Birthday Briefing

If you're not so good wif maths, my birthday is the Fourth of July. The best thing about having a birthday on a national holiday is that you don't have to go into work . The second best thing is that you can just co-opt events and make it seem like you went all out in planning a birthday blow-out. For that, no day's better than the Fourth. I didn't plan a thing, but I still got a bbq, fireworks and crowds and crowds of people to celebrate with. But to tell you the truth, I'm not a big birthday person. I like the cake, gifts and love, but I hate the attention. I feel weird about people knowing I care enough to do certain things for myself. I start to obsess about how excited I should feel about "my special day." And then I start to feel guilty that I half expect other to feel the same. So it's easiest for me if I just sit back and let the holiday run its course. 'Cause if people knew how much I love blowing out candles I'd just die! ...Don't tell anyone you read this!

B-day Break

I turn 27 tomorrow. I thought I was old when I turned 24, but 27 actually FEELS different. It's the first age when people think what you're doing isn't cute or innocent. Not "cute" but like, if I committed a spate of murders, the news would most definitely say the crimes were done by "a woman". And that scares me. Twenty-seven's the time when parents up talks about husbands and careers and "direction". I'll keep getting reminded that I'm "not getting any younger." And now I'm expected to be too mature to reply, "True, but you're still more likely to die before me." If I was younger I could get away with saying things like that. Moxie's meant to die after 26. Or at least, be veiled as a personal brand of cynicism. That doesn't even make sense. I must be getting old. I have less than 7 hours of being 26. Quick! Someone get me a skateboard! I got a lot of youthing to cram in.

Jealousy

Sometimes I get jealous. Recently I was brushing my teeth at the foot of someone's bed. And across from me was a collage of clippings and curios. (And let me just say I wasn't snooping! It was just something for my eyes to do while "single-handedly" fighting plaque.) Among the images I see a lipstick-kissed card tucked behind a photo and I thought, "What thick-lipped COW does something like that?! Tacky much? I bet her breath smells like old hats..." I stood to spit when I saw it was a message from me from six months earlier. I felt awful. Embarrassed that I jumped to conclusions. And also self-conscious that I apparently have slutty lips.

Pearly Whines

I always wished I was one of those girls who could smile with her mouth closed. Coquettish. Don't get me wrong, I like my smile. But sometimes it doesn't express how I feel. I'd like one of those smiles that conveys that what I find funny isn't actually that funny. Or that I've kept the funniest part of the joke to myself. I've tried to smile that smile. But when I do, it looks like I'm surpressing a laugh. Or like I can barely stretch my lips over the surface of my teeth. It's not what any observer or photog would call natural. And it's certainly not a "happy smile." My smile as it is, is wide and open. You can see at least 10 teeth when I smile. And even more when I laugh. And sometimes it strangely makes me sad. And then I get that closed-mouth-picture-look that I wanted. But then I don't feel like taking pictures anymore, so I don't have any proof.

I'm back!

I'm finally back from my 10-day long British adventure and I've never been so tired. Every day was chockablock with activities so apologies if I didn't have time to buy you pressies.  It was a short holiday but I made sure to take it all in. This is some of what I learned!

1. The only people fit to enjoy Glastonbury festival is low-twenty-somethings on drugs.
2. Sheep's wool feels like workman's pajamas.
3. Casual racism(?) against Irish Catholics is not only tolerated, it's encouraged. And hilarious. 
4. It doesn't get dark in the UK until after 10:00 PM in summer.
5. English mud is certainly at least 3% sh*t.
6. Black sheep's wool just gets bunched with the white wool and bleached. ("Nice one!")
7. All English accents are not charming.
8. Irish "history" sounds as far-fetched as it's folklore.
9. People are more than happy to adjust their diction to make sure "you understand". 
10. Sheep herding is an exhausting, but fulfilling, lark.
11. People think all American eateries look like Fuddruckers. 
12. "Eaton Mess" is a delicious shambles!
13. Brit desserts have strange names. ("Victoria Sponge" sounds like the name of a spoiled Roald Dahl character that scolds her dolls.) 
14. Disney is responsible for people thinking people from Bristol sound like pirates.
15. The "Island mentality" has not caught on in the UK. 

What were the sentient cookie's last words?

See you in two weeks, buzzards!

Diction'ry Corner: "Irony"

Example: "Hildie complained about the irony taste of her Peach Snapple®."

-also-

Said thing A: "My weathercock has rusted East."

Said thing B: "How ironic."

I think I over-inflated my bed

Geez, it's like luxury planking.

Britain on the brain

I'm going to England a week today and I think the excitement is getting the best of me. I had the craziest moments of synchronicity today. No word of a lie, on my way to work today, I saw this puddle shaped like mainland England. I know what you're thinking, "Urg! What, are you blind? That doesn't look like England!" And to that, I say, geez, it's not an oil painting! It looks enough like England like a Mazda grill looks like the face of a robot cat. Plenty. Anyway, it looked enough like England to trip me out. So then this coincidence was solidified by me running into a guy from the British consulate when I was catching the elevator. I wonder what kind of UK energy I'm drawing to myself. Maybe I'm responsible for all this shit weather we've been having too. And I wonder what it means for my trip next week. It's an awful lot of pressure if these signs are telling me there's something I'm supposed to be doing. I hope they don't hear about the things I've been saying. 

Today, in [fake] news!

Headline: "67 and growing: Their numbers may be fewer than their freckles but, against mounting persecution, the Israeli 'Ginger Mov't' gains steam."

Looks like someone has a death-wish!

Here's a clue...

Hmm... that didn't come out too clearly. How about this...?

It's really quite a serendipitous picture if you know what I'm referring to. Or, "To what I am referring." (eff off)

Huggies® Hotpants

Actually, with the right shoes, this could be quite the outfit.

There you have it!

I knew someone was using that chair other than me.

Something really must be done about these urban ducks!

I did a bad thing...

I consider myself a truthful person. Almost truthful to a fault. So truthful, in fact, that I often feel compelled to confess the most minor indiscretions even if there's no way I can get caught.

If you know me well, you know that circumstances made me leave my apartment recently. Within one week, we had broken our lease, found a new place and completely moved in. (Which is great because before I lived directly below a tone-deaf-crack-smoking cripple who was apparently above reproach.) Our new focus now was to get a 100% refund on our deposit. Let me first explain that we had only lived in that apartment for 6 months, and damage was minimal. But, for whatever unlawful reason, our kitchen countertop was made of wood. Yeah, like, peeled tree, wood. Like, the kind of thing you would see in a book about "The Life-cycle of Paper," wood. It was disgusting. So obviously we had a mold problem. But we were determined to get our deposit back. We had an inspection scheduled with our former slum-lord 11:30p so we were driving 55 to our nearest Home Depot at 9:30p that evening. We got sand paper, black-mold-spore-stopping-face-masks, varnish and high-tailed it to our former home. We sanded, scraped, polished and waxed, but it was still totally noticeable. Plus, it started to smell like we were huffing thinner in there. So we covered it with wet rags, lowered the dimmer and nonchalantly leaned against the counter when our manager arrived. The only way we could've looked more suspicious was if we started whistling or asked him about "them Yankees".

So he went from room to room, giving cursory glances at smudged walls, broken light fixtures and mysterious oil trails. His negligence became our gain when after 10 minutes he cut us a check for 1,400 smackaroos. (And then, $1,400!) My roommate and I smiled at each other like cats that raped the canary. I'm not proud of what I did, but he shouldn't've worn that skirt if he didn't want to get defrauded!