Dear Diary:

E-mails have been exchanged, relevant documents notarized, and the mantle of Oldest Person At Diaryland (OPAD to the uninitiated) has passed from Uncle Bob to your correspondent, a woman a month and a bit from her 49th birthday.

Uncle Bob, about a decade younger than I, was very gracious about giving up the OPAD title but strangely silent about when he would turn over the sash and tiara.

But then, having *read* Uncle Bob's diary, I suspect that they have been used in some sort of bizarre sexual practice better imagined than described, so I'm not going to press the point, eh.

For someone like me who grew up listening to The Who, it's very odd to know that next year I will turn 50. Very odd.

("The Who?" you're asking yourselves if you're under 40. "W.T.F. is that?") Well, neonates, their big hit was "My Generation" with the key phrase, "Hope I die before I get old."

Bad career move, guys. Made it kind of hard for them to stagger onstage like the Stones still do and shout out their big hit. And then one of them *did* die before he got old ... Oh dear. Maybe it's best you ignore this paragraph. Just move along, please. There's nothing to see here.

Anywho ... want to know what the weirdest thing is about getting older? No? I'm gonna tell you anyways because this is my diary, and I can spew about anything I want. So there. Thhhpppptttt.

Well, the weirdest thing is that you still feel all the stuff you felt when you were young. And while I would prefer to make bright, shiny, new mistakes, there's times I find myself making the same old ones *sigh*.

I thought when I got to this age that I would somehow be umm, kind of wise and beyond it all, you know? Nuh UH. Didn't happen. But if it helps any, I've found that the past cah-cah I went through kind of helps while wading through the current cah-cah. And sometimes not. Lots of comfort there, huh?

Uncle Bob, the one uncle we all wish we had. I like to mosey through the diaries here, even though most folks are plenty young enough to be my kid. They talk about love, lust, loneliness, fear of being dorky, all that stuff ... and I still feel all those things. Heck, sometimes I feel *this* dorky. (Marn studies picture carefully, then rethinks her words.) Um, er, ah, well maybe not quite *that* dorky.

Uncle Bob and his um, er, ah FRIEND. But then, get him out of his Uncle Bob Costume? and Uncle Bob isn't dorky at all. (Is it just me, or does he look like he's standing beside "Lori, Your Inflatable Girlfriend"? in this picture? If you've read his diary, then you know this is a reasonable question to ask.)

But enough of this. Gotta wrap this puppy up before things get any more out of hand...

So, to sum up, I'm now The OPAD, but Uncle Bob gets to keep the sash and tiara. And if you're reading this, Uncle Bob, yes you can call me Aunt Marn BUT you have to use the phrase all my other nieces and nephews use when addressing me, which is: "Your Holiness, Aunt Marn."

Do you think he bought that?


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -

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