Just a Little Roll of the Eyes

Sometimes, I think that I need a little reminder of my current surroundings. In my own NYC apartment, when getting dressed and undressed, I can take off articles of clothing as I please, spending as much time as I'd like in different stages of undressing. (My favorite stage--you guessed it--being naked of course).

Here at home in New Jersey, where privacy is limited, this is not always the case. Earlier this afternoon, I was obliviously changing my clothes in my room, with my door wide open. (Forgetting that my mom was upstairs, whoops). She walked by my door, just as I had no pants or undies on--Yep, I accidentally flashed my vag to my mom. (An aside: When telling this story to Amelia, her response was, "Whatever, she birthed that shit."). Good point, Meelz. However, it has been quite some time since I was birthed, and I probably could have closed my door. Upon seeing my pant and underwearless body, my mom laughed, rolled her eyes at me and went downstairs.

I sort of like when the opportunity arises for my mom to roll her eyes at me, after all she should get to return the favor once in a while. Eye rolling at your parents should probably stop somewhere around the age of thirteen. However, this is something that I still do on the occasional basis.

Earlier this afternoon, while shopping at the mall, Little Mimi insisted on accompanying me into the mall bathroom. (Major eye roll). What am I, nine? I told my mom that I am twenty-six years old, responsible for the well-being and safety of children, and more than capable of using the restroom by myself. While she did not accompany me into the actual stall (I'm only joking--but would not put this past her) she continued to say "You just never know who could be lurking in a mall bathroom." What else can I say? She is a Jewish mother. Being worried, paranoid and neurotic is an actual part of the job description.

This experience reminded me of something similar that happened to me a few years ago--but on a bit of a larger scale. After college, I lived at home, with my parents for about ten months. In that time, I learned a great deal about what it was like to live with your parents, when you are supposed to be "on your own." (A truly humbling experience). My older brother had moved out, and my younger sister had just started college that fall, so it was just me, Little Mimi and Craig David, all the time. My parents attention focused on me, their then twenty-two year old daughter. Overall, it was a truly lovely (and free) stay at 3 Longacre Drive. But there were a few snags along the way...below you will find one...

One night, I realized that I had left my car on the street, so I went out to pull it into the driveway. I shouted to my mom, that I would be outside pulling my car into the driveway. When I got into my car, my favorite song (at the time) was on the radio. (No doubt that it was some pop hit of 2006). What better way to enjoy this song, then to drive around the block, listening to it for a few minutes. And that is exactly what I did. I was gone for a total of six minutes. The song had finished, just as I was I pulling up to my house. As I pulled into my driveway, I was able to survey the scene. I found my dad outside on the front lawn with a baseball bat, and my mom-- was on the phone with the police. REALLY!?!? I had not even been gone ten minutes, and the police had been called, alerted of my absence. And, god only knows what my dad was planning on doing with his baseball bat. As you can imagine, I moved out shortly after this incident. But not without a giant eye roll at both of my parents, first.

Bad Romance

My dad and I drove home together from NYC back to New Jersey to attend Night #1 of our Passover Seder. When I opened the passenger side door of my dad's car, I was quite surprised to hear Bad Romance by Lady Gaga blaring inside. "Hey Laur, (he said) we should really go to a Lady Gaga concert sometime--you and me, what do you say?" Oh em gee. (Is what I say). If you know my dad...Craig, better known as Craig David (or Doodles to some), then you may just find this about as perfect as I do.

My fifty-nine year old father, dressed in his business suit, was belting out the lyrics to Bad Romance. Even better, is that my twenty-one year old sister, burned the Gaga CD for him. While at times, my dad can certainly be funny, silly and raunchy. (Especially raunchy). Craig David (Can you fill me in?) also has a very serious side, one that Lady Gaga just does not quite match up with. We listened to Lady Gaga the whole ride home. (And needless to say, we did not fight once about the radio, and thus it was a dream car ride).

I recently mentioned to someone that in every group of friends I have, I am constantly the butt of all jokes. Whether I am with my college friends (who affectionately nicknamed me Speed bump), my camp friends, (who affectionately nicknamed me whore, and have various chants about me), or my high school friends (who affectionately refer to me as Melissa Joan Hart in Can't Hardly Wait--ya know, the girl who wants everyone to sign her yearbook). It is a role that I have come to accept, and even sometimes one that I like. I must admit that 83% of the time, I deserve the ridicule. (I tend to overshare--mostly about bodily functions and strange sexual experiences.) And, I have done a number of things over the years that have easily provoked this teasing.

From, refusing to admit that it's not 2002 anymore, to being caught blowing my nose into my comforter at sleep-away camp, to being pulled over 18 times in the span of fourteen months, to having an earth-shattering clap, to having a diet that consists solely of frosted flakes, Hershey bars, grilled chicken slathered in ketchup, with watermelon on the side, to making out with my high school friends, long after high school had ended, to looking like an Asian 92% of the time, for driving on the wrong side of the road, (more than once), for using my brother's drumsticks for my own personal pleasure and for carrying a homeless man sized bottle of Bacaaaadi with me at all times, I certainly have made it easy on my friends to find good material to poke fun of me for.

I wish I could say that it was different in my own family; but alas tonight at our seder, things were no different; as my dad and brother took turns making fun of me. (Heatzbabi was at school, and Little Mimi would never dream of making fun). Even though, I kind of love the teasing, and know that it is out of love--one thing is for sure...I am writing a book, that I hope will be published one day, and I'm pretty sure that I just may have the last laugh on all of you, after all. (Muhahaha).

Sometimes Twins Hook Up

If you understand the deep meaning behind this blog's title, you can laugh, and then thank Ryanruss (for his creative genius) and the Berlowi (for existing).

Last night my friend Nate asked me if I ever hoped that awkward, embarrassing and uncomfortable things would happen to me so that I would have something funny to blog about. The answer to that questions is yes. All the time. There have been many times when something awkward, uncomfortable or completely humiliating is happening to me, and all the while in my head, I'm thinking: Wow. This will make for a dang good blog entry.

Case and point. On Thursday, one of my best friends found out that she "matched " for the medical residency that she wanted. (The hospital chose her, she chose them). Truthfully, it sounds more like sorority rush to me--but I ain't judgin! A surprise party was thrown yesterday afternoon at an outdoor beer garden in her honor.

Hmm...now hypothetically speaking of course, I may have had a late night rendezvous with one of her medical school friends back in November. Hypothetically speaking of course, he may have also been an identical twin. Even back in November, I knew that I had absolutely no idea which twin was which, but had remembered their names based on their outfits. I think it is perfectly fine not to be able to tell the difference between identical twins that you don't know very well. However, once saliva has been swapped, not knowing which twin was which just seemed tacky. I assumed that if and when I saw this guy again, it would just be the two of us, (so I would know it was him) or, I would have my friend send me a secret text, preparing me of their outfit choices for the night. Okay, Lauren--hook up with an identical twin, not a problem. Yup, unfortunately it would not be quite that simple.

My friend's party was mostly our high school friends, and a group of her college friends. (Therefore, I did not anticipate the arrival of any unidentified twins). I was busy drinking my German beer, happy to be outside wearing flip-flops, when I saw one of the twins walk into the garden. But, holy fuck. Which one was he? I immediately tried to find my friend, but she was not to be found anywhere.

Help! What do I do? If I don't go over and say hi then that would be really rude of me, but if I do go over and say hi, and it's not the brother that I "know." Then, well--that's just plain old embarrassing too. So, instead I did what any mature twenty-six year old would do. I put my sunglasses on. (Really good disguise, right? He'll never recognize me in my generic Ray Ban aviators).

I hid. I hid until I found my friend, and made sure to keep my back to the twin at all times. When I finally found my friend, she told me to relax--it was the "other twin." Crisis averted. But, I think that I learned a pretty valuable lesson here, and that is: If you make out with an identical twin, and you see him at social gathering, make sure you have brought a pair of sunglasses with you, just in case.

Five Years From Now...

Someone who shall remain nameless, recently asked me to compile a list of all the things that I want for myself five years from now. I was asked to write down; where I hope to be, what I hope to accomplish, and who I want in my life. This may sound like an easy task for most, but for a person like myself, (who wishes that it was still 2002), this would not be any ordinary feat. (In hindsight, I think that was the very purpose of this exercise--looking forward, instead of back-- but none the less, this assignment would be a challenge).

There I was, sitting at my computer during one of my prep periods at school. (Prep period=kids are at some sort of special, are not in the classroom, and therefore is the quietest part of my day). I was supposed to be creating math homework for my students, but instead as gchat and facebook sat minimized at the bottom of my computer screen, I began to fantasize about my future, and the life I may have. I began to think about the things that I really wanted for myself five years from now, when I'm thirty-one. (Holy Crap).

On my list of five years from now, were things that would probably be on many people's lists. Oh, you know things like financial stability (having more than $4.32 in my bank account at one time). I'd like to still be living in NYC. I'd like to be in some sort of stable relationship, (ya know, not being persuaded by two Israeli soldiers to have a threesome, not being called a whore by a homeless man early one morning, and not returning a pair of boxers to their wrong owner) Yes, just some of my sexual highlights of this past year. But, one thing made the list that may surprise some of you. This may be an uphill battle, but it is certainly not unattainable. Five years from now, I would like to have written a book. (FYI: If you are reading this blog, and have had some sort of sexual encounter with me in the last ten years, you will be making it into my book, or erotic novel--as I'd prefer to call it). Don't worry--I'll give you a fake name, but consider yourself warned.

I have always enjoyed writing since I was very small. This was part of the reason I decided to became an English major at The University of Rhode Island, (a major that many deemed pointless), but I have a job, so it looks like I win.

Most recently, I have begun to aspire to a writer who really is top of the line in my book. A writer whose use of language, and word choice are that of perfection. Her writing is absolutely hilarious, pee in you pants funny. Listen, I don't use that phrase lightly. There is nothing funny about peeing in your pants. (As, I have been known to do this on many an occasion. Namely, after being motor-boated by Julia Kaplan in the Camp Schodack dining hall).

Who is this author that I adore? Her name is Chelsea Handler--and she just so happens to hail from my hometown, Livingston, New Jersey. (Hollaa 07039!) Her writing is unbelievably witty, smart and vulgar. The way Chelsea writes makes me laugh outloud alone in my room, outloud alone in the bathroom, and outloud (not alone) on the subway.

In the first chapter of her new book, Chelsea writes about a sleepover party that she attended in the third grade, where all of the girls practice masturbating. For those of you that don't know--let's just say this: I unknowingly humped (vigorously) doorways and chair edges from the tender ages of 6-9. Reading this chapter, I felt like I was reading from the pages of my own diary. For this reason and many more, Chelsea is my inspiration, and if you need a good pee, a good book to poop with, or just a good laugh until you cry, pick up her newest book, Chelsea, Chelsea, Bang, Bang...pronto.

Just a blog, about my friends

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my friends. I think about my old friends, my new friends, and those that fall in the in-between. Since moving to NYC, I have met some really amazing new friends; many of which I met through old friends. Between everyone's roommate's, boyfriends, girlfriends, fraternity brothers, sorority sisters, graduate school friends, (and the list goes on...) Each friend that I have met, has in part brought so many other great people into my life.
In fact, my own roommate who I met four years ago as Rachael, (my high school best friend's, friend from college), is now four years later--my little Bonkers.

There are the friends that I grew up with, that have known me since I was small. These guys hold a very special spot in my heart. I think about those friends, that I met at Harrison Elementary School back in 1989. These are the friends who knew me when my Friday nights were dominated by TGIF, and my wardrobe consisted solely of neon colors and sparkly sequins. These elementary school friends were the ones that I spent my afternoons with making potions, collecting inch worms, and later--would help me to stuff my bra. (Yes, each day for two months in the fifth grade, I would swipe the tape dispenser off of my teacher's desk, sneak into the bathroom, and tape little crumpled up pieces of toilet paper to my chest. I looked completely ridiculous. But, hey--I was eleven and I wanted boobs, REAL BAD--even if they were lumpy and lopsided).
(An aside: I would get my tit wish, five years later when my ta-ta's grew from B's to D's during the summer of 2000). Let's just say this: I started 11th grade, a new woman. But I digress...

Next, my elementary school friends and I traveled together on to the next chapter of our lives, at Mt. Pleasant Middle School. It was there that I would average three boyfriends a year, play spin the pencil, sport multi-colored braces, and attend 8766554 bar and bat-mitzvahs.

In the fall of '98, we moved on together to Livingston High School, where we would meet the other half of our future best friends. My highschool friends knew me through less than stellar times. Winnie the Pooh sweatsuits, (I'm actually wincing right now) chapstick necklaces, caterpillar eyebrows, and more braces--until finally, my five year battle with my awkward phase ended, and I reclaimed my status as a semi-normal human once more. With my friends, we learned how to drive together, we went to prom together, and we encountered all of the standard, growing up, coming of age, first time moments...together.

On Friday night, I attended a fundraiser for a highschool friend, who had recently lost a member of her family. I looked around the room of this bar, and it was like a league of nations of highschool cliques. Each group of friends were represented, and the outpouring of people who came to support our former classmate spoke volumes to me. It was amazing. Even though we are twenty-six years old, and haven't been in school together for quite some time now, gathered in that bar (aside from the fact that we are legally allowed to drink) it felt like literally no time had passed since we walked by each other in A-Hall, in Livingston High School. What more could I ask for? That's right. Nothing.

Oh. And, then there are my Schodack friends. And I think that you all know just how I feel about my Schodack friends. After fourteen summers spent at Schodack, these friendships mean the world to me. I met some of my 12123 friends when I was just eleven years old. While other friendships did not develop until later, in our teenage years when we were getting drunk together on nights out as counselors. And even years later, my former campers became close friends too. But, I think that all I need to say is this: On Saturday, I spent five hours parked on Marla's living room chair. Four of us camp girlays together, (BGbabe, Meelzy and Mawa) feasting on fine Italian cuisine, and giggling like twelve year olds. Updog, Shake-its, and Meelz's picture of a baby mouse suspended in honey on her kitchen floor made my stomach hurt from non-stop laughter. It really is true what they say. We literally did nothing but sit in Marla's living room eating pizza, but I'm pretty sure that I had the time of my life.

Last but not least, I can never forget my Rhodies, (who I don't get to see nearly as often as I would like to). My college friends, who gave me rides when I lost my license via suspension, who helped protect me from Mattie B (the mentally challenged boy who lived down the street who threw things at me), who spoke to policemen when our parties got broken up, who sat on the beach in our sweatshirts together, who played lax with me, who tour-guided with me, who seawatched with me, who lived at 80 Ballsak with me, and who made my college years so much effing fun, that I will always think fondly of a little place called URI.

In short, (or in length--as this blog entry got quite long!) I know just how lucky I am to have such special groups of people in my life. And, I hope that we will all be able to up-dog it together, for a long, long time to come.

Just a Decade Behind

It always bothers me when I wake up in the morning, and I can't for the life of me--remember my dreams from the night before. For the exception of s-e-x dreams, this usually seems to be the case. However, I quite vividly remember the dream that I had on Friday night. That is because my dream combined two of my most favorite things: pop culture via the 1990's, and pop culture via the 2000's. I dreamt that Brian Austin Green; Beverly Hills 90210's, David Silver, (hubba-hubba) and I went together, to attend the funeral of Marissa Cooper (Mischa Barton) of The OC. I think it is extremely safe to say that I am the only one in the world who would have this dream.

Today, while at my friend, Diana's birthday brunch, I shared my Friday night dream with the group. That's when my friend Josh said to me, "You really are living a decade behind everybody else." I took these words to heart and realized something that the rest of you probably already knew. I really am living one decade behind the rest of America. Up until last week, (had it not been for the generosity of Daveedykins) I would still be tip-tip-typing away on my good ole' desktop--but am now the proud owner of a mac! Helloooo 2010. I am also quite possibly the only person I know who still uses a flip-phone. (And a pretty crappy one, if that). When I watch my eight year old students exchanging pin numbers for their blackberries, I know--I must really be behind.

I come home each and every day from work and watch television shows that are at least seven years old, if not more. (Most likely more). I prefer fashions from the '90's (which puts me two decades behind). And, I still dream of days when life was simpler, cruising around town, and spray painting the words SENIORS on my car's back window. In fact, this blog may be the only 2010 appropriate aspect that I have going for me, except for the fact that I have no idea how to make this blog any more technologically 2010 savvy with fancypantz pictures or graphics.

Last but not least, Galzbabi (my highschool bestie) has made her career out of celebrity findings. She spends her weekends with the cast of Gossip Girl, and my only response is, " That's cool, but tell me when you hang out with Luke Perry, ok?"