Good grief. Life just doesn’t let up these days, and that’s not a bad thing at all. It’s funny – the more I have to write about on my blog, the less time I have to do it.

The day-to-day’s fine. While everyone in the family’s had the barking-seal cough, we’ve dodged the flu so far, unlike a huge chunk of Clara Jane’s school.

Clara Jane’s slightly more sane than when we last spoke with bouts of complete irrational mania. Last night’s meltdown: one of her friends at school has been getting in trouble for his behavior and it’s pissing her off. I heard mutterings of a, “You best straighten up and fly right,” lecture in her plans for today.

We’re supposed to be picking pumpkins right now, but the constant rain’s led to postponement. Just as well because I’m quite thrilled to still be in my pajamas. Monday, we pumpkin.

Tomorrow, we embark on Girl Scout Cookie sales. We’re not supposed to sell on the internet but if you need a fix …

As for me, I’ve been gnashing my teeth about what’s going to happen a week from today.

I’m going to turn 37. Which means in April, I’ll officially be in my late 30s.

WHAT THE FUCK.

I was fine when I turned 30, aside from five minutes first thing that morning when I couldn’t wrap my brain around the concept of going to bed in my 20s and waking up in my 30s. I got over it pretty quick.

35 had a little angst. I changed it to 3fucking5 and felt much better.

But 37? Damn.

I know, it’s ridiculous. Especially since the universe seems to have a way of counter-acting any birthday angst with good stuff, reminders that I’m just were I’m supposed to be at the right time.

A week before my 30th birthday, I catered a luncheon with a food critic from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch – a woman notorious for firing caterers.

She didn’t fire me; she led a standing ovation in my honor. Even though I can’t say I plan to ever cook professionally again, I think that’ll always remain one of my best career moments. I’ll never forget how awesome that felt, and how at home I felt making and serving that food. I still remember what I made. Smoked chicken salad with toasted hazelnuts on hand-made warm sage biscuits. Baby greens salad with Missouri black walnuts, currants, and a maple vinaigrette. Butternut squash and Macintosh apple soup with light curry spice, which the critic called “sublime”.

That was the first time in my adult life, which had been full of missteps and screw-ups, that I felt like I had accomplished something real.

Thirty-five wasn’t quite as over-the-top bombastic. We’d just moved to Prettytown. I was full-time mom to a thriving, intelligent, darling 3-year-old. I hadn’t envisioned stay-at-home momdom, but it suited me and I was happy.

On the brink of 37, I’m finding myself in a place I always wanted to be, but didn’t think I’d find at this stage in my life. I’ve been paid to do more writing about stuff I truly enjoy over the past eight months than I have in my entire life combined. Today I got a suprising, exciting bit of news regarding one of my columns. Alas, can’t share it yet, because it’s not finalized. Plus, I have to walk a bit of a fine line in what I divulge regarding the things I write professionally. Suffice it to say that I’m amazed and stunned and excited at the opportunities that seem to be falling from the sky and landing in my hands, instead of bashing me in the skull like they have in the past.

I had another such moment three weeks ago and it took all my will power (which is always in short supply, especially when good news is concerned) to not blurt out to the whole world. But now that it’s over …

Last weekend one of my favorite bands, The Bottle Rockets, played a two-night set of shows in St. Louis. Not unusual. They’re based here, and you know I see them at every opportunity. But this time, I got paid to see them as a reviewer.

Believe me, I had a moment of surrealistic shock about halfway through the show on Friday. I was at the stage, scribbling some notes in my notebook while dancing when I had the, “Holy shit! Someone’s paying me to do this! Since when is the world this fair and awesome?”

I’m not going to repeat myself. You can read about Friday and Saturday’s shows elsewhere.

Yes, getting paid to write about something I love as much as I love as music is just as fantastic as you think. No disappointments at all.

A bonus perk: reviewing a show made my participation different than it has been. Honestly, this hasn’t been a great year for shows. I hauled halfway across the country for a Wilco show that left me feeling flat and disappointed. Last time I saw the Bottle Rockets, I almost got into a fight because I finally got so fed up with jackass crowd behavior. In January I went to a Jeff Tweedy show that just left me feeling sad. I can’t find a blog post about it, so I’m thinking I didn’t bother. The only shows I’ve enjoyed this year have been small and spontaneous. Like taking advantage of free Southern Culture on the Skids tickets at the last minute, or going to lots of little shows by great local bands.

I’d started thinking that maybe I’d outgrown the music scene at long last, which made me a little sad. I’m feeling better after last weekend. Even if I’m never hired to review another show again, it’s good to know I can shift my focus and still enjoy live music, even if it’s from a more analytical perspective. I mean, I still had a fantastic time, but there’s relief in knowing I can still have fun without being in the best spot in front of the stage, being the most immersed fan. New perspective’s good .

Also good: being a nearly-37-year-old gal with a husband and kid reviewing rock shows. I would have thought I was too old, too domestic, too nerdy. It’s good to know doors still open, even after years of wrong turns that turned out to be just right.