It was thirteen years ago tomorrow, (February 1st) that I became a woman according to the Jewish religion, and celebrated this esteemed honor at my Bat-Mitzvah. Thirteen years ago tomorrow, I stood on the bima and chanted my haftorah in front of friends and family alike, making my debut into the society of Jewish womanhood. According to my own standards of womanhood, (biological womanhood that is) this entrance would not really take place until a year later, in 1998 (with the arrival of my first period). Yes, 1998. And yes, I was a late bloomer. And, if you really want to take it one step further, according to my journal, I didn't really classify myself as a woman until a few more years later, when I er...um...ya know... did it for the first time.
Well, here I am thirteen years since my bat-mitzvah (and still struggling to figure out if I've really entered womanhood or not). Because the truth is, the me of thirteen years ago, is not all that different from the person that I am today. Perhaps, physically yes, but where it really counts--no. I am the same Lauren (Lorna-Lornie-Loretta-Lawsie-Wagon-Fisher-Fishface-Fishballz-Fishypantz) that I was thirteen years ago, and hopefully will be the same person thirteen years from now, at (GASP) age thirty-nine!
Let's go ahead and examine the similarities and differences; 1997 to 2010.
Thirteen years ago, I was bopping, dancing and singing to mid 90's dance tunes any free chance I got, oh wait-- definitely still doing that. (Only now, I prefer to do this alone, and naked in my apartment).
Thirteen years ago, I camped out in front of the TV every Wednesday night to watch 90210 on Fox. (The only difference now is, I have three episodes of 90210 dvred a day).
Thirteen years ago, spin the bottle was my favorite game; I'm pretty sure that I played spin the bottle with my college friends six months ago.
Thirteen years ago, I was voted Most Enthusiastic and Friendliest in a student poll. I'd like to think that these personality traits remain true today.
Many of the people that attended my bat-mitzvah thirteen years ago, were the very same people that were at my 26th birthday party just last weekend.
Thirteen years ago my bat-mitzvah theme was Hippies Rule. Okay, so I'm a bit more 80's and 90's centric now--but none the less still decade oriented.
Thirteen years ago, I was boy crazy, doodling my name with the last names of boys that I liked, unfortunately for me--I'm still doing this.
Thirteen years ago, I was a middle camp girl at Camp Schodack. Thirteen years later, I wish that I could be a middle camp girl at Camp Schodack.
Thirteen years ago, I hated math and dreaded going to math class each and every day. Now, thirteen years later, I teach math and dread teaching it each and every day.
I could think of many more similarities, but I think you get the point. That is: for many of us, we don't really change all that much. We are who we are, for better and for worse. If you're lucky enough to stay true to yourself, then just maybe you'll always feel like a thirteen year old on the inside.
Just for fun. What's different? Well, thirteen years ago, I didn't love my bacaaadi, I did not resemble an Asian quite as much as I do today, I had to have pads sewn into my bat-mitzvah dress so that I had tiny tits to show off. And oh, at thirteen I used to average about 4 boyfriends a year. So, okay--maybe just a little bit has changed...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
All The Single Gentleman
Disclaimer: When in this blog, I refer to my "friend" I really do mean my friend, I don't mean me.
Also: There are plenty of single males who are kind, not idiots and who do not treat girls like poop. Unfortunately, this blog is not about that percentage of males, but is instead about the idiot, poop-treaters.
What is this breed of species, known as the single male? The more exposed I am to this foreign being, the less I understand. This blog came to me, while talking on ghcat today to one of my best babes, Ma-wa. After Ma-wa really hit it off at my birthday party with a friend of a friend. (Hitting it off= exchanging numbers and making out at the bar). Ma-wa told me today that she seriously doubts she'll ever hear from this guy again. I asked her what made her so sure of that. She said that it was just an instinct that she had. Sadly, Ma-wa could be right, as I have started to learn the hard way to trust my instincts when it comes to the NYC single male. Why do some guys treat girls like crap? Is it because we let them get away with it? Probably. But, it just may be my life's mission to find out.
Another friend of mine was dating a guy that she knew pretty well, as they had met through close mutual friends. Said guy and girl really hit it off, and were really seeming to enjoy one another's company. My friend had tried hard to break her previous habits, of doing it on date # 1. Instead, she decided to take it slow. She waited six dates before doing it with him. (I think that for the exception of being totally blindly set up--where the person is an actual stranger)-- if you have some previous relationship with the person you are going out with, (and you are into each other) the guy will try to do it with you, if not on date # 1, then certainly by date# 2.) I think that this deranged social norm would actually be fine, if you knew that the guy would speak to you again. I think that we all know someone (present company included) who fooked too soon, and never heard from the guy again.
But ah yes, back to my friend. My friend broke her previous habits, and waited it out until date # 6. On the sixth date, (after dinners, movies and drinks) she finally went back to his place, and well...boned. Guess what? That was the last she ever heard from him. How is this okay? Can you really just automatically lose interest in someone the minute that you get what you want? Don't get me wrong, I think that we've all been there; where we are repelled the morning after by a poor decision that we've made on the occasional drunken night. But that is different. This is not the same thing as completely blowing someone off in a developing relationship.
Then there is Paul. Paul is a friend of a friend who I met one night back in November. Paul and I had a good time together, but then he left for two months to go to Texas. Things kind of faded (as he was 3,000 miles away). On Monday, Paul texted me that he was back in New York City; would I like to meet him in a half hour? A HALF HOUR? YOU ARE GIVING ME A HALF HOUR'S NOTICE? Paul is not the first guy to do this to me. Now, it's one thing to be out on a Friday night, and text me to meet you somewhere in fifteen minutes. Fine. It's Friday, I'm already out. But on a Monday, do you really expect me to drop whatever it is I'm doing and race out to meet someone who I have met once and have not seen in two months? And besides, a half hour!?! I could probably spend one whole hour deciding what to wear! I told Paul that a half hour wouldn't work for me, (especially seeing as I was in New Jersey at the time when he had texted). Paul said okay, and asked if I was free Wednesday. I said sure. Paul asked; What time works for you? I told him, and asked if that time also worked for him. Guess what? He NEVER wrote back. How fucking rude can you be? Hey Paul, YOU TEXTED ME. I was perfectly fine without you. What the fuck is wrong with people?
There are countless other single males, who I could speak of in this blog, but I feel I may have done enough damage to get my point across. Because as much as I hate the NYC single male, well...I kind of also love him, too.
Also: There are plenty of single males who are kind, not idiots and who do not treat girls like poop. Unfortunately, this blog is not about that percentage of males, but is instead about the idiot, poop-treaters.
What is this breed of species, known as the single male? The more exposed I am to this foreign being, the less I understand. This blog came to me, while talking on ghcat today to one of my best babes, Ma-wa. After Ma-wa really hit it off at my birthday party with a friend of a friend. (Hitting it off= exchanging numbers and making out at the bar). Ma-wa told me today that she seriously doubts she'll ever hear from this guy again. I asked her what made her so sure of that. She said that it was just an instinct that she had. Sadly, Ma-wa could be right, as I have started to learn the hard way to trust my instincts when it comes to the NYC single male. Why do some guys treat girls like crap? Is it because we let them get away with it? Probably. But, it just may be my life's mission to find out.
Another friend of mine was dating a guy that she knew pretty well, as they had met through close mutual friends. Said guy and girl really hit it off, and were really seeming to enjoy one another's company. My friend had tried hard to break her previous habits, of doing it on date # 1. Instead, she decided to take it slow. She waited six dates before doing it with him. (I think that for the exception of being totally blindly set up--where the person is an actual stranger)-- if you have some previous relationship with the person you are going out with, (and you are into each other) the guy will try to do it with you, if not on date # 1, then certainly by date# 2.) I think that this deranged social norm would actually be fine, if you knew that the guy would speak to you again. I think that we all know someone (present company included) who fooked too soon, and never heard from the guy again.
But ah yes, back to my friend. My friend broke her previous habits, and waited it out until date # 6. On the sixth date, (after dinners, movies and drinks) she finally went back to his place, and well...boned. Guess what? That was the last she ever heard from him. How is this okay? Can you really just automatically lose interest in someone the minute that you get what you want? Don't get me wrong, I think that we've all been there; where we are repelled the morning after by a poor decision that we've made on the occasional drunken night. But that is different. This is not the same thing as completely blowing someone off in a developing relationship.
Then there is Paul. Paul is a friend of a friend who I met one night back in November. Paul and I had a good time together, but then he left for two months to go to Texas. Things kind of faded (as he was 3,000 miles away). On Monday, Paul texted me that he was back in New York City; would I like to meet him in a half hour? A HALF HOUR? YOU ARE GIVING ME A HALF HOUR'S NOTICE? Paul is not the first guy to do this to me. Now, it's one thing to be out on a Friday night, and text me to meet you somewhere in fifteen minutes. Fine. It's Friday, I'm already out. But on a Monday, do you really expect me to drop whatever it is I'm doing and race out to meet someone who I have met once and have not seen in two months? And besides, a half hour!?! I could probably spend one whole hour deciding what to wear! I told Paul that a half hour wouldn't work for me, (especially seeing as I was in New Jersey at the time when he had texted). Paul said okay, and asked if I was free Wednesday. I said sure. Paul asked; What time works for you? I told him, and asked if that time also worked for him. Guess what? He NEVER wrote back. How fucking rude can you be? Hey Paul, YOU TEXTED ME. I was perfectly fine without you. What the fuck is wrong with people?
There are countless other single males, who I could speak of in this blog, but I feel I may have done enough damage to get my point across. Because as much as I hate the NYC single male, well...I kind of also love him, too.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Thank you!
Yoo-hoo. Me again. I wanted to take this moment and write a very big THANK YOU to everyone, for this entire past weekend. From the gifts I received, (string cheese, m&m cupcakes, a penis ring pop, and a book about first periods to name a few), To my friends who came and celebrated with me on Saturday night-- LHS c/o '02, dabblings of '03, Schodack, Judy and Co, NYC URIers, everyone's roomates, cousins, boyfriends/girlfriends and uncles. You know how to do it. You helped me celebrate good times, come on! (Also to the DJ, for playing Faded, by Soul Decision, and every other song that I requested-I may love you the most).
To those of you that I bled on, (on the dance floor, on your necks, and otherwise)--I'm sorry. To, everyone that called, texted and facebooked me to make sure that I was still alive after my seven hour hospital stay on Saturday night, you guys are my favorites, for realzies, and I am unbelievably lucky to have the best besties a girl could ever ask for.
To those of you that I bled on, (on the dance floor, on your necks, and otherwise)--I'm sorry. To, everyone that called, texted and facebooked me to make sure that I was still alive after my seven hour hospital stay on Saturday night, you guys are my favorites, for realzies, and I am unbelievably lucky to have the best besties a girl could ever ask for.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sticks and Stones, and Broken Bones
There's an old saying that if you break your finger on your 26th birthday, it means that you are going to have a really great year. Well, I'm not positive if that's really a saying, but I'm pretty hopeful that it has to be true. Last night was quite an eventful evening for me, one that I won't forget any time soon. It was my 26th birthday, and it was also the night that I broke my very first bone. Allow me to set the stage.
I was loving life at Firefly, the bar that I had chosen for this momentous occasion. (Mind you, I actually have no idea if I was loving life, but I'm pretty sure that with the amazing turn-out of all of my friends--I was having a pretty great time). All was well, until I decided that I needed to use the bathroom. It was at that moment when my birthday easily turned into one of the worst nights of my life. Somewhere in between the chaos of me slipping out of the bathroom door, and the next girl going in--my finger got caught in the space between the hinges of the bathroom door. And that is when the biatch (using the bathroom), slammed the door shut, with my pinky stuck in between.
MOTHER OF GOD. Blood was oozing from my finger, and what I did not yet realize, was that my pinky had actually broken in HALF. Being intoxicated, and not yet realizing the severity of the situation--I tried to go back to the dance floor, and dance. (That is until I realized that I had left a trail of blood on and around the dance floor).
(Lily, BGbabe, Britt, 1/2 of the Berlowi, and Rweissypantz, you guys brought me water, and squeezed my bloody hand-I love you). Soon after, one of my oldest and greatest friends, Matthew Charles Rockoff, who I will love forever, stepped in, and brought me to the hospital. Rockoff was amazing. He held my hand through three shots, and an IV stuck in my arm. He made me laugh, pointing out the bloody sheets that I was sleeping on. Rockoff even brought me McDonalds at four am, but most importantly of all--he took pictures of me in the hospital--and exploited me on facebook for all of the world to see. I look beautiful in these pictures. And by beautiful, I do of course mean, disgusting.
Throughout the course of the night, thanks to Rockoff, I was in pretty good spirits, (that is until he left around six am--and the homeless woman laying in the hospital bed next to me started to scream). This is when the whole situation started to get a little bit scary and a little bit real.
I had 4 needles jabbed into my arms, I was eight stitches deep. I was alone, and my pinky was broken in half.
Needless to say, I did what any self-respecting adult would do. I started to feel sorry for myself. And I cried. The doctor that gave me eight stitches (who literally could not have been older than 27), said to me--" Please don't cry--just think, now you'll always remember your 26th birthday." I think that's a pretty safe bet, and if there is any bright light at the end of this strange and dreary tunnel, it is this: Atleast, I got a really good blog posting outta this, one that was typed without the use of my right pinky.
I was loving life at Firefly, the bar that I had chosen for this momentous occasion. (Mind you, I actually have no idea if I was loving life, but I'm pretty sure that with the amazing turn-out of all of my friends--I was having a pretty great time). All was well, until I decided that I needed to use the bathroom. It was at that moment when my birthday easily turned into one of the worst nights of my life. Somewhere in between the chaos of me slipping out of the bathroom door, and the next girl going in--my finger got caught in the space between the hinges of the bathroom door. And that is when the biatch (using the bathroom), slammed the door shut, with my pinky stuck in between.
MOTHER OF GOD. Blood was oozing from my finger, and what I did not yet realize, was that my pinky had actually broken in HALF. Being intoxicated, and not yet realizing the severity of the situation--I tried to go back to the dance floor, and dance. (That is until I realized that I had left a trail of blood on and around the dance floor).
(Lily, BGbabe, Britt, 1/2 of the Berlowi, and Rweissypantz, you guys brought me water, and squeezed my bloody hand-I love you). Soon after, one of my oldest and greatest friends, Matthew Charles Rockoff, who I will love forever, stepped in, and brought me to the hospital. Rockoff was amazing. He held my hand through three shots, and an IV stuck in my arm. He made me laugh, pointing out the bloody sheets that I was sleeping on. Rockoff even brought me McDonalds at four am, but most importantly of all--he took pictures of me in the hospital--and exploited me on facebook for all of the world to see. I look beautiful in these pictures. And by beautiful, I do of course mean, disgusting.
Throughout the course of the night, thanks to Rockoff, I was in pretty good spirits, (that is until he left around six am--and the homeless woman laying in the hospital bed next to me started to scream). This is when the whole situation started to get a little bit scary and a little bit real.
I had 4 needles jabbed into my arms, I was eight stitches deep. I was alone, and my pinky was broken in half.
Needless to say, I did what any self-respecting adult would do. I started to feel sorry for myself. And I cried. The doctor that gave me eight stitches (who literally could not have been older than 27), said to me--" Please don't cry--just think, now you'll always remember your 26th birthday." I think that's a pretty safe bet, and if there is any bright light at the end of this strange and dreary tunnel, it is this: Atleast, I got a really good blog posting outta this, one that was typed without the use of my right pinky.
Friday, January 22, 2010
25 and 364 days old.
I'm feeling a little bit conflicted right now--and am not quite sure how to balance these emotions. I am very excited for this weekend, with all of my planned birthday festivities.(Firefly, see you tomorrow night?) But with a birthday, comes the inevitable (and the obvious). I will be one year older. Tomorrow is my birthday, and that will make me 26. That makes today my last day as a 25 year old. I very clearly remember sitting down last year to write my last ever blog entry as a 24 year old, I also felt sadness to see 24 go. (I guess I've felt sadness to see every age go since 21).
And now, as I sit here one year later (time really does fly) I am feeling the same way about parting with 25, as I did parting with 24. I have liked being 25 so much. This was a great year for a lot of reasons (most of the highlights have been listed in previous blogs). Something about 26 sounds scary. If you are older than me, reading this, then you are probably laughing at me. But, these are my feelings, and the very essence of why I choose to blog in the first place.
Where do you go when you want to feel really special on your birthday? Out to dinner with your friends? To a bar for the night? Out with your family? I'll tell you. Come to a school. Because the truth is, no one can make you feel as special than a group of eight and nine year olds who really care about you. To my students, birthdays REALLY mean something. And even though today is not my real birthday, (we celebrated in school today), the kids treated me like an actual celebrity. Showering me with cards, good wishes, and even flowers. One of my students Adam, wished me a very sincere and genuine happy birthday. He even went one step further: Adam told me that he hopes my 26th year is a great one. Thanks Adam, I hope for the very same thing.
And now, as I sit here one year later (time really does fly) I am feeling the same way about parting with 25, as I did parting with 24. I have liked being 25 so much. This was a great year for a lot of reasons (most of the highlights have been listed in previous blogs). Something about 26 sounds scary. If you are older than me, reading this, then you are probably laughing at me. But, these are my feelings, and the very essence of why I choose to blog in the first place.
Where do you go when you want to feel really special on your birthday? Out to dinner with your friends? To a bar for the night? Out with your family? I'll tell you. Come to a school. Because the truth is, no one can make you feel as special than a group of eight and nine year olds who really care about you. To my students, birthdays REALLY mean something. And even though today is not my real birthday, (we celebrated in school today), the kids treated me like an actual celebrity. Showering me with cards, good wishes, and even flowers. One of my students Adam, wished me a very sincere and genuine happy birthday. He even went one step further: Adam told me that he hopes my 26th year is a great one. Thanks Adam, I hope for the very same thing.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Riding Along In My Automobile
Every once in a while, it is nice to leave the city. To get a change of scenery, and to go back home to my cozy house in New Jersey. I love going home. Aside from getting the opportunity to spend countless hours following Little Mimi Girl around the house (one of my top 5 favorite pastimes). I also get to spend some quality time--just me, and my set of wheels. (Technically, they are no longer my set of wheels--as my parents sold my car last year--and no, I'm still not over it). But, oh-- how I love you, driving. Even though, some might say that my driving skills are sub-par ( I've knocked off two car's sideview mirrors, drove up onto countless curbs, had 2 minor accidents, recieved 17 speeding tickets--three in one day-- and a license suspension in the spring of 2006), And yet, despite all of these minor setbacks, there is nothing I love to do more than get behind the wheel and take off.
My first true love: the blue jeep. There was nothing that I loved more than the blue jeep. I'm gonna go ahead and say it, at 17, driving this sleek machine, I felt freaking cool. January 23, 2001. I'll love you forever, you were my 17th birthday, and you were also the birth of independence as I know it. I had just received my driver's license, (and with my January birthday, was one of my first friends to bestow this great honor). The minute my mom and I arrived home from the DMV (the happiest place on Earth), I ran inside to grab my sunglasses. (It was the middle of January, with no sunshine in sight). With a jingle of my keys, I waved goodbye to my mom, trying to ignore the panicked look that came across her face.
(An aside: I think that look was extremely well warranted, with all of my driving mishaps that were to come).
I got in the driver's seat by myself, for the very first time. I turned the key in the ignition. Shaggy's,"It Wasn't Me" was playing on the radio, I looked in my rearview mirror, and I was off. On that very first drive, I still remember my exact route. I went to pick up Rweissypantz and Votzy at school. (They were still sixteen and thus, did not have their licenses). Where would we go now that the entire world was at our fingertips? The answer was simple. TCBY, of course. On the way to the country's best yogurt, I almost sideswiped our friend's mom (Sorry, Schwartz). And then proceeded to drive on the wrong side of the road. (And, no this would not be the first time that I did that).
A few weeks later, still reveling in my new found freedom, I pulled straight out of my friend's driveway onto a busy street. I drove on the wrong side of the road for a good two minutes before I realized this. Who was in the car that I nearly crashed into? Oh, just two of my classmates from Livingston High School. Don't worry, it is nine years later, and I still hear, "Remember when you drove on the wrong side of the road on Shrewsbury Drive?" Everyone makes mistakes?
That jeep took me to and fro. It gave me my freedom, my livelihood, and my independence. (It also provided me with the opportunity to score some booty). Listen you guys, when you share a room with your younger sister until you are TWENTY-TWO, you can't exactly bring a bf home to make out with.
Today, back home in New Jersey, I slipped into my mom's car, (a Toyota Highlander) not quite as cool as the Jeep--but okay, I'll take it. I slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, and wouldn't you know--Shaggy's, It Wasn't Me was playing on the radio. It was fate. Bopping around town. I feel young, I feel invincible, I feel seventeen. And oh man, I like it.
My first true love: the blue jeep. There was nothing that I loved more than the blue jeep. I'm gonna go ahead and say it, at 17, driving this sleek machine, I felt freaking cool. January 23, 2001. I'll love you forever, you were my 17th birthday, and you were also the birth of independence as I know it. I had just received my driver's license, (and with my January birthday, was one of my first friends to bestow this great honor). The minute my mom and I arrived home from the DMV (the happiest place on Earth), I ran inside to grab my sunglasses. (It was the middle of January, with no sunshine in sight). With a jingle of my keys, I waved goodbye to my mom, trying to ignore the panicked look that came across her face.
(An aside: I think that look was extremely well warranted, with all of my driving mishaps that were to come).
I got in the driver's seat by myself, for the very first time. I turned the key in the ignition. Shaggy's,"It Wasn't Me" was playing on the radio, I looked in my rearview mirror, and I was off. On that very first drive, I still remember my exact route. I went to pick up Rweissypantz and Votzy at school. (They were still sixteen and thus, did not have their licenses). Where would we go now that the entire world was at our fingertips? The answer was simple. TCBY, of course. On the way to the country's best yogurt, I almost sideswiped our friend's mom (Sorry, Schwartz). And then proceeded to drive on the wrong side of the road. (And, no this would not be the first time that I did that).
A few weeks later, still reveling in my new found freedom, I pulled straight out of my friend's driveway onto a busy street. I drove on the wrong side of the road for a good two minutes before I realized this. Who was in the car that I nearly crashed into? Oh, just two of my classmates from Livingston High School. Don't worry, it is nine years later, and I still hear, "Remember when you drove on the wrong side of the road on Shrewsbury Drive?" Everyone makes mistakes?
That jeep took me to and fro. It gave me my freedom, my livelihood, and my independence. (It also provided me with the opportunity to score some booty). Listen you guys, when you share a room with your younger sister until you are TWENTY-TWO, you can't exactly bring a bf home to make out with.
Today, back home in New Jersey, I slipped into my mom's car, (a Toyota Highlander) not quite as cool as the Jeep--but okay, I'll take it. I slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, and wouldn't you know--Shaggy's, It Wasn't Me was playing on the radio. It was fate. Bopping around town. I feel young, I feel invincible, I feel seventeen. And oh man, I like it.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Naked Lunch
Sometimes being single in NYC feels like cruel and unusual punishment. The breed of males we are subjected to seem almost inhuman at times (No offense, if you are a single male reading my blog--I probably love you). On Friday night, I was out on the town, when a friend asked me if I had a tampon that she could use. A gentleman lingering nearby, oversaw this exchange--and said to me, "Uhhh--how's your period going?" EXCUSE ME!? How's my period going? How's your boner going? If this is your freakish way of making conversation, then you need to attend a social skills group with my 3rd graders, stat.
As the night progressed, I met a gentleman suitor who tickled my fancy. All signs were pointing to yes, until our fateful cab ride home. He turned to me and said, "hang on a sec--I just gotta call my roommate. His end of the conversation sounded like this: "Hey mom, it's me. (MOM!?!) Is it okay if I bring a friend over?" Yeah, okay, see you soon--love ya!"
Me: (to the cab driver), that will be two separate stops, thanks.
As the night progressed, I met a gentleman suitor who tickled my fancy. All signs were pointing to yes, until our fateful cab ride home. He turned to me and said, "hang on a sec--I just gotta call my roommate. His end of the conversation sounded like this: "Hey mom, it's me. (MOM!?!) Is it okay if I bring a friend over?" Yeah, okay, see you soon--love ya!"
Me: (to the cab driver), that will be two separate stops, thanks.
Birthday Highlights
Do I love birthdays or do I not love birthdays? If you are my friend, then you know the answer to this simple question. I love birthdays, (especially my own). Since moving to Manhattan, birthday parties have dominated my social scene, and I am forever grateful to them. With my own birthday in the very near future, (January, 23rd baybee). Great excitement is brimming. I can't wait to celebrate with my besties, to turn 26, and most importantly of all--to religiously check my facebook wall on the big day. I thought I might take a trip down memory lane and provide some of the highlights from the past twenty-five birthdays. Here we go, starting with # 1...
# 1-Since, I was one and have absolutely no recollection of the event--I don't have much to comment on. However, I have seen the pictures, (and the VHS recording) and I must admit--I was pretty cute, with cake smeared all over my face. (All ova yo face and stuff-Khia.)
#6-My first experience with birthday disappointment. My birthday party at Doreen Kerner Dance Studio had to be postponed due to a bout with pink eye. Hmm. Try explaining to a six year old on her birthday, that she can't have her birthday party because one of her eyes is oozing with fluids, and the other eye is crusted shut. (Yet again, I remain constant-as your # 1 most disgusting friend.)
# 9, 10, 11 were spent at Florham Park roller rink, backwards skating, couples skating and limbo-ing to early/mid 90's dance music, because well, it actually was the early to mid 90's.
# 13, Stealing the move from DJ Tanner, I set my alarm clock for my exact time of birth (6:46 am). Upon wake-up time, I proceeded to run through every room in my house (including the crawl space beneath our basement stairs, and our garage). screaming, "I'm a teenager." Naturally, the following week, I celebrated with the mother of all birthday parties, my bat-mitzvah.
#14-The first of many all-girls luncheon's. The big gossip was that one of the girls sitting at the table had flashed her tits the night before at an 8th grade party. Naturally, she was thrown to the wolves, exiled from our table, and labeled a "slut." (Aren't 14 year old girls the nicest?) But, on a more positive note--I received a record breaking 27 gifts from Bath and Body works.
#15-Little Mimi Girl wrote the song, "Fifteen Years of Being Weird" a tribute to well--me.
# 16-Oh ya know, just attended my all girl's sweet sixteen luncheon, wearing a dress THAT I HAD MADE, in home-ec. (Amelia, help!) It was crushed velvet, with tiny rhinestones and had a slit that went up to my ass). Who let me leave the house wearing this? We should all be ashamed of ourselves. (Sidenote: I got my hair did for the event, in a french twist updo).
#18-Cigarettes, voting and porn. None of these things appealed to me, except of course for porn And that is exactly what I found walking out to my car in the senior parking lot; anonymously left porn underneath my windshield wiper. Thank you to the boys that I am friends with. Also, thank you to the girls that I am friends with for buying me a pair of red pumas. I still love them today.
#21-Birthday disappointment # 2. After planning a 21st birthday bash for 200 people. (I'm not exaggerating) A 2.5 foot snowstorm blizzard had a mind of it's own, and conquered my birthday. Only 10 percent of my guest list were able trek out in the snow to make the party. I had puked and passed out in my bed by midnight. Happy Birthday to me. The highlight of this birthday was the cake that my roommates had ordered for me. A super imposed picture of me at fifteen (my prettiest year) was on the front of the cake. Also, if you were lucky enough not to remember what I looked like at 15, let me paint you a little picture. (Frizzy hair--cut, just below my chin, (flat irons not yet invented). pubic hair bangs, braces, translucent skin tone, tits unsupported in my non-under wire bra, and one large Caterpillar eyebrow.) In other words, I was a super model.
#24-Perhaps my most infamous birthday. I clung to walls for support, confessed my love to a former flame, and my best friend had to have her trigger pulled by her boyfriend at the party. But, most importantly of all; I drunkenly canoodled with my real life NYC next door neighbor, late night at his apartment, wearing a pair of spanx. (I'm not sure if the boys reading this know what spanx are-- but they are tights that come with a hole cut out right in the vag.) Why? Due to the super tight nature of spanx, designers thought it would be easier to go to the bathroom through the spanx hole, rather than taking off your tights. For the record, I have always taken off my tights, and never peed through a spanx hole). This was also the first birthday where a large group of Asian strangers arrived at my party in electric blue wigs. This would later become a tradition
# 25-Large group of Asians arrive at this party, though this time not in electric blue wigs. Highlights include, all of my favorite people in one place, and drinking out of a flask in the bathroom for the duration of the night.
With great anticipation, I look forward to what # 26 will bring.
# 1-Since, I was one and have absolutely no recollection of the event--I don't have much to comment on. However, I have seen the pictures, (and the VHS recording) and I must admit--I was pretty cute, with cake smeared all over my face. (All ova yo face and stuff-Khia.)
#6-My first experience with birthday disappointment. My birthday party at Doreen Kerner Dance Studio had to be postponed due to a bout with pink eye. Hmm. Try explaining to a six year old on her birthday, that she can't have her birthday party because one of her eyes is oozing with fluids, and the other eye is crusted shut. (Yet again, I remain constant-as your # 1 most disgusting friend.)
# 9, 10, 11 were spent at Florham Park roller rink, backwards skating, couples skating and limbo-ing to early/mid 90's dance music, because well, it actually was the early to mid 90's.
# 13, Stealing the move from DJ Tanner, I set my alarm clock for my exact time of birth (6:46 am). Upon wake-up time, I proceeded to run through every room in my house (including the crawl space beneath our basement stairs, and our garage). screaming, "I'm a teenager." Naturally, the following week, I celebrated with the mother of all birthday parties, my bat-mitzvah.
#14-The first of many all-girls luncheon's. The big gossip was that one of the girls sitting at the table had flashed her tits the night before at an 8th grade party. Naturally, she was thrown to the wolves, exiled from our table, and labeled a "slut." (Aren't 14 year old girls the nicest?) But, on a more positive note--I received a record breaking 27 gifts from Bath and Body works.
#15-Little Mimi Girl wrote the song, "Fifteen Years of Being Weird" a tribute to well--me.
# 16-Oh ya know, just attended my all girl's sweet sixteen luncheon, wearing a dress THAT I HAD MADE, in home-ec. (Amelia, help!) It was crushed velvet, with tiny rhinestones and had a slit that went up to my ass). Who let me leave the house wearing this? We should all be ashamed of ourselves. (Sidenote: I got my hair did for the event, in a french twist updo).
#18-Cigarettes, voting and porn. None of these things appealed to me, except of course for porn And that is exactly what I found walking out to my car in the senior parking lot; anonymously left porn underneath my windshield wiper. Thank you to the boys that I am friends with. Also, thank you to the girls that I am friends with for buying me a pair of red pumas. I still love them today.
#21-Birthday disappointment # 2. After planning a 21st birthday bash for 200 people. (I'm not exaggerating) A 2.5 foot snowstorm blizzard had a mind of it's own, and conquered my birthday. Only 10 percent of my guest list were able trek out in the snow to make the party. I had puked and passed out in my bed by midnight. Happy Birthday to me. The highlight of this birthday was the cake that my roommates had ordered for me. A super imposed picture of me at fifteen (my prettiest year) was on the front of the cake. Also, if you were lucky enough not to remember what I looked like at 15, let me paint you a little picture. (Frizzy hair--cut, just below my chin, (flat irons not yet invented). pubic hair bangs, braces, translucent skin tone, tits unsupported in my non-under wire bra, and one large Caterpillar eyebrow.) In other words, I was a super model.
#24-Perhaps my most infamous birthday. I clung to walls for support, confessed my love to a former flame, and my best friend had to have her trigger pulled by her boyfriend at the party. But, most importantly of all; I drunkenly canoodled with my real life NYC next door neighbor, late night at his apartment, wearing a pair of spanx. (I'm not sure if the boys reading this know what spanx are-- but they are tights that come with a hole cut out right in the vag.) Why? Due to the super tight nature of spanx, designers thought it would be easier to go to the bathroom through the spanx hole, rather than taking off your tights. For the record, I have always taken off my tights, and never peed through a spanx hole). This was also the first birthday where a large group of Asian strangers arrived at my party in electric blue wigs. This would later become a tradition
# 25-Large group of Asians arrive at this party, though this time not in electric blue wigs. Highlights include, all of my favorite people in one place, and drinking out of a flask in the bathroom for the duration of the night.
With great anticipation, I look forward to what # 26 will bring.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Kool-Aid Mouth
Kool-Aid Mouth (n.): The phenomenon in which a shade of red, (similar to that in which Kool-Aid leaves) resides around the outer edges of your mouth. (Also known as having four lips). Here in the 3rd grade, I see rings of Kool-Aid Mouth daily. Only, it's not from kool-aid. This particular breed of kool-aid mouth comes from a lack of chapstick and or other moisturizing lip product. Please, for the love of god third graders, stop licking your lips, and ask your parents to invest in some chap-stick. The sight of these four lipped monsters everywhere is starting to make me sick.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Weekend Update.
Did you ever notice that how creepy someone is, is inversely proportional to how attractive they are? I'm not sure if that statement made any sense, as the word inversely tends to throw me for a loop. But, what I mean is: if you are attractive, any blatant advances that you make at me (and probably most humans) will be accepted, welcomed and enjoyed. I won't think that you're creepy--I'll be flattered and more importantly, excited! However, if you are unattractive, well--you better stay the hell away, creep. I know, could I be any more shallow?
For example, last weekend I was out at a bar, trying to catch the bartender's attention, to get myself a drink, when suddenly I felt a cool breeze through my hair, and on the back of my neck. I looked behind me, and noticed an older gentleman. He was balding and approximately 275 pounds, with a wicked grin spread across his face. I was not welcoming, tolerant, or enjoying the gust of air that he had just bestowed upon me. It was werid, and creepy. Now, had a really cute guy done that same gesture, I probably would have liked it a whole lot more. (Although, to be perfectly honest, I'm not quite sure that I want anyone breathing on the back of my neck in a crowded room).
Another example of this happened to me last night. Just as I was leaving the bar that I was at, a very cute guy approached me, and told me that he thought I was pretty. Wow! Again, had a gross/unattractive male stranger said those same words to me, I would have smiled, thanked him for the compliment, warned my friends about him, and then ran far away. However, because this guy was cute, I tolerated, welcomed and flat out--enjoyed his compliment. Of course, when he said it, I blushed uncontrollably. (An aside: why must we blush when we receive a compliment?)
As we got to chatting, (Let's call him Robby) Robby asked me how old I was. I told him that I was 26. (I know, I still have two more weeks, until my birthday but I was just testing it out). Robby backed away slightly and his whole face fell. "Oh," he said. "I'm only 22--you're really old."
I'm not quite sure when this happened. I am by no means, "old." I am well aware of that. In the scheme of life, I am extremely young. I am in my 20's for god's sake! However, when did I become NOT the youngest person at the bar anymore? My friend Annie, recently said that I have a very young soul. I think we all know that. I have the soul of a mature fourteen year old girl. I can't walk into a nail salon, without all of the nail ladies asking me if I want the special discount-- high school special manicure. Most people upon meeting me, actually guess that I'm a high school student--and very occasionally, I'll get a 19 or a 20 thrown my way. This is all well and fine with me, (as if my youthfulness keeps up with me, I think I'll like this a lot when I'm in my 30's) --Welp, I guess that I will be shocking all of the nail salon ladies in two weeks when I respond with, "No, I won't take the high school special, I'm 26."
For example, last weekend I was out at a bar, trying to catch the bartender's attention, to get myself a drink, when suddenly I felt a cool breeze through my hair, and on the back of my neck. I looked behind me, and noticed an older gentleman. He was balding and approximately 275 pounds, with a wicked grin spread across his face. I was not welcoming, tolerant, or enjoying the gust of air that he had just bestowed upon me. It was werid, and creepy. Now, had a really cute guy done that same gesture, I probably would have liked it a whole lot more. (Although, to be perfectly honest, I'm not quite sure that I want anyone breathing on the back of my neck in a crowded room).
Another example of this happened to me last night. Just as I was leaving the bar that I was at, a very cute guy approached me, and told me that he thought I was pretty. Wow! Again, had a gross/unattractive male stranger said those same words to me, I would have smiled, thanked him for the compliment, warned my friends about him, and then ran far away. However, because this guy was cute, I tolerated, welcomed and flat out--enjoyed his compliment. Of course, when he said it, I blushed uncontrollably. (An aside: why must we blush when we receive a compliment?)
As we got to chatting, (Let's call him Robby) Robby asked me how old I was. I told him that I was 26. (I know, I still have two more weeks, until my birthday but I was just testing it out). Robby backed away slightly and his whole face fell. "Oh," he said. "I'm only 22--you're really old."
I'm not quite sure when this happened. I am by no means, "old." I am well aware of that. In the scheme of life, I am extremely young. I am in my 20's for god's sake! However, when did I become NOT the youngest person at the bar anymore? My friend Annie, recently said that I have a very young soul. I think we all know that. I have the soul of a mature fourteen year old girl. I can't walk into a nail salon, without all of the nail ladies asking me if I want the special discount-- high school special manicure. Most people upon meeting me, actually guess that I'm a high school student--and very occasionally, I'll get a 19 or a 20 thrown my way. This is all well and fine with me, (as if my youthfulness keeps up with me, I think I'll like this a lot when I'm in my 30's) --Welp, I guess that I will be shocking all of the nail salon ladies in two weeks when I respond with, "No, I won't take the high school special, I'm 26."
Friday, January 8, 2010
Apartment Building Crush
When you live in a big apartment building, you are bound to see lots of people each and every day. Bustling about, going to and from work, to and from the gym, to and from dates, and all of the other places that young 20-somethings are always on the run to in this city. But, what happens when you start to see the same people again, and again? Those same familiar faces who hold doors for you, and who smile at you on elevators. What do you do?
I think that I have an apartment building crush. I don't know his name. In fact, I don't know anything about him. But, I will tell you this: I know his smile, and it's lovely. I see him around the building going to and fro quite often. Over the past few weeks, we've developed a really nice smile relationship. We see each other,we recognize each other, and then, we smile at one another. Yup, things are really developing at a rapid pace, by this time next year, we'll probably be waving at each other too.
Yesterday, I came home from work, and he was steps in front of me, holding the door open for me. Then we chatted on the elevator about the magazine catalogs that I had gotten in the mail!?! Oh, how I loathe you, awkward small talk. I did however, make a mental note of what floor he lives on--and that's floor # 9. As soon as I stepped off the elevator onto my own floor, I thought: Dangit. I should have introduced myself! I wonder if he was thinking the same thing. I thought about hopping back on the elevator and finding him on the 9th floor but then thought, wait just a second there, psycho.
So, alas. I will have to wait until I see him again, and this time I won't just smile at him--I won't just talk to him about Pottery Barn either. This time, I will extend a handshake, and tell him my name. But who are we kidding? With my luck, he's probably moving out tomorrow.
I think that I have an apartment building crush. I don't know his name. In fact, I don't know anything about him. But, I will tell you this: I know his smile, and it's lovely. I see him around the building going to and fro quite often. Over the past few weeks, we've developed a really nice smile relationship. We see each other,we recognize each other, and then, we smile at one another. Yup, things are really developing at a rapid pace, by this time next year, we'll probably be waving at each other too.
Yesterday, I came home from work, and he was steps in front of me, holding the door open for me. Then we chatted on the elevator about the magazine catalogs that I had gotten in the mail!?! Oh, how I loathe you, awkward small talk. I did however, make a mental note of what floor he lives on--and that's floor # 9. As soon as I stepped off the elevator onto my own floor, I thought: Dangit. I should have introduced myself! I wonder if he was thinking the same thing. I thought about hopping back on the elevator and finding him on the 9th floor but then thought, wait just a second there, psycho.
So, alas. I will have to wait until I see him again, and this time I won't just smile at him--I won't just talk to him about Pottery Barn either. This time, I will extend a handshake, and tell him my name. But who are we kidding? With my luck, he's probably moving out tomorrow.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Two-Thousand and Ten
Hello 2010! Well, we've got some pretty big decisions ahead of us, don't we? How are we going to pronounce our new year? Is it Two-Thousand Ten? Or do we call it Twenty-ten? (Personally speaking, I like Two-Thousand Ten--2010 sounds like some sort of deep sea fishing expedition to me--I know that makes ZERO sense, but that's what's in my head, okay?)
Last night was New years Eve, pretty much a great night all around. The following highlights have gotten this brand new decade off to a great start!
Highlight # 1.
You see, a few months ago, I spent the night at my friend Dan's place. I feel the need to say that nothing happened between us, (as if you read a little bit farther on, I'm about to make myself sound like a gigantic slut). I stayed over at Dan's after a long night of binge drinking. I woke up the next morning, and simply went home in his clothing. No big deal. Because we are great friends, Dan was not worried about his clothing, as he knew he'd get it back from me. It took me six months, but when I arrived at Dan's apartment for his New Year's party, I was ready in my party dress, with boys clothing in hand. Dan reached into the bag of clothing I had brought and first pulled out his shorts, and then his shirt. Dan looked up at me, confused and said, "Uhh--this isn't my shirt." I said, "of course it is!" Dan said, "no really--this isn't my shirt--you brought me some other guy's shirt." Um...whoops? I had literally gotten confused between boys' shirts and had accidentally given Dan the shirt of a former one-night stander. I could not have made myself look any sluttier if I had tried. Can I get away with, it happens to the best of us?
Highlight # 2.
After leaving Dan's party, I headed to Matt's party, another good friend from high school. After greeting my friends , I walked straight towards where the music was playing. I didn't like the song that was currently playing, and felt the need to change the music up. I walked over to Matt's computer, ready to put on the song that I wanted to hear, when I noticed a sign. The sign read, "LAUREN, DO NOT TOUCH THE MUSIC." Matt anticipated, and he was right. Pretty good, Matt, pretty good.
Highlight # 3
Katie-kiwi. Katie-kiwi is one of my best friends from college. She came to New York and spent New years with me! Katie had a blasty-blast, until I had to take her home because I found her, up against a wall, making out with a boy seven inches shorter than her, with her skirt pulled up all the way to her tits. Time to go home, Katie. Once back at my apartment, Katie passed out on my living room chair, fully clothed, with a chopped salad in her lap. Later, a friend had asked, "Who was that girl at the party who was trying to bite everyone?" I didn't have to think twice about that one. It was Katie-kiwi, and she strikes (bites) again.
Last night was New years Eve, pretty much a great night all around. The following highlights have gotten this brand new decade off to a great start!
Highlight # 1.
You see, a few months ago, I spent the night at my friend Dan's place. I feel the need to say that nothing happened between us, (as if you read a little bit farther on, I'm about to make myself sound like a gigantic slut). I stayed over at Dan's after a long night of binge drinking. I woke up the next morning, and simply went home in his clothing. No big deal. Because we are great friends, Dan was not worried about his clothing, as he knew he'd get it back from me. It took me six months, but when I arrived at Dan's apartment for his New Year's party, I was ready in my party dress, with boys clothing in hand. Dan reached into the bag of clothing I had brought and first pulled out his shorts, and then his shirt. Dan looked up at me, confused and said, "Uhh--this isn't my shirt." I said, "of course it is!" Dan said, "no really--this isn't my shirt--you brought me some other guy's shirt." Um...whoops? I had literally gotten confused between boys' shirts and had accidentally given Dan the shirt of a former one-night stander. I could not have made myself look any sluttier if I had tried. Can I get away with, it happens to the best of us?
Highlight # 2.
After leaving Dan's party, I headed to Matt's party, another good friend from high school. After greeting my friends , I walked straight towards where the music was playing. I didn't like the song that was currently playing, and felt the need to change the music up. I walked over to Matt's computer, ready to put on the song that I wanted to hear, when I noticed a sign. The sign read, "LAUREN, DO NOT TOUCH THE MUSIC." Matt anticipated, and he was right. Pretty good, Matt, pretty good.
Highlight # 3
Katie-kiwi. Katie-kiwi is one of my best friends from college. She came to New York and spent New years with me! Katie had a blasty-blast, until I had to take her home because I found her, up against a wall, making out with a boy seven inches shorter than her, with her skirt pulled up all the way to her tits. Time to go home, Katie. Once back at my apartment, Katie passed out on my living room chair, fully clothed, with a chopped salad in her lap. Later, a friend had asked, "Who was that girl at the party who was trying to bite everyone?" I didn't have to think twice about that one. It was Katie-kiwi, and she strikes (bites) again.
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