My Thoughts on Turning 36

One thought that I just had about turning 36 is that 3+6=9 and 9 is an inverted 6, which, when repeated 3 times, becomes 666.

What is the significance of this satanic non-sequitur?

I have an imaginary frenemy named after a multiple of 3: 9.

I didn’t play with imaginary friends as a child. Back then, all my friends were real, although I was once visited by my hamster’s ghost, briefly.

I can’t remember how 9 came about. I think he was born one day when TJ and I were joking around with one another and sometimes when we do this, we’ll lie about somebody imaginary who is vigorously bothering us and then we’ll run with this lie and make this imaginary asshole’s antics so delightful that we build an entire relationship with him or her and sometimes, we even find handwritten notes from these imaginary people in our mailbox. We have several of these imaginary frenemies. One lives in a jar and she’s a real bitch.

I don’t want to tell you too much about 9, but he does have a tail and his own page at the national registry of sex offenders. He’s always losing body parts, like a leper, and he loves to bother. People often mistake him for a non-human simian. Though he’s imaginary, TJ and I are not the only ones who interact with 9. There are others.



Something I worry about is this: when I turn 36 or when I turn 37 or when I turn 38 or when I turn 39 or when I turn 40, will my mind become a boring Jello? As I age will I become more irrelevant than I already am? As I age will I get uglier?

I feel that as I age, I look more and more like a snapping turtle and have juxtaposed a picture of myself with one so that you can see what I mean.



I actually wouldn’t mind being a turtle because I’d love to carry my bedroom on my back.

Another thought that occurs to me about turning 36 is that I have had a change in priorities. Before, when I pondered the question, “Which super power would I rather have: flight or invisibility?” I’d automatically select invisibility because of the obvious financial rewards I could reap as a thief and also the serious gossip I could score. As I mature, and become wise like the turtle, I change my mind about which super power I’d prefer. I’d prefer flight. Flight could come with equal financial rewards, especially if I was the only flying Mexican-Polish-American woman on earth, and how awesome would it be if I was the colonial woman on your wing?



  1. First, I F%#*+#% love, admire and adore you and TJ so much that I could eat you both up with chile’! Do you guys keep that jarred frenemy bitch in an old pickled Guerritos jar?

    Second, your the most gorgeous, brilliant, unturtlelike person I know! As you get older you get more and more beautiful.

    Third, how are your black babies?

  2. Reply from total stranger … sorry about my strangerness. I stumbled on your blog somehow a while ago. You have good brains and it’s kind of you to share some of your brain products with the world via blog.

    Just had to mention that you really do not look at all like a turtle.

    Also, I am thirty six, will be thirty seven this summer, and I do ask myself all the same questions you asked yourself here. In my mind, I look like a witch (not the awesome crone that I hope to grow up to be, but some yucky witch I don’t want around). If I _were_ a real witch I would help turn you into a shape shifting turtle-like creature so you could carry your bedroom on your back AND shape shift back to yourself whenever you were tired of being a turtle. And you could fly. Wait, if I were a witch, I could fly, too! Maybe there are worse things to resemble.

    To 36! Cheers.

  3. Oh 36, that was a brief stellar moment in time, porque ya sabes, hindsight is forever young. Wait till you get to 43, girl, then the questions turn into oatmeal, dried prunes, cooked cactus, and datiles–my parents’ staples that I used to arrogantly consider “old people food.” Ja ja! They are now some of my favorite foods, minus the dried prunes–maybe that acquired taste will kick in at 50. Although I can suck a dried prune to death if its saturated in chile and salt and comes in a little plastic package called Saladitos. Evidence that I’m still really 13? Age is time-traveling. It’s amazing how we can be/feel more than one age at once: like when I hang out with really young people who call me Ms. or Señora, I feel like a dinosaur. Then I go to the nursing home to visit my dad and the 100-year-old reptilians look at me like I’m a spring chicken with super mobility powers. They mumble, “mi…mi…mija. ven, aca?” One of my friends recently told me “Don’t feel old, Olga. At the nursing home, you’re senior citizen eye-candy.” This is what’s called a 43-year-old compliment. ¡Qué vivan las tortugas!

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