Sigh, I want pretty things. Wait, scratch that. I want things, preferably pretty.

I'm in "move the hell out of my parents' house" mode again. Granted, I know that, while monetarily possible at this point in time, it's probably best that I hang around until I pay my debts off. It's not a lot of money, in complete contrast to my previous $33,000 medical bill fiasco from 2007 - 2008, but it's enough to make me uncomfortable.

Plus, I'm going back to nursing school, so there's going to be some issues there. All in all, I am not quite sure what I am going to do. Plenty of people work and get through nursing school without living at home, but I figure if I have the option of not paying rent for the time being, why not take it? Then the little annoying Mature Voice slaps me on the back of the head, telling me to grow up.

Hopefully, my father will win the lottery or some old man/woman will find me so adorable that they have to fund my further education. (That's my "I Will Forever Be 12" persona.)

Whatever I decide to do, I'm still dreaming of what I can use to furnish my apartment/house/basement. Here are some of my ideas (and how inappropriate is this, considering Christmas just effing happened):

1) a princess phone from the 1950s

 (There's something about this phone that makes me happy. I think it's the fact that it is one of the rotary dialers.)

2) a framed copy of Van Gogh's "Almond Blossom" painting (isn't it pretty???)

3) a coffee table/ottoman (complete with tons o' storage for my plethora of blankets)

4) old fashioned table settings (with sugar bowl, creamer thingie, mustard jar, etc. - I frequent the Look in the Attic webpage for all sorts of vintage fun) and vintage silverware (preferably plated since it's not as expensive*)

5) one of those TownHaus doggie dens that, yet again, are ridiculously pricey

6) a turntable for my growing collection of LPs (I know, how hipster of me)

7) plenty of sets of 1000 thread count sheets - I am spoiled on these and do not care that people know this. It's like sleeping on top of heaven.

8) a huge armoire like the one my mom has upstairs in what she and I call the junk/sewing room. It's just handy.

At this point, all I'm doing is depressing myself so I should probably stop. Although what I'm probably going to really do is come up with a non-electronic version of this list so I can stay on top of things. That planner I haven't used since I got it last year really is proving to be quite a wonderful tool.

On a side note, oh my GOD, tomorrow is the last day of the year.

* True story - I found a set of gold-plated silverware from 1764 at an antique store in Nashville and that was going for $5000. Not a penny less. You'd better shit the gold back out in bricks for that kind of cash.

"This is my favorite."

I usually go out of the office for lunch because it gets a little stuffy in there and well, sometimes you just need to escape from people. There's a lovely little park about two minutes away where I go walk on days when it's not excruciatingly cold/rainy/etc. outside, and today was no different. Granted, it was pretty damned cold, but I brought my extra-insulated gloves and scarf, mainly to further my transformation into the little brother from "A Christmas Story." Unfortunately for that aspiration, I never got out of my car.

Instead I found myself entranced by this angry sounding guy being interviewed by Terri Gross on NPR. His voice sounded familiar, but I could not figure out who it was. It was actually pretty infuriating as I racked my brain in the parking lot, and I had originally thought it was a football player or something. He talked about growing up in the ghetto, having a heroin-addicted father and his lack of role models growing up. Finally, Terri Gross said the "Well, if you're just joining us" speech and reintroduced her guest: Tracy Morgan.

At first, I was like, "Ah, yes, Brian Fellows. That's where I've heard him before." But then I actually started to listen to him. When Terri confronted him about his anger issues, he stated that he wasn't that way anymore; he was just passionate. He spoke openly about his father and his unstable childhood. He discussed his experience with SNL (and his love for Lorne Michaels, who told him that he wasn't "here [at SNL] because [he] was black; [he] was there because [he] was funny) and his collaborative relationship with Tina Fey, including their work on "30 Rock."

He also brought up the interesting notion of black comedians, one that I've noted for a while. He said that, many times, black comedians get comfortable with their audience and don't know how to do anything other than ghetto comedy. This puts them in a niche market and greatly limits their potential to grow as entertainers. Coming from a self-described "ghetto boy," I found this enlightening and actually kind of inspirational. I'm not saying (and neither is he, seeing as he embraces his edgier approach with the ghetto influences) that they should forget their pasts and experiences growing up, but to sequester one's self just seems harmful to any type of artistic pursuit.

What amazed me, though, was how vulnerable he was in this interview. He actually had to stop talking for a few moments, fighting back tears, when he said that he never wanted to hurt his mother when he left to live with his father (who had sobered up from his addiction) and eventually came and got his younger brother and sister from her care. It was very touching, especially when he said that he hoped his mother read his book (I Am the New Black) so she could read about how much he loved her and knew that she had done everything she could for him and his siblings.

Now, I probably won't go out and buy Morgan's memoir, but I might check it out at the library. I probably won't watch any of his movies or rewatch one of those SNL "Best of" DVDs because, well, I never really found Tracy to be that incredibly funny. But I do have a special place in my heart for him now. This interview may just have been enough for me to start watching "30 Rock," though. Plus, I miss me some Tina Fey.

PS The quote in the title is from what Tracy Morgan sketch? Highlight the following portion for the answer: his Maya Angelou impression on Weekend Update with Tina Fey

But I made a vow to the moon and the stars that I'd search the honkytonks and bars and kill that man that gave me that awful name.

I think I am going to follow the lead of a fellow case worker that works in Davidson County and start compiling a list of all the insane names I see on a daily basis. I'm amazed at what people think is appropriate to call their children. The infamous "Nosmo King" sounds practically melodious compared to some of the ones that cross my desk.

Today, I met a perfectly nice girl who has a 6 month old baby girl, cute as a button. And quiet. Thank GOD. Her first name was spelled interestingly enough (I can't give the full name, due to confidentiality) but it wasn't too weird, respectively, to some of the names I'm going to list later, but it was only when I read the birth certificate that I felt truly sorry for what this little girl is going to have to deal with later in life. Her middle names (yes, names - which isn't too abnormal, but still) are Raven Storm. Like a superhero. My soul gently weeps.

This, however, is not the worst, as I noted earlier. Back when I was in training in Davidson County, I ran across a woman who had named her poor daughter Fellatia. As in the feminine form of Fellatio. Oh, what fun puberty will be. Yesterday, I saw a Bimmer (like the car), and back when I first started working full time in Wilson County, I met a man - a big, burly dude, too - named Molivette. One of my coworkers told me about a little boy who was named Precious, as well as another horribly deemed Imagine That (first and middle name).

Whatever happened to Jane? Or George? Or heck, even Sawyer or Ryan? I blame celebrities. Jason Lee named his son Pilot Inspektor. Gwen Paltrow called her daughter Apple (which I admit is kind of cute). Bob Geldof gave his daughter this name: Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa. Whew. It's almost as if they are taking revenge on some evil done to them by torturing their children. I suppose if you think of all the crap your children put you through, maybe going the "boy named Sue" route is the way to go.

But still, let's give the weird, exotic names back to the soap operas and let our children grow up without having to deal with perpetual mockery, m'kay?

The time to begin most things is ten years ago. (Mignon McLaughlin)

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! :)

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.

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.)

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.