not 40, she's more like...35 or is it 36???"

Our lawyer realised what she had done: "I'm. So. Sorry!!!! " she mouthed to me, her eyes terrified.

The game was up. Kevin looked at my birth certificate, his jaw dropping. Not exactly the received euphoria presented by the AshtonKutcher-DemiMoore PR machine. "Horrified" would have more accurately described his face.

We were now free to spend the rest of our lives - me with five years less than first thought - in utterly honest abandonment.

Now I will talk about my age to anyone who cares to listen.  I'm already planning my 50th and looking forward to it. It's not that I'm wiser - am still a confirmed "nonga" (Kiwi-kid word for idiot). I'm not more comfortable "in my own skin" when that skin involves present and imminent slippage including elephant knees, crow feet, bingo wings and turkey wattle. There's no philosophy I've encountered that's suddenly makes all those wobblier bits a subject for joy.

And though Cy will point out scary neck stuff, generally the kids have been coached by Kevin to be gentle:  Cy put on his tuxedo and wrote on my "birdar set" (birthday seat): "Mom you get printy avrer secint" (Mum, you get prettier every second). Tallulah wrote me a song:
"Paying the taxes in the hot warm sun,
Looking forward to having some fun.
Eyes as blue as sea, I know she's my mum when she hangs out with me"

Note From Jackson

In the end I found solace in wise words from my friend Sue. "Listen Jodes" said Sue after hearing me whine yet again "Age! There's not a damn thing you can do about it!"

Can you reveal something you've kept from your partner (within reason)?

Don Draper Lives In My Garage

Today, my job is to go down into our garage to fetch Don Draper. (You know Don, the tasty bloke on Mad Men, master of lip-curling distain.) He's been down there for a while and I expect he will be chuffed to be out and about. (Me, husband Kevin and Don below)

I know Don's making an appearance for his new series on Monday but more importantly, tomorrow night he's expected at my 50th birthday party... Theme: 1962.

Oh some say he's just a cardboard cut-out. But to me he will always be my Don - as good as the real thing. He doesn't say much but I know he's always down there amongst the old Christmas lights. We got him for our Man Men party two years ago, seen here;  prep and night of.

I'm actually kind of surprised he's all in one piece. At our Mad Men party two years ago, the mere site of Don threw the women - including moi - into frenzy. I seem to remember cupping, kissing, some leg-over stuff and all manner of skylarking around.

Partygoers at our house getting in the Mad Men mood two years ago

Another of our partygoers channelling the 60's

There are two other goals (besides finding Don) for this weekend.

Goal 1: Don't blow my arse at the party. I am on strict instructions not to have six swifty glasses of champers at 6.30pm (just get so excited at parties!) thereby, in Kiwi parlance, "blowing my arse."

Goal 1. Buggerit. Expect more cussing on my blog now I'm into my second century.  A friend emailed me today "Do not fade..." I take it that means your language gets even saltier when you're an old bird.

Goal 3. I shall be spending rather a lot of time mastering Don's enigmatic "What?" seen today on Jo's blog. I am hopeful this will establish me as the top scary dog in our household thereby deterring any extraneous whining from the small people and similtaneously blowing off all those big people who are always conspiring to annoy me. And of course achieving Zen mastery.

So..... don't blow my arse, don't blow my arse....What?

Today I'm over the pond venting (yes, again). Lynn of All Fooked Up is featuring my WTF Fun In The Sun post about vacationing in Hawaii with the kids.  Lynn's hilarious blog is always honest and as she says "not for the easily offended." Thanks for having me over Lynn!

Attack of the 80's

Yello! Neon, crystal rock-hunting, all-in-one ski suits and Cyndi Lauper tunage while you're waiting for the lifts.... It was all about the 80's this weekend when we skied Squaw in Tahoe. So much so that my friend Anne and I alternated between called each other "dude" and "foxy" which cracked us up endlessly. (I know, it doesn't take much...)

Snowboard on the slopes of Squaw

Pink and graphic everything at Squaw

I had always thought the 80's was my time. My enormously boomfy King Tut-like hair was having it's moment, so I could, er,  Walk Like an Egyptian. (Nowadays I have my hair straightened with enough chemicals to kill a boatload of cockroaches) Old photos reveal though that my big bangs (fringe) and bigger brows were not as timeless as I'd hoped...

1985 in Wellington NZ, me at bottom right

Fast forward 30 years to Squaw... I was totally stoked to spot this veritable dude who was tailgating (an American term for picnicking from the back of your car - how 80's!) smoking a ciggy and drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon (80's!) having just returned from a crystal-hunting trip (80's!) down the valley (80's!)

Knarly tree at Squaw...

....and knarly tailgating dudes..

On Friday night I wore my pale pink 80's-esque "pumps"out to dinner (high court shoes we would call them) as part of my pearls and pink bow-tie Margaret Thatcher outfit.  Don't know if Mags would have worn the aaaqua trou though "course you would, you saucy minx" (quick: which movie is that line from?)

My pale pink 80's pumps...

I originally bought these pumps to go with a vintage dress for my 50th birthday next week. Theme: 1962. But they are so 80's too! As is my very weird pose again the wall (okay now I'm making up the 80's references) Btw, the heels turned out to be killers, as in killing!!!

Weird pose is definitely more delivery ward than bodacious babe who gets the bohunk (quick: which movie was bohunk from?) I blame the art direction of the eight year old photographer...Cy!

How was the 80's for you?

Me and my Teddy

Our little puppy, Teddy, has arrived. At 2.5 lbs and eight weeks old, he is a Maltese with more joie de vivre and love than bodyweight. For his VIP arrival I donned Old Gold, put on all my jewels and teased my hair into a bouffant. JK! (Just Kidding) as the kids would say -  we had a James Bond party that same night.

Me and Teddy on the back patio

Teddy must be the busiest little creature ever and the most enthusiastic. "Going to put out the garbage? Can I come? Can I come?" Then: "Oh neat! here you are back again! Yay! Yay!" Then: "Oh look: windy day! windy day!Look how it blows hair up your bum!" As a mother with two teens and two teens-in-waiting he is so refreshing.

Teddy and Cy

Jackson, Teddy and Cy

Teddy and Tallulah

I'm exhausted, though. Teddy sleeps 12 hours a night and four hours a day. But as with a baby, I can't leave him. (Yes, I know everyone warned me but I didn't believe them...)

It has to be said my exhaustion might also have had something to do with the James Bond party (a school fundraiser) over the weekend.

Friends Curtis and Lesley - Mrs and Mrs Goldfinger - at the Bond party

Mr Goldfinger, OddJob and me

You know how I said at my 50th birthday I might have finally grown up? I didn't drink too much or embarrass myself or others. Yeah. This weekend not so much...

I decided to wear Old Gold, an ankle-length bridesmaid dress my mother made for me 15 years ago. It was feeling a bit tight this time (too much enjoyment of life) which made me nervous, as it's prone to splitting up the back. It was a two-pair-of-Spanx night for sure.

Whilst dancing at the party I suddenly had a vision. "Let's do the Dirty Dancing lift move!" I yelled to my husband. (You know that move Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey practised in the lake for hours. Also repeated recently by Ryan Gosling in Crazy Stupid Love.)

My husband had not heard. There was the run-up, there was the leap in the air! Aaand - miss.  There were legs and arms flying. And we both landed on the dancefloor.

"Don't worry" my friend reassured me "you couldn't see your two pairs of Spanx...too much. By the way your dress is split up to your butt."

Most husbands would have grabbed their wife and slunk off into the corner. Not mine. "Let's have another go" he said. The second attempt was pathetic rather than triumphant, but no falling over this time. Taking pity on us, friends spontaneously raised me up onto Kevin's shoulders...finally the lift, but no spin. Something to aim for another evening.

Me and Kevin: Old Gold goes out shaken and stirred

Any choreography in your weekend? (which seemed such a good idea at the time...)

Pain in the Peloton

I've taking up cycling. Turns out, it matters not a bag of spanners if you've bought the fanciest bike and the most padded-ed shorts. It's always going to feel like you are riding naked like the cyclists below. A pain in the royal Peloton...

Bodypainted cyclists. Source

We've signed up for a rigorous bike ride in the summer - 60 miles a day - through the South of France. One of my 50th birthday (yes, it's whole year of celebrating) things.  It's in 10 weeks. Just one problem. I didn't actually own a bike. And another problem. I haven't really ridden a bike since I was 12.

So first step: I bought all the guff. Oh the bicycle shorts! They bring out the babe in you. As in baby - it's like wearing superpooper diapers. They bring out the animal in you. Elephant knees anyone? "I'm so depressed about my bloopy legs now!" I wailed to my friend Lisa, who replied: "The clothes for cycling are not cute. If you want cute - take up golf."

Armed with bike, helmet, glasses, arm warmers, I drove out to Lafayette, a green and lush land just ten mins through the tunnel from where we live in Oakland. I parked in a lonely street and whoomped onto my bike. Crash! Whoomp back on again. Eventually I had my two feet in the toe-clips. Then smash, crash, splat, me and the bike were eating the road. It turns out when you stop, you need to know how to unclip your feet.

Up again and giving a cheery wave to the two lots of contractors working opposite: "First time! I'm okay! Don't worry!" Thumbs up from the workmen.

An hour and two huge crashes later I was still riding up and down the same street and the workmen were tired of giving the encouraging thumbs up.

I managed to head out to the real roads and cycled for another hour. One more tremendous crash which forced the bike seat sideways. If you think cycling is uncomfortable, try riding with the seat turned sideways.

I took the bike back to the store to get fixed.  "I crashed a lot!" I wailed to the girl at the bike store. "Oh, it's not bad - you're not bloody" she said. Then the staff gathered around -  I needed to practise, practise, practise my toe clipping for hours in front of the TV. So that's what I'm doing. Good news is I'm all caught up with SpongeBob and the new season of Mad Men.

Me doing heel clips training with SpongeBob

I headed to Walnut Creek (not without driving home and taking a shower - you see I have made cycling into the biggest carbon footprint sport in the land.)  Greeted my friend Lisa in front of the new Neiman Marcus. Lisa had seen these gold wing-tipped shoes (see - essentially golf-inspired shoes) on a blog but couldn't track who makes them...this was our challenge.

Via: ReasonsToBreathe Has anyone seen these shoes?

We formed a small but experienced Pelaton of two and entered the store. There was swerving, there was scooping, there was checking back and surging ahead but ultimately each corner was covered. I've finally hit my stride. There's stores in France right?

Lisa and I finding recruits for the peloton

Lisa fearlessly leading our peloton of two 

The Big Purge (and whether you're an Inny or an Outy)

We're home now--to rain. Thank goodness the drought has broken. And now we're in the year they're calling Sweet Sixteen, my thoughts are turning naturally to the Big Purge (that sentence seems all wrong somehow).  For an article on how to best start, I interviewed two of my go-tos. Organizing stylist, Angela Hoxsey, owner of House in Order says to start with the stuff on the floor and go clockwise.  No, no, don't go to the drawers just yet (full article here)

Angela Hoxsey, organizing stylist. Love this huge photo of M. behind her, don't you? Photo by Robb McDonough

You might remember that I've interviewed Angela before and I told her that my husband and I were opposites. I like all the surfaces clear, am a veritable Monica about that. To the extent that I actually give away all my books (I read about three a week) and when I do online video classes often I can't concentrate on what they are saying because I'm too focused on the shelves behind them! 

But my drawers are a mess.

"Oh yes!" Angela said. "You're an Inny." I'm tidy and seemingly organized on the outer, but a secret mess on the inner.

My husband is an Outy who doesn't mind a bit of stuff on the benches but has tidy drawers (oh er missus).

Here's the evidence.

My desk. Oh yes, it seems like I'm a tidy person

What lies beneath...Detritus includes: report from pest guy, three(!) empty sunglasses holders, three cameras, (one underwater one not developed from goodness knows when), five photos of Tallulah, business cards from restaurants where we ate an on the Camino which I'll likely never see again, old letter from my Auntie Doris who died many years ago (I just love just to see her wobbly handwriting every time I open the drawer) appt, reminder from vet from many months ago. And the rest.

Compare and contrast: The Hubstar's drawers:

The second person I interviewed was Chad Olcott who owns Mulberry's Home in Oakland--love how calls himself a "decorator" so old school --said his best clear-out came last year when his house was photographed for the SF Chron. He took out the little stuff--pictures on the walls, everything on the surfaces. Each of the littlies had to earn their way back in. So his advice is: imagine a newspaper or magazine is coming to your house.

Chad Olcott says take all the littlies out. Now they have to earn their way back in. 

The constant thing we have to purge is--you would not believe it--costumes! What's yours? Because we have so many themed fundraisers at the three schools the kids have gone to, we have accumulated what turned out to be a carload of costumes. We did this purge in late August.

My glamorous life all bagged up

Good! All cleared out. But since then we have actioned three more costumes...

Speakeasy party: Over-Donatella-ed it on the tan, not terribly Twenties

Tacos and Toga 50th birthday party. Anthony and Cleopatra, the greatest love of all time...or just two people in really bad wigs?

Space party: We were the two faces of Keith Moon (The Who drummer) Only two people got it. There was no prize for most obscure get-up, dang it.

Keith Moon as the Queen

Keith Moon as a rollerblading nun. Now do you geddit?

So it's back to commandeering the boy in the upstairs corner room to take them down to the garage to store.

There was actually a third box just for the wigs

What's your groundhog day of effluvia? (Wow, this blog post really took a strange and messy turn, just what you'd expect from an Inny, innit?)