I'm turning 26 this month. I can't really believe it. I mean, I knew that, following the year I became 25, I would undoubtedly get a year older, given that I wouldn't die or be abducted by aliens or whatever, but it's still kind of a shock.
It's not a milestone birthday, of course. It's like turning 19 or 22 (both of which are particular ages for Medicaid and food stamp eligibility, so I guess there's points there - although that knowledge does paint me as a giant work nerd, since my first thoughts concerning those two numbers were related to my job). Nobody really cares when that birthday comes up, unless you're the perpetual "this day is totally about me" or the "birthday month" person.
And as a side note, can I just say that I hate those people? I mean, the world does not stop because your mother pushed you out of her uterus however many years ago. You're not Jesus.
Plus, I kinda have this phobia about this time of the year. For those of you that don't know me, my birthday has negative connotations for several reasons. I have been sick, taken a Latin exam whilst sick, gotten broken up with, had to take care of alcohol-poisoned boyfriend all night, gotten let go from a job all at least within a day of my birthday. I stopped trying to make a big deal out of it after the 2005 debacle (boyfriend/kinda fiance breaking up with me left me sort of depressed for months afterwards) Ever since then, I have this weird dread that sits over me; so I avoid talking about it or mentioning it. I just assume that if I ignore it that the bad juju/karma of the universe will kind of forget it, too. I secretly would love to celebrate it a little more, not to the extent to where I'm mentioning it at any opportunity. About two years ago, I almost came out of my shell but ended up feeling very sick because of a combination of vodka and wine, so last year, I just left it as simple and non-announce-y as I could. And it went by pretty smoothly - no earth shattering events occurred and I got to spend time with my family.
My mom keeps asking me where I want to go for my birthday dinner. I want to go to Sitar, an amazing Indian restaurant down on 21st Avenue, but neither of my parents will have anything to do with Indian cuisine, mainly due to curry. I've explained that all Indian food doesn't have curry, but that doesn't really seem to matter. In any case, I don't particularly care where we go to eat, as long as it isn't McDonald's or something similar, and as long as I can be with my family. It sounds corny, I know, but it's true.
Wherever we go, I'm sure I'll get my share of "only four years 'til you're thirty" or "so, do you feel 26?"
Nope, don't feel 26. I don't know exactly how 26 is supposed to feel, actually. I mean, before calendars and whatnot, did people just have this sixth sense that they were going to be a certain age? Like how animals know instinctively that they are supposed to do things at a specific time or else they die? Because that's a scary notion; there are things I wanted to do before I turned 30: be a published author, get married, have a child, go back to Europe, run at least a half-marathon, get a nursing/teaching degree, become fluent in Spanish and/or Farsi, go sky diving, etc. And now I've got four whole years to accomplish all of that.
I'd better get moving, or else I'll be writing this very same thing around the same time next year. Off to the treadmill! :)
24 November 2009
I will rue the day.
Sunday night was the night my parental abilities showed themselves, and I am already afraid for my future, non-existant (presently) children.
As many of you know, I have a lovely English bulldog named Zola, who is essentially my child. As a matter of fact, when I went to my high school's alumni homecoming game thingie, I brought my dog, while everyone else had their brats in tow. And guess what? Everyone was fawning over little, snorting Zola Bean. Because she is awesome. And much more well-behaved than those little minihumans. I try to keep in mind that she is of a different species, but I falter occasionally. Take Halloween, for example. I REEEAAAALLLLLY wanted to dress her up as a ladybug, but everyone objected so vehemently that I decided against it. (Next year, when I no longer have my parents as roommates, is a totally different story. I may even take myself trick or treating with Zola. I am not ashamed!!!)
Anyway, on Sunday night, I let Zola and Maggie (my parents' Corgi) out for their final take-a-shit/piss run. Thankful for indoor plumbing, I waited by the door in my jammies, letting Maggie in after she took care of business, and tapped my foot impatiently for my little snuggle buddy to come to the door.
Now, Zola has this habit of getting really excited after she's done the deed. Peeing, not so much, but pooping has her tearing back into the house like something literally scared the shit out of her. This bit of information is important.
So I hear Zola running in the dark and I prepare by turning the door handle a bit. There's no need to make myself cold without reason. Then I see Zola leap into the air and WHAM! she runs into the second of three steps leading up to the deck. Without much in the arena of reactions, Zola continues her run to the house, albeit a little more slowly. She enters the house and looks up at me with this sort of stunned look on her face, yet wagging her tail the entire time. I look down on the floor, and there's a little spot of blood that wasn't there before.
I freaked the hell out.
I'm not the kind of person who can't handle body fluids. I once helped a guy who'd split his head open when he was having a seizure; I'm not bothered by vomit; I have no problem when I have to plunge the toilet; etc.
But for some reason, the fact that my little, adorable Zola had a cut on her chin made me flip. I had her quickly follow me into the kitchen, where I applied pressure to the wound (in retrospect, not that big, but the amount of blood it was oozing was a little disconcerting) and called frantically for my mother, who was upstairs at the time. And Zola was looking at me like I was nuts. To be fair, I was. After I few minutes, I calmed down, stopped the bleeding and applied Neosporin, and all was well.
If I get this worked up over my damned DOG getting hurt, how am I going to handle my own flesh and blood? And I'm not just talking about physical injuries. What happens when my child isn't invited to a birthday party? When my daughter breaks up with her first boyfriend? When my son doesn't make the football team??? AUGH!!!
I'm horrified for my progeny. HORRIFIED.
As many of you know, I have a lovely English bulldog named Zola, who is essentially my child. As a matter of fact, when I went to my high school's alumni homecoming game thingie, I brought my dog, while everyone else had their brats in tow. And guess what? Everyone was fawning over little, snorting Zola Bean. Because she is awesome. And much more well-behaved than those little minihumans. I try to keep in mind that she is of a different species, but I falter occasionally. Take Halloween, for example. I REEEAAAALLLLLY wanted to dress her up as a ladybug, but everyone objected so vehemently that I decided against it. (Next year, when I no longer have my parents as roommates, is a totally different story. I may even take myself trick or treating with Zola. I am not ashamed!!!)
Anyway, on Sunday night, I let Zola and Maggie (my parents' Corgi) out for their final take-a-shit/piss run. Thankful for indoor plumbing, I waited by the door in my jammies, letting Maggie in after she took care of business, and tapped my foot impatiently for my little snuggle buddy to come to the door.
Now, Zola has this habit of getting really excited after she's done the deed. Peeing, not so much, but pooping has her tearing back into the house like something literally scared the shit out of her. This bit of information is important.
So I hear Zola running in the dark and I prepare by turning the door handle a bit. There's no need to make myself cold without reason. Then I see Zola leap into the air and WHAM! she runs into the second of three steps leading up to the deck. Without much in the arena of reactions, Zola continues her run to the house, albeit a little more slowly. She enters the house and looks up at me with this sort of stunned look on her face, yet wagging her tail the entire time. I look down on the floor, and there's a little spot of blood that wasn't there before.
I freaked the hell out.
I'm not the kind of person who can't handle body fluids. I once helped a guy who'd split his head open when he was having a seizure; I'm not bothered by vomit; I have no problem when I have to plunge the toilet; etc.
But for some reason, the fact that my little, adorable Zola had a cut on her chin made me flip. I had her quickly follow me into the kitchen, where I applied pressure to the wound (in retrospect, not that big, but the amount of blood it was oozing was a little disconcerting) and called frantically for my mother, who was upstairs at the time. And Zola was looking at me like I was nuts. To be fair, I was. After I few minutes, I calmed down, stopped the bleeding and applied Neosporin, and all was well.
If I get this worked up over my damned DOG getting hurt, how am I going to handle my own flesh and blood? And I'm not just talking about physical injuries. What happens when my child isn't invited to a birthday party? When my daughter breaks up with her first boyfriend? When my son doesn't make the football team??? AUGH!!!
I'm horrified for my progeny. HORRIFIED.
23 November 2009
Say Hi to ... Sadness
The fashion world is mostly a mystery to me. I know what looks good on me and I'm fairly adventurous when it comes to what I wear, but the culture surrounding the industry, I'm about as close to understanding it as I am figuring out the cure to cancer. The standards that it puts on women notwithstanding, it is ridiculously callous to those it calls its own.
I followed the blog of successful runway model, Daul Kim, for the better part of this year and found myself confused and, at the same time, amused by her stream-of-consciousness mode of writing. It was always a joy to go read what nonsense she had typed that day. Sometimes it was a whimsical paragraph about how lost she felt, but the next day, she posted a nearly unbearably peppy music video or a set of oh-so-posh, behind the scenes runway photos with her and her fellow models smiling cheerily. So imagine my surprise when I noticed an article on Jezebel.com that said she had committed suicide last week. She was only 20 years old.
Sadly, her blog is now closed to people who have not been invited to it, mostly as a privacy measure by her family which I totally understand. I was able to access it last week when I found out about her unfortunate passing and the outpouring of people she had touched without her even knowing it was amazing. Other models, friends, people who had just by happenstance managed to come across it ... all of them expressed a certain amount of loss.
I never knew Ms. Kim and I never commented on her blog. Now I wish I had. I don't have some idea that I could have prevented her from doing such a thing but because then maybe she would have known what kind of happiness her words brought to me.
Rest in peace, Daul. I will miss you.
(PS The title of this blog entry, since none of you guys can read her blog, is a homage to Ms. Kim, who always titled her posts with "Say hi to (enter whatever she wanted, even if it had nothing to do with what she was posting)." I really wish you guys could have read some of her stuff. Sad face.)
I followed the blog of successful runway model, Daul Kim, for the better part of this year and found myself confused and, at the same time, amused by her stream-of-consciousness mode of writing. It was always a joy to go read what nonsense she had typed that day. Sometimes it was a whimsical paragraph about how lost she felt, but the next day, she posted a nearly unbearably peppy music video or a set of oh-so-posh, behind the scenes runway photos with her and her fellow models smiling cheerily. So imagine my surprise when I noticed an article on Jezebel.com that said she had committed suicide last week. She was only 20 years old.
Sadly, her blog is now closed to people who have not been invited to it, mostly as a privacy measure by her family which I totally understand. I was able to access it last week when I found out about her unfortunate passing and the outpouring of people she had touched without her even knowing it was amazing. Other models, friends, people who had just by happenstance managed to come across it ... all of them expressed a certain amount of loss.
I never knew Ms. Kim and I never commented on her blog. Now I wish I had. I don't have some idea that I could have prevented her from doing such a thing but because then maybe she would have known what kind of happiness her words brought to me.
Rest in peace, Daul. I will miss you.
(PS The title of this blog entry, since none of you guys can read her blog, is a homage to Ms. Kim, who always titled her posts with "Say hi to (enter whatever she wanted, even if it had nothing to do with what she was posting)." I really wish you guys could have read some of her stuff. Sad face.)
22 November 2009
Oh, Twilight ... The Joke that Keeps on Giving ....
I have Tuesday evening marked on my calendar as "Make Fun of Twilight." My sister and I are going to watch the first movie at her house (apparently so I won't be confused, but whatever) and then go to the theater to witness the trainwreck that is Stephanie Meyer's idealized (and harmful) version of romance.
I'll admit it: I've never read the books and I don't ever plan on doing so. A friend of mine emailed me little snippets of the first book and I nearly vomited. I'm not claiming to be the world's best writer, but good GOD, I could have written better prose when I was in middle school. If this is what kids are reading these days, I might just try and pawn off my old diary entries with a splash of the supernatural and see how many millions of teenage girls I can lead astray.
Either way, I've been able to convince my sister that this is how her Tuesday should go, as well. However, I plan on bringing some kind of alcohol to this. I believe it's the only way that I will be able to stomach the tripe that will cross the screen. I've already gotten some pretty awesome ideas for drinking games from online buddies, but here's the question: anybody have any other ideas? It might get boring after taking a swig every time Bella looks mopey.
I'll admit it: I've never read the books and I don't ever plan on doing so. A friend of mine emailed me little snippets of the first book and I nearly vomited. I'm not claiming to be the world's best writer, but good GOD, I could have written better prose when I was in middle school. If this is what kids are reading these days, I might just try and pawn off my old diary entries with a splash of the supernatural and see how many millions of teenage girls I can lead astray.
Either way, I've been able to convince my sister that this is how her Tuesday should go, as well. However, I plan on bringing some kind of alcohol to this. I believe it's the only way that I will be able to stomach the tripe that will cross the screen. I've already gotten some pretty awesome ideas for drinking games from online buddies, but here's the question: anybody have any other ideas? It might get boring after taking a swig every time Bella looks mopey.
21 October 2009
The Truth in Fable
My Fable 2 avatar Horatio looks like an idiot. As of right now in my saved game, he's blond, has dreadlocks and mutton chops, is wearing a "tart" skirt, a farmer's hat and a "posh" shirt.
Why, you ask? He's trying to open one of those damned demon doors. Each one has requirements before it will disappear and leave a portal. Most are fairly easy; one just grunts, "Meat! You meat? You too big! Need meat! Urg!" You give him a big chunk of mutton, and voila, no more talking bearded head trapped in stone. But now I have to go find a silver cape, as per this stupid, difficult, neurotic door, and suffice to say, my hero appears to be a newbie crossdresser with a flair for the ironic.
And while it's all good fun to see a muscly man traipsing about medieval settings in a deranged whore's outfit with a sparkly katana and crossbow strapped to his back, it got really interesting when he made his way back into civilization. I was fully expecting everyone to either flee in terror or point and laugh at the hero's mental deterioration. This is not to say that this didn't happen; one woman told Horatio that he'd let himself go and that he'd be more attractive to her if he "spruced up a bit," a phrase I have yet to completely understand. (How does one exactly spruce? Can you spruce down? Horizontally? Diagonally? Interdimensionally?) Another man said that he "used to think [Horatio was] great!" Apparently, the transvestites have a long way to go for equality in Bowerstone. However, it was Horatio's wife that surprised me the most. She kept commently lustfully on how she'd love to run her fingers through his hair. Granted, she's a barmaid that's married up in the world, so her standards are lower than most. But he looks HORRIBLE.
This all got me to thinking about how, in this game, you can never really please everybody. Horatio's second wife (who died tragically at the hands of Lucien's men) liked chunky guys; his first (who also died tragically at the hands of Lucien's men - Horatio was a bigamist, although he is now going down the righteous - and boring - path of monogamy) was not a fan of the heroic pose. When Horatio started to get fat to please wife Uno, his reputation went down, and he also kind of bored people with his endless "seduce" expressions for wife Dos. Even when I changed his outfit to more attractive (at least by this game's definition, not necessarily mine) pieces of clothing, others were either apathetic or downright outraged that he would wear such things. It's all very confusing.
As much as I hate comparing the virtual world to real life, I can't help but see a nugget of truth in this idea. There is always someone who won't like what you do and another person might fall over himself to see you perform the very same task. One woman may like a guy with a big ass while her sister may get all hot and bothered by a skinny boy who wears girl jeans. Why? No one's quite sure, but it does make everything much more complex than I would like.
I suppose there is also an element of frustration on my part, as I'm trying to figure out why I am attracted to a certain person. I find myself irritated at me for liking him. He has deep-seated issues, stemming from middle and high school, that he has carried with him like a security blanket. He talks loud, gets defensive whenever I make snarky comments about his work, consistently thinks he's right, etc. And then I turn around and I STILL LIKE HIM. However, get along very well, and I'm one of the only people he doesn't fool with his "I'm the best thing on the planet" attitude he spews everywhere. He also understands me in ways that I think no other person, other than my close friends and family, has. I feel 100% comfortable around him, and I don't have to worry that my brain power is going to freak him out. He's not too bad looking, either, and his arms (my weak spot, totally) are pretty awesome. The thing is, I don't have to be Horatio with this guy. I don't have to go around, trying to please demon doors, as weird as that sounds. I can be me, little Miss JujuJuniper.
(Okay, and now I'm back to being pissed that I still have feelings for this guy.)
Why, you ask? He's trying to open one of those damned demon doors. Each one has requirements before it will disappear and leave a portal. Most are fairly easy; one just grunts, "Meat! You meat? You too big! Need meat! Urg!" You give him a big chunk of mutton, and voila, no more talking bearded head trapped in stone. But now I have to go find a silver cape, as per this stupid, difficult, neurotic door, and suffice to say, my hero appears to be a newbie crossdresser with a flair for the ironic.
And while it's all good fun to see a muscly man traipsing about medieval settings in a deranged whore's outfit with a sparkly katana and crossbow strapped to his back, it got really interesting when he made his way back into civilization. I was fully expecting everyone to either flee in terror or point and laugh at the hero's mental deterioration. This is not to say that this didn't happen; one woman told Horatio that he'd let himself go and that he'd be more attractive to her if he "spruced up a bit," a phrase I have yet to completely understand. (How does one exactly spruce? Can you spruce down? Horizontally? Diagonally? Interdimensionally?) Another man said that he "used to think [Horatio was] great!" Apparently, the transvestites have a long way to go for equality in Bowerstone. However, it was Horatio's wife that surprised me the most. She kept commently lustfully on how she'd love to run her fingers through his hair. Granted, she's a barmaid that's married up in the world, so her standards are lower than most. But he looks HORRIBLE.
This all got me to thinking about how, in this game, you can never really please everybody. Horatio's second wife (who died tragically at the hands of Lucien's men) liked chunky guys; his first (who also died tragically at the hands of Lucien's men - Horatio was a bigamist, although he is now going down the righteous - and boring - path of monogamy) was not a fan of the heroic pose. When Horatio started to get fat to please wife Uno, his reputation went down, and he also kind of bored people with his endless "seduce" expressions for wife Dos. Even when I changed his outfit to more attractive (at least by this game's definition, not necessarily mine) pieces of clothing, others were either apathetic or downright outraged that he would wear such things. It's all very confusing.
As much as I hate comparing the virtual world to real life, I can't help but see a nugget of truth in this idea. There is always someone who won't like what you do and another person might fall over himself to see you perform the very same task. One woman may like a guy with a big ass while her sister may get all hot and bothered by a skinny boy who wears girl jeans. Why? No one's quite sure, but it does make everything much more complex than I would like.
I suppose there is also an element of frustration on my part, as I'm trying to figure out why I am attracted to a certain person. I find myself irritated at me for liking him. He has deep-seated issues, stemming from middle and high school, that he has carried with him like a security blanket. He talks loud, gets defensive whenever I make snarky comments about his work, consistently thinks he's right, etc. And then I turn around and I STILL LIKE HIM. However, get along very well, and I'm one of the only people he doesn't fool with his "I'm the best thing on the planet" attitude he spews everywhere. He also understands me in ways that I think no other person, other than my close friends and family, has. I feel 100% comfortable around him, and I don't have to worry that my brain power is going to freak him out. He's not too bad looking, either, and his arms (my weak spot, totally) are pretty awesome. The thing is, I don't have to be Horatio with this guy. I don't have to go around, trying to please demon doors, as weird as that sounds. I can be me, little Miss JujuJuniper.
(Okay, and now I'm back to being pissed that I still have feelings for this guy.)
12 October 2009
In the Information Age of today, you can be educated on pretty much any topic you might care to ponder with a single click of a mouse. I'm amazed, really. Libraries, schibraries - who needs 'em? The internet is your ultimate research tool. Can't understand the lyrics to that song you heard yesterday? Check. Need to know how to make a pipe bomb? You betcha. Looking for a way to cheat on your spouse? Oh, yeah, you're covered. You don't even have to leave your house! Score!!
Apparently, I'm a little behind the times because I just discovered the only atrocity that is AshleyMadison.com. I mean, I sort of recall seeing some type of news coverage a year ago, but I didn't pay much attention to it. For those of you as clueless as I was until 48 hours ago, AshleyMadison.com is an adulterer's response to Match.com, where unhappy marrieds go to start extramarital experiences with similarly mismatched spouses. The tagline: "Life is short. Have an affair."
Seriously.
I even forced myself to watch an episode of the Tyra Show (that was torture, in and of itself) where the CEO, oddly not female and not named Ashley Madison, is trying to justify the purpose of his site. He rambles on about marriage counseling and choosing to take "the path," which I assume means becoming a cheating asshole, even as he's confronted by a man whose marriage was destroyed by his company's services. He did honestly seem disturbed by the fact that he newly-divorced man (the couple looked like spruced up Jerry Springer guests) was crying, and even Tyra, the perceptive bubblehead that she is, noted this. But it still felt like he was basically saying this: "Hey, I'm sorry that your wife cheated on you and I know I provided her with the means to do it, but I'm not responsible because I didn't tell her to do it and if you were more of a communicator she wouldn't have wanted to bone the other guy." Um. Okay. Thanks, dude.
I look at this as the morally bankrupt cousin to the similarly eeky uncle SugarDaddie and the selfish sister-in-law How to Commit Suicide. It's just deplorable. Sure, if someone's miserable with their wedding vows, they might choose to explore their options (i.e. sleep with their next door neighbor's dog walker) or ask for a divorce. Or hell, they might even choose to make the other person's life so unbearable as payback for it.
Ugh, I'm getting extremely irritated now, so I'm gonna get back to work.
Apparently, I'm a little behind the times because I just discovered the only atrocity that is AshleyMadison.com. I mean, I sort of recall seeing some type of news coverage a year ago, but I didn't pay much attention to it. For those of you as clueless as I was until 48 hours ago, AshleyMadison.com is an adulterer's response to Match.com, where unhappy marrieds go to start extramarital experiences with similarly mismatched spouses. The tagline: "Life is short. Have an affair."
Seriously.
I even forced myself to watch an episode of the Tyra Show (that was torture, in and of itself) where the CEO, oddly not female and not named Ashley Madison, is trying to justify the purpose of his site. He rambles on about marriage counseling and choosing to take "the path," which I assume means becoming a cheating asshole, even as he's confronted by a man whose marriage was destroyed by his company's services. He did honestly seem disturbed by the fact that he newly-divorced man (the couple looked like spruced up Jerry Springer guests) was crying, and even Tyra, the perceptive bubblehead that she is, noted this. But it still felt like he was basically saying this: "Hey, I'm sorry that your wife cheated on you and I know I provided her with the means to do it, but I'm not responsible because I didn't tell her to do it and if you were more of a communicator she wouldn't have wanted to bone the other guy." Um. Okay. Thanks, dude.
I look at this as the morally bankrupt cousin to the similarly eeky uncle SugarDaddie and the selfish sister-in-law How to Commit Suicide. It's just deplorable. Sure, if someone's miserable with their wedding vows, they might choose to explore their options (i.e. sleep with their next door neighbor's dog walker) or ask for a divorce. Or hell, they might even choose to make the other person's life so unbearable as payback for it.
Ugh, I'm getting extremely irritated now, so I'm gonna get back to work.
09 October 2009
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back .....
Wow, it's been a long time, friends. A long, long time. Not only have I been metaphorically bludgeoned to death with work, but there have been computer problems here. Apparently, my Blogger account had some issues with it (IP address screw up, or something along those lines, and someone changed my password along the way) and Twitter only worked some of the time (FAIL WHALE), but everything is back up and I can start posting again, which, depending on your leanings, can be a good or bad thing. :)
I am very excited! :) And kind of internet-communication starved, too.
PS I was trying to channel "Welcome Back, Kotter," but I'm not sure if my attempt was very affective.
I am very excited! :) And kind of internet-communication starved, too.
PS I was trying to channel "Welcome Back, Kotter," but I'm not sure if my attempt was very affective.
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