Thursday, September 27, 2012

I Meant What I Said When I Said I Would Rearrange My Plans and Change For You: Marrying a Turner Girl

By: Guest blogger, Zach Edwards

Lately I've found myself wondering what the 2006 or 2007 version of myself would have thought if I told him he'd be married in 5 years. He probably would have laughed in my face and told me I was crazy...He isn't going to get married for a while, he'd say. He wants to travel and be able to just worry about himself for a while before he settles down, he'd say. Besides, 30 is the new 20, he'd arrogantly point out. I'd just smile, nod, and say well, we'll see, I guess. Then he'd chuckle, unconvinced, shrug his shoulders and sarcastically agree with me. 
I never planned for this. For virtually my entire adult life I knew I would probably take a different path than the rest of my family. I was going to be a late bloomer, in a sense. I was going to wait to marry, not really because I was afraid or avoiding it, but because I just wanted to put off that responsibility for a while. I wanted to be able to live my life at a moment's notice. I wanted to be able to do what I wanted, when I wanted, and get all of that out of my system before jobs, kids, and raising a family took over. 
Then I met Adrienne, and all that stuff I had planned for seemed increasingly foolish and trivial. The only plan I had after that was to be with her.

It just doesn't make sense that my wedding is a mere week away. I've been looking forward to it since the day I proposed to Adrienne, but in a "It's going to be so great when the day comes" kind of way. It's strange how things we anticipate like that always seem to feel so far away, and even if we count down the days, are still able to sneak up on us like an old friend surprisingly grabbing our arm on a crowded street.

I've gone over every possible scenario in my mind, played it out from start to finish over and over, although I know any preconceptions I have about it won't do it justice. I can't really imagine what it's going to feel like standing at the alter, watching the love of my life walk towards me in her beautiful gown, the music playing, and a few hundred sets of eyes fixed directly on her. I almost feel jealous, like all those eyes don't deserve it...That moment should be just for me...For us. But, I also know how ridiculous that is, because she will be sharing that moment, that day, with her mother and sisters. When I remember that, the silly jealousy fades away and turns to excitement because I'm glad her family and mine will all be there sharing in our joy with us. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

You see, I knew exactly what I was signing up for when I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Adrienne Ross Turner.

The Turner Girls are a unique breed, and it takes very little time to realize that. They all exude a quiet confidence that, when pushed to do so, boils over the surface like a pot on the stove that's been filled just a bit too much...Slowly, but suddenly. 
They all have a contagious and addicting sense of humor, and an uncanny ability to laugh at their own faults. Poking fun of one another is both acceptable and expected, but God have mercy on the poor soul that crosses that line from the outside. 
They all look at life and the daily challenges that accompany it with a sense of joy and exuberance that almost seems fake, but is laced with more sincerity than most people can apply to anything.

They all tell stories about the husband, father, teacher, and friend that left such an indelible mark on so many lives with such vividness and love that the listener might as well be standing in the room at the moment the recollection happened. I love watching their faces brighten when they speak of him.

They all love the little piece of land off Highway 90 in Waterview, that no matter where they go, will always be home. Not that I blame them...Pulling up the driveway makes me feel like I've been sucked into a Ken Holland painting. And I always feel like I'm home when I go there.

I've witnessed a stronger bond between the Turner Girls and some horses and dogs on that farm than most people ever find with another person.

None of them are perfect, and each would be the first to tell you that. Sure, they're confident in themselves, but they fail to cross the fine line between confidence and arrogance. Despite their noticeable confidence, Turner women are built humble. And stubborn. That innate stubbornness leads to disagreements and the occasional heated argument, just like in any family. I would prefer to stay out of them, but if push comes to shove, Adrienne will always be right (sorry, Jackie, Liza, and Leigh). But no matter the topic of disagreement, or the severity, there is always forgiveness on both sides.

They each have their own preferences, interests, and styles, but influences from all the others can be easily seen. I've never seen a group of people so different and so similar at the same time.

And above all else...The bond that has been forged in them by blood and experience is absolutely unbreakable. There will never be anything more important to them than family, and that has been abundantly clear since the very beginning.

So what does it mean to be marrying a Turner Girl? Well...

It means I have a new-found responsibility, not only to Adrienne and our future family, but to her family too. It means I have a new family that has welcomed me with open arms, and, despite all my faults and short-comings, has somehow come to grips with the fact Adrienne chose me.

It means I know my kids will grow up with an amazing support system from both sides. They'll see great examples of the love, devotion, determination, and hard work from my family AND Adrienne's. It means the stereotype of "dreaded in-laws" doesn't exist for me.

It means if I ever screw up and hurt Adrienne in any way, I not only have to answer to her and her family, but also about 6,000 Cumberland County residents.

It means the woman I get to spend the rest of my life with is a strong, confident, smart, and loving woman built upon a foundation as strong as the one I grew up with. Adrienne and I talked about how similar our families were very early on, and is one of the things I like the most about mine and Adrienne's relationship.

It means I get to spend the rest of my life with the woman of my dreams. It means I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the rest of the Turner Girls for helping mold Adrienne into the unbelievably incredible woman she is today, and to Liza for introducing us in the first place. Without the Turner Girls, I'd have nothing.

I guess above all else, it means I got really damn lucky.

Monday, September 24, 2012

A mix of the sacred and the profane? Yes, indeed.

Things I was reminded of ("of which I was reminded" if Monday has made you cranky and nit-picky) by attending the Kentucky Library Association (KLA) Conference in Louisville last week:

1. The Galt House will always be FFA conventions for me.  My family never went on extravagant vacations (Who could blame ol' Curtis and Jackie? One can only handle so much, "Who brought the skunk with them?"), but there were plenty of Sunday drives, and Friday night Glasgow excursions, and the much-anticipated, three-day Galt House adventures every June.  While Dad spent the day with the FFA students in meetings, or watching talent competitions, or on farm visits, Mom would patiently heed my and Leigh Ann's pleas for pool time, or trips to the Galleria (now the 4th Street Live area), or explorations by the river.  In the evenings, we would all go out to eat (it seems it was often TGI Friday's:)) and sometimes do a horse and buggy ride downtown. In the morning we typically had breakfast in the Magnolia Cafe on the second floor of the hotel, naturally stopping to giggle at the legs in the pool we could see from the large window near the restaurant entrance.

Around the age we started tagging along on the FFA trips...
This past Friday morning, I simply felt happy to be sitting in that same room enjoying my coffee, scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and fruit medley.  I love that I remember how excited I felt to be at this hotel with my family.

2. I love my home and I always enjoy coming back, but I also really love spending a few days in city downtowns.  I like sculptures and neat architectural elements.  I enjoy the variety of shops, restaurants, and people.  I love the anonymity. I feel inspired by the intangible energy.  I love river towns and waterfronts.  There's just a part of me that feels "more like myself," stronger, more confident when I walk city sidewalks.
Seriously, go to The Bristol on Main Street.
3. Interstates are handy, but gems are discovered along two-lane roads. 
All taken in Bardstown (Take 65S to the Hwy. 245 exit). If you have time, do the Bourbon Trail!
4. I want to marry Silas House.  I love the tone of his voice. I love his subdued confidence.  I love to hear him discuss motivations and processes.  I love that his voice represents people and places that seem so familiar to me.  I love that his words matter, that they both speak to social concerns and entertain.  I love every outfit I've ever seen him in.
This is a reading from his most recent book, Same Sun Here, which he co-authored with Neela Vaswani.  The young adult publication, which was written in real time (2008), is an epistolary novel that highlights a coming-of-age pen pal relationship between a 12-year-old Appalachian boy and a young Indian immigrant girl living in New York City.  What I love most about the process is that House and Vaswani actually wrote letters to each other in these personas for nine months.  They never spoke of the book outside of the letters until they actually sat down in the same house for three days during the revision process.  Suggesting that "books come alive when you live vicariously through the characters," House described the process to be very "organic," one that necessitated plot twists and a broaching of subject matter that even surprised him at times.

*I also love that when asked about his reading tendencies as a child, House replied, "It's good to have a mix of the sacred and the profane" (a reflection of his time in public libraries and with the books that his grandma let him read).:)

5. Roll your windows down and play awesome music. It's the only way to travel this time of the year.

Seriously, if you haven't bought or downladed this album yet, do so today.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Don't blink or you'll miss the dance!

By: Guest blogger, Terry Staley

As Liza and I were sitting in our office, discussing deep intellectual and philosophical aspects of life, the subject of love came up. Liza, whom I consider a deep thinker, said she liked the idea of there being that one soul mate out there that you will come upon and know "this is the one" immediately, but in reality, she doesn’t believe in it.

As an older contemporary and having 40 years of experience in love, and 38 years of experience in marriage, I give you my humble opinion: love at first sight is a bunch of hooey.

A UPS driver told me one time he thought he was in love and found out later he was in lust; how true this is. When we meet that "one," we are all wearing our best face, acting on our best behavior and trying to impress. The true test is time.

I ask you now, how could I at age 14 know what love is? That is when I met the man of my life, my soul mate. At 14 you know nothing about life or love, but you know "everything". I fell hard for this person that went out of his way to show off and impress me. We courted for a couple of years and got married at the ripe old age of 16. I thought I knew what love was. I can tell you our life was not a fairy tale; there is no such thing. What I can tell you is we had good times, bad times and worse times and we grew into love. Do I think that the day I was born that the powers that be said, "You will meet, fall in love and be Tom's soul mate!" No, I don't. I think life is more like those books you get now where you get to a point in the book and it says if you think a certain action will happen then turn to page 63, if not turn to page 89 and you get a different ending but the beginning is the same.

My choices have brought me to where I am. I can think of many times when if I had made a different choice my story would have changed, I might even have had a different soul mate. I'll never know. When we said the words, "to have and to hold, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health till death do us part," we meant them. We were so naive when we said those things, but we grew into our love.

So in my humble opinion, there is no love at first sight, predestined soul mate and no fairy tale marriage. Love is two people attracted to each other and with work from both, not just one, it grows into a deep love that will last a lifetime. We make our choices and we make the best of them and we don't spend our lives second guessing ourselves, we take our lives and live them to the only get one.

“And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go.
Our lives are better left to chance.
I could of missed the pain,
But I'd of missed the dance.” - Garth Brooks

Dance on....

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

But I can write a song.

"I am searching for a stay-put serenity to replace my brash wanderer's self-satisfaction." - Vivian Swift, "September" chapter of When Wanderers Cease to Roam
"I was a terrible believer in things, but I was also a terrible nonbeliever in things.  I was as searching as I was skeptical.  I didn't know where to put my faith, or if there was such a place, or even precisely what the word faith meant, in all of its complexity.  Everything seemed to be possibly potent and possibly fake. 'You're a seeker,' my mother had said to me when she was in her last week, lying in bed in the hospital, 'like me.'" - Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From lost to found on the Pacific Coast Trail
I love when I read something that describes exactly how I feel, in a way I would never think to articulate.  I fail miserably at playing the role of both believer and nonbeliever.

Over the years, I've changed my opinion as to who is my favorite.  Stanley has taken top honors. I went through an Andy spell.  Michael and Holly together made me happy.
Ultimately, though, it has always been Jim. 


 Oatmeal-Apple Dog Treats
2 cups flour (whole wheat or all-purpose)
1 cup oats
2/3 c. water
1/8-1/4 c. minced apple
Spoonful of peanut butter
Spoonful of yogurt
1 1/2 tbsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tbsp. ground cloves
1 tbs. oil
1 1/2 tbs. honey
Mix all ingredients and roll dough to 1/4" thickness.  If you own one, use your dog bone cookie cutter; if not, use a small knife to hand-carve bone shapes.  Bake at 325 for 30 minutes. 
I'm just kidding about the hand-carving.

Monday, September 17, 2012

A little cooler, but sun's shining here

You all know that my fascination with Beyonce is somewhat of an anomaly. I tend toward the indie, the slightly-outside-of-mainstream, maybe even the obscure when it comes to music selection.  Nevertheless, I heard "Colder Weather" on the radio yesterday and I remembered how much I really love this song. With it in mind, I offer the following...

Self-indulgent and on-my-high-horse thoughts for the day:
-Don't feel guilty or selfish for expecting those things you know you want.
-"Not settling" is not prideful on principal. Respect yourself even if, in so doing, the necessitated action hurts.
-Rarely do people change. Make decisions based on reality rather than what you wish to be true.
-Liking or even loving someone, yet choosing not to be around them, is not crazy.
-We can justify a gypsy soul when we recognize it in ourselves; it's harder to rationalize when we see it in others. Try. 

Song of the day:

Project of the day:

Recipe of the day:
I first saw this recipe in the book that will go unnamed (since I know you must be tired of hearing me talk about it) and have copy and pasted it from the author's (definitely not Jenny Rosenstrach) blog. My modifications (and there are quite a few) are marked in italics. Despite the changes (in each case, a product of just using what I already had on hand as opposed to some sense of "I think this would taste better"), this was still one of my favorite recipes I've tried in a while.

Yes, that was a lot of asides embedded in parentheses.
Pork Shoulder Ragu with Pappardelle via Dinner: A Love Story

2 to 2 1/2-pound boneless pork shoulder roast (I used a beef roast)
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 small pat butter
1/2 onion
1 clove garlic
1 large can whole tomatoes, with juice (I used a 15 oz. can of diced tomatoes)
1 cup red wine (I used 3/4 c. of "Up the Creek" Chambourcin)
5 sprigs fresh thyme (I used a mix of golden oregano and rosemary)
5 sprigs fresh oregano
Small handful of fennel seeds
1 tablespoon hot sauce, for smokiness
Pappardelle (I used "extra large country wide" noodles from Kountry Kitchen)
Freshly grated Parmesan (Bring out the good ol' green canister;))

Preheat oven to 325°F. Liberally salt and pepper the pork roast. Add olive oil and butter to large Dutch oven and heat over medium-high until butter melts, but does not burn. Add pork roast to pan and brown on all sides, about 8-10 minutes in all. I salt and peppered the roast and put it in the crockpot on low at 7:00 am. Around noon, I sauteed 1/2 onion and one large clove of garlic in olive oil and butter. I then Add tomatoes, wine, thyme, oregano, and hot sauce and bring to a boil. Cover, and put in oven. Braise for 3-4 hours, turning every hour or so. I poured this mixture over the roast and kept it on low in the crockpot for 5 hours. Add more liquid (water, wine, or tomato sauce) if needed. (The liquid should come to about 1/3 of the way up the pork.) Meat is done when it’s practically falling apart. Put on a cutting board and pull it apart with two forks, then add back to pot and stir. Cook 1 to 2 pounds pasta according to package directions. When it’s is ready, put into individual bowls and top with ragu and lots of Parm.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Play along. No really, do it.

Who wants to play a game?!!

Object: Guess the many reasons why Liza hates this commercial so very, very much.

Prize: An autographed picture of me holding a half watermelon in front of my mouth as I prance around a dinner party at a house I would never be invited to...while onlookers give each other piggyback rides and marvel at how hilarious we all are.

**I'm not giving you the answers. Provide your guesses in the comment section.

One of the reasons I enjoy Dinner: A Love Story so much is that Rosenstrach masterfully keeps one foot in a very cosmopolitan magazine/food culture/intellectual world and yet also dangles the other in the suburban daily grind where most of us actually live. She never suggests that missing family dinners every now and then will lead to crackhead kids.  She admits weaknesses, whether it is mediocre grilling skills or moments of kitchen trickery. She would not laugh if her two daughters ran cupcakes across her shirt.

A couple of passages to demonstrate the "realness" I appreciate...
"Disclaimer: You may catch me referring to certain family dinner scenarios, such as having two working parents and two kids under two, as not merely problematic but also 'soul crushing' and 'harrowing.'"
"We made the mistake of sending out invitations to our Eighth Annual Holiday Party (in 2004) with 'Kids Are Welcome!' across the bottom of the card.  It was our second holiday party in our new house, but the year before, we kept the guest list manageable and Abby was only two months old so it was easy to pass her around like a football to anyone who would take her.  The next year, though, we thought it would be 'fun' to invite families. ... There was, of course, one small problem with this theory: Abby had just celebrated her first birthday and her idea of hanging out with friends was to hang around my neck and cry if I tried to have a conversation with my friends.  Not that this was even a possibility considering that my friends who had brought their kids looked just as relaxed and festive as I felt.

That was the first time I learned the rule that when entertaining, one kid under five counts for five times as many adults in terms of volume and energy - and I couldn't hack it. It was our Eighth and Final Holiday Party."
$.02: I hope all you parents out there (who I'm confident are wonderful parents) don't waste time guilting yourself for occasionally leaving the kids out.
One of my favorite ideas and pictures in the book is found a mere 21 pages in and captures a glimpse of a cabinet door in Rosenstrach's own kitchen. She used the space to hand-write some of the recipes that hold special significance to her family, recipes that they frequently cook, recipes that remind her of funny moments in their lives. 

Because I'm renting my house, I opted for an improvised version of this strategy.  I went through my favorite recipe box and pulled those cards that do the very same things for me: recipes that make me smile because they remind me of particular people, events, or moments in my life and/or recipes that show up on my menus on a fairly regular basis.  I also decided to put one new one up there each week as an encouraging push to try something "out of the box." Yes, that was a horrible pun.

*Visit Jenny Rosenstrach's blog here for more kitchen/dinner ideas.
Basic Vinaigrette (p. 163)
1 tbsp. Dijon mustard
4 tbsp. red or white wine vinegar
Squeeze of honey
Squeeze of fresh lemon
Salt and pepper
Chopped fresh herbs (I used golden oregano, rosemary, and basil)
1/2 c. good-quality olive oil

Whisk together and refrigerate.

Butternut Squash Pie (via Southern Food/
1 unbaked and chilled 9-inch pie shell
1 large butternut squash, cooked and pureed, about 1 1/2 cups pureed squash
1 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
3 large eggs
3/4 cup evaporated milk or half-and-half
1 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon melted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
To cook squash:
Cut the squash in half lengthwise; remove stem and scoop out the seeds. Place the squash, cut side down, on a foil-lined oiled baking pan; add about 1/2 cup of water to the pan. Cover loosely with foil and bake at 400° for 45 to 55 minutes, or until the squash is tender and can be easily pierced with a fork. Let cool completely then peel and mash or puree the squash or put it through a food mill. Measure 1 1/2 cups of the squash and set aside.
Reduce oven to 350° F and position an oven rack in the center of the oven. In a mixing bowl with electric mixer, beat the squash with the brown sugar. Add eggs, evaporated milk, spices salt, flour, butter, and vanilla. Beat until well blended. Pour the filling into the chilled pie and place on the center oven rack. Bake for 45 to 55 minutes, or until set. Check after about 35 minutes and loosely set a ring of foil or a pie crust protector over the browned crust so it won't get too dark. When the filling is set, transfer the pie to a rack to cool. Serve just warm or at room temperature with a dollop of whipped topping or whipped cream.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Got my toes in the water...

By: Guest blogger, Kristi Carter

I sit before my computer with a bitter taste in my mouth. Why? Because the taste of eating my own words is pretty hard to swallow.  When I was “in my 20s,” as I love to say, I used to hear friends a few years older talk about how bad it was to be in their 30s.  I would roll my eyes and think “what a bunch of crap.”  Well, I can testify that it indeed is not crap.  Rather, it is the sad state that I currently reside in and do not enjoy!
The irony of life does not escape me.  Recently Liza asked me to do a Pillow Book entry and I asked her for a prompt.  One of her suggestions was “Why getting older is emotionally hard even in your 30s.” I have been giving it quite a bit of thought over the last week or so and then it became clear to me this week.
Let me preface this by taking one of Liza’s favorite lines: “This is not a woe is me, pity party” entry.  Rather a form of therapy, venting, personal revelation in my life.
I have been struggling with health issues for about a year now.  After a year of being scoped, stuck, and embarrassed beyond reason, I found out on Wednesday that I have moderate to severe Chron’s Disease.  I went to the IBD clinic at Vanderbilt and their “team” reviewed all my records and dropped the bomb on me.  
It was quite an interesting experience.  As I said, they have a team approach so I met with a psychiatrist, registered dietitian, physician’s assistant, and the gastroenterologist. The joke at work was who would have the most fun with me: the shrink or the dietitian.  Well, they both humbled my butt pretty good. 
The ultra skinny dietitian came in and rocked my world.  Now, most of you know that I was raised in Burkesville with my mama’s country cooking.  Every morning was bacon, eggs, biscuits, and chocolate gravy.  Dinners were fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and mac-n-cheese.  This lady looked at my “daily food log” and said “Wow, you are killing yourself.  You have to change everything.” So she spent the next 45 minutes telling me that I can’t eat anything that I really like.  I looked over at dad and he looked at the ceiling.  Now, I ask you...what do you have left when you take out: dairy, spicy, fried, roughage, fiber, and alcohol?  I tell you, A REALLY PISSED OF KRISTI!  I think I could have taken anything but losing my Lifesavers wintergreen mints and my margaritas.  However, she explained that I really needed to do this ASAP until they could get me on my medications.  Her recommendation was that I do this the rest of my life.  Yea, lady…keep on dreaming.  I had to lock the liquor cabinet to keep myself out and can’t drive past my favorite Mexican restaurant.  Now, this is funny to a point.  But, really it’s not.  It’s just another reason getting older sucks!  The days of shoveling down double cheeseburgers and cheese sticks at the Pool Room are gone.  No more going to Mexican restaurants and eating two baskets of chips and a pitcher of margaritas.  It is cruel and unusual punishment and to be honest, really pisses me off!  I don’t have a lot of vices so I wish to hell I could eat and drink what I want, but it seems it is not meant to be.
I guess I will end with the shrink.  He said a lot of things, most of them true.  I won’t delve into the ultra-personal stuff, but the overall message was that I need to learn how to relax, and I need to stop developing a negative self image.  I explained that I feel like I carry so much on my shoulders I feel like I can’t get it all done and will let my family down.  I also explained that my mind never stops running.  I can’t go to sleep and I can’t even enjoy my time alone any more.  His solution was to remember a place (or two) that I can picture myself in and go there.  Imagine the nature and let all my thoughts fade away and just relax.  I laughed in his face!  I told him it had been so long since I relaxed I couldn’t remember a calm place to just “be.”  He said that was a problem.  Then I realized I do have places….I have my farm in Burkesville and I have one of the most beautiful lakes and state parks in the world. 
So, my mission for Labor Day is to try and relax.  I plan to walk my farm and remember the simple days of my childhood.  To take the time to remember what it was like to be a little girl holding her daddy’s hand walking to the back of the farm.  To be the little girl that played in mud puddles (instead of with dolls), had runaway horse rides, and drank from the outside faucet with her dog, King.  I need to find the quite place of happiness.  Being a mother, wife, teacher, daughter, and friend carries a great deal of weight.  Most time I feel like I am on my knees, rather than feet.  That day sitting in the shrink’s office I realized that I had to find my feet again.  I want to find the carefree teenager that would buy a dollar float at the Dollar Store and go float on Dale Hollow Lake with Leslie all day.  Or the college girl that went to the Lenny Kravitz/Black Crowe’s concert with Liza, Lindsey, Leslie, Mandy, and John Eric and tried to smuggle a fifth of peach schnapps in and got busted! 
I long for the days of my 20s and will testify that 32 is not all it is cracked up to be.  Every year, I find something else wrong with my body. Nerves, patience, and humor seem to be fading.  But as the good doctor said, I have to find a way to relax.  So, one song has stuck in my head the rest of the week.  It has become my new mantra:  “I got my toes in the water, ass in the sand.  Not a worry in the world, cold beer in my hand. Life was good today.”   
Let’s hope so…..
Liza's additions...

I could never explain how much I love Lenny Kravitz.
A Lady Who Thinks She is Thirty
By: Ogden Nash (American poet known for comedic and silly/unconventional elements; wrote primarily between 1930 and 1970)

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?      
I agree with Kristi.  Whoever said "your 30s are the best years of your life" was completely insane.  At least I always have Lenny.