The Sunday Night Blues are hitting me hard tonight. After all, it is Sunday night after a five day holiday weekend. And, what a weekend it was!
Before I begin, I would just like to throw a special shout out to Samantha Mumba's "Gotta Tell You." While at home over the weekend, I was having an alone dance party. Just me and my sister's ipod. While dancing, I re-discovered this gem, and simply cannot get enough. (An aside: In February of 2001, shortly after my 17th birthday, and a newly licensed driver, I would race out of school each afternoon just in the nick of time to make it home for TRL to watch Carson Daly announce Samantha Mumba (and her video) as number one).
I was looking through old photo albums in my room. Each one of them intricately labeled. Summer 1999, Junior Year 2000-2001, Senior Year at Rhode Island, 2005-2006, and the list goes on. What I soon realized is that shortly after 2007, there are no photo albums to be found. And, that's when it hit me. Facebook! Every photo that I have, is on facebook for the world to see. With the popularity of facebook, I realize that I don't really have a reason to make scrapbooks anymore. I don't have to take the time to print out my pictures, and place them carefully into albums. While this saves me a lot of work, I can't help but wonder, will the me in ten years be sadly disappointed, when I can't find the album labeled, "2009-2010" Drunken Slutty Times?
On Friday morning, I did something that I don't do very often. I slept past eleven am. I guess all that turkey really did make me sleepy! I was awoken to my mom telling me that she had something really adorable to show me. I was not pleased. I rarely sleep late anymore, and to sleep until 11:30 am, is like a dream come true. Mimi Girl led the way to the family room, where she pushed play on our VCR. (That's right, our VCR. Guess, I'm not the only one who still lives in the 20th century).
On the TV screen, was a home video from 1989, my family on a beach vacation. Even though we were young. (Jeremy was nine years old, I was five (and a half), and Heather was just shy of a year old). All of our personalities really shone through. The video captures me talking to total strangers, while building a sand castle. So, yes. Even as a five year old, I was very friendly, and also, at the same time, completely clueless to my surroundings. The video showed my sister climbing her way out of a blown-up baby pool, up into a grown-up chair. Showing the determined side of Heatzbabi that she still possesses today! And, then there's Jeremy. The video shows him pouring cups of water on Heather while she sat in her baby pool, until she eventually pushed his hands away. So, just like in 2010, he still likes to annoy the crap out of his sisters. (Just kidding Judy, (sort of) Love ya!! )
But, perhaps the most striking thing that this video captures; the one thing that my mom could not get over, was the sound of my voice. I will not be modest. My voice was cute. I'll take it one step further. I sounded adorable. My voice was sweet, angelic and extremely high pitched. It left me to wonder...how on Earth do I have such a deep voice today? My friends have always joked that I have a deep voice for a girl, but I just assumed that I sort of always sounded that way. I never suspected, that once long ago, lurking inside me was the high pitched squeal of a five year old girl. I know that when boys go through puberty, their voices drastically change, as they become much lower. I just wasn't aware that the same thing could be said about girls.
And lastly, in the car on the way from picking up my new comforter. (It's lovely, thanks). Little Mimi Girl broached a sensitive subject. Boyfriends. (Sigh). As I have stated before, my mom never means any harm with these types of conversations, in fact she means the exact opposite. She is just literally my # 1 fan, and finds it confusing that I do not have a boo to call my own.
Recently, she has come up with a new theory as to why this may be. I thought I'd share it here with all of you. She asked me, "Lauren, when you are out at night--are you being a little too silly?"
SILLY!?! What am I, seven years old? But, my mom's translation of silly was this: "I'm worried that you are burping and farting in front of boys you just meet." Yes. This is actually what my mom thinks I do when I first meet new people. Her advice to me: "Maybe when you are out, and meeting new people, you can try to be glamorous and mysterious. I'll let that statement sink in a moment.
Okay. Mysterious. I get it. I'm not very mysterious. Want to know anything about me? Well, I'll probably tell you, twice. (And, then forget that I ever told you anything). And, if not, you can just log onto my blog, and find out for yourself. Fine. Maybe, I could have a more mysterious persona at times. But glamorous!?!? How does one go about "being glamorous," while out at night? If you know the answer to this, please let me know. It would make my mom very happy.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving Eve
Someone once said to me that with the exception of sex, there is only one thing that makes him want to go to sleep immediately upon completion. And that, is the completion of the Thanksgiving meal. Amen.
Thanksgiving is a very special holiday to me. And, Thanksgiving's specialness has nothing to do with the turkey, the stuffing, or the act of being thankful for the positives in my life. No. For me, Thanksgiving's splendor has everything to do with the night before Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Thanksgiving Eve, or what I like to call, the greatest night of my life.
For years, the tradition in Livingston, New Jersey, was that once your graduating class had turned twenty-one you would join in the ranks of attending Houlihans the night before Thanksgiving. This right of passage was a magical tradition. I still remember my first Houlihans back in November of 2005. Though, we were seniors in college, once we stepped foot into Houlihans, we had transformed back into highschool "freshman." Standing in our corner of the bar, we saw the "sophomores" to our left. The "juniors" were right across the way, and the "seniors "were next to them. Any super-senior or above was in a different section of the bar. Thanksgiving Eve was the one night of the year that you were guaranteed to see your 10th grade lab partner, your senior-when you were a freshman-crush, and any person who you ever had any sort of sexual history with. And, yes. There was a lot of history in that room. Oh, the glory!
I had four magical years at Houlihans, as I myself moved up the ranks, and watched as the younger classes came in to experience the magic. In the fall of 2009 during the treacherous economic recession, Houlihans was hit hard, was subsequently closed, and thus, a tradition died. And we, (and by we, I do mean I) was never the same again. (An aside: For the exception of my birthday and 9-02-10 day, I have never received more phone calls, text messages, and e-mails then I did on the day that Houlihans closed). Houlihans was my Christmas.
I am very lucky that my highschool class has remained friends, almost nine years later. No, I am not saying that all 358 of us are best friends and spend every weekend together. But, a large percentage of us live in New York City, and many of us are still friends. (And, thanks to facebook I know what the others are up to). Livingston High School, in New York City, we are everywhere. I run into you on the subway, at the gym, and on street corners at 6:55 am on a Monday morning. (I once walked down a quiet NYC block, and the only other person walking on the street was a boy who graduated a year before me from LHS).
I am quite good at keeping in touch with people. This is why I have some of the same friends since I was small. But, what I truly loved about Houlihans was seeing the random people who I had lost track of. That is my bread and butter. This Thanksgiving, without Houlihans, we tried to settle for the next best thing. We crammed ourselves into a different bar, called the Landmark.
The Landmark is about 1/16th the size of Houlihans, and thus this plan did not quite work out as well as I'd imagined. However, some of the people that I spotted inside the Landmark helped satisfy my cravings for my own personal history and nostalgia. From chatting with my 1st-5th grade crush, (Let's just call him Stanley) to catching up with the underclassmen who played on my lacrosse team. I kind of loved everything about being in this crowded room of people who all share a common background. I loved being apart of this culture, that knows what "the oval" is, being around people who once had to carry around a ten pound flour baby for health class, and who once began their mornings with AM Wired. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks to Thanksgiving Eve, for humoring me; and allowing me the chance to revel in my own nostalgia.
Thanksgiving is a very special holiday to me. And, Thanksgiving's specialness has nothing to do with the turkey, the stuffing, or the act of being thankful for the positives in my life. No. For me, Thanksgiving's splendor has everything to do with the night before Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Thanksgiving Eve, or what I like to call, the greatest night of my life.
For years, the tradition in Livingston, New Jersey, was that once your graduating class had turned twenty-one you would join in the ranks of attending Houlihans the night before Thanksgiving. This right of passage was a magical tradition. I still remember my first Houlihans back in November of 2005. Though, we were seniors in college, once we stepped foot into Houlihans, we had transformed back into highschool "freshman." Standing in our corner of the bar, we saw the "sophomores" to our left. The "juniors" were right across the way, and the "seniors "were next to them. Any super-senior or above was in a different section of the bar. Thanksgiving Eve was the one night of the year that you were guaranteed to see your 10th grade lab partner, your senior-when you were a freshman-crush, and any person who you ever had any sort of sexual history with. And, yes. There was a lot of history in that room. Oh, the glory!
I had four magical years at Houlihans, as I myself moved up the ranks, and watched as the younger classes came in to experience the magic. In the fall of 2009 during the treacherous economic recession, Houlihans was hit hard, was subsequently closed, and thus, a tradition died. And we, (and by we, I do mean I) was never the same again. (An aside: For the exception of my birthday and 9-02-10 day, I have never received more phone calls, text messages, and e-mails then I did on the day that Houlihans closed). Houlihans was my Christmas.
I am very lucky that my highschool class has remained friends, almost nine years later. No, I am not saying that all 358 of us are best friends and spend every weekend together. But, a large percentage of us live in New York City, and many of us are still friends. (And, thanks to facebook I know what the others are up to). Livingston High School, in New York City, we are everywhere. I run into you on the subway, at the gym, and on street corners at 6:55 am on a Monday morning. (I once walked down a quiet NYC block, and the only other person walking on the street was a boy who graduated a year before me from LHS).
I am quite good at keeping in touch with people. This is why I have some of the same friends since I was small. But, what I truly loved about Houlihans was seeing the random people who I had lost track of. That is my bread and butter. This Thanksgiving, without Houlihans, we tried to settle for the next best thing. We crammed ourselves into a different bar, called the Landmark.
The Landmark is about 1/16th the size of Houlihans, and thus this plan did not quite work out as well as I'd imagined. However, some of the people that I spotted inside the Landmark helped satisfy my cravings for my own personal history and nostalgia. From chatting with my 1st-5th grade crush, (Let's just call him Stanley) to catching up with the underclassmen who played on my lacrosse team. I kind of loved everything about being in this crowded room of people who all share a common background. I loved being apart of this culture, that knows what "the oval" is, being around people who once had to carry around a ten pound flour baby for health class, and who once began their mornings with AM Wired. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks to Thanksgiving Eve, for humoring me; and allowing me the chance to revel in my own nostalgia.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Guess Who's Back?
It's officially been one week since my return back to the third grade, from jury duty. I won't lie. I miss jury duty. (A lot). But, mostly, I miss a life where waking up at nine am on a week day was acceptable, and taking an hour and half for lunch each day was encouraged. As always, upon my return to elementary school, some humorous events have occurred. Below you will find, some tales of a third-grade nothing. (Shoutout to Judayy Blume).
1. I overheard a group of my students discussing 50cent. Their conversation went something like this, "You know, 50cent is a very brave man. He's been shot nine times!" For the record, most of my students cannot tie their own shoelaces, cannot tell time, and don't know how to spell their own last names. But, don't you worry! They know that 50cent was shot nine times.
2. When going to the school book fair, Michael asked me if he had enough money with him to buy a book that cost "twenty nine, zero, zero dollars."
3. I was teaching my math class, as a 5th grade sex-ed class was going on simultaneously, loudly out in the hall. I heard the teacher's end of the conversation, "A white, creamy substance will come out of the tip of the penis, once puberty begins. This will happen frequently." (She then launched into a lesson about wet dreams--which by the way-- still baffle me). Following this lesson was a chorus of, "I hope that never happens to me."
4. While playing football during recess, Andrew kept shouting at the others, "It's out of balance! It's out of balance, stop the play!! It's out of balance."
5. And, lastly. I recently received a phone call from one of the parents whose son I teach in math class. She called to ask where I had been for the past two weeks. (FYI: I sent a letter home letting the parents know that I would be on jury duty. However, because I have often seen her son's shoes in the middle of the hallway, I didn't quite expect that letter to make it home to his parents). I told this mother that I had been selected to be on grand jury, and had been serving for the last two weeks. She replied with a laugh, and said "Oh, that makes so much more sense." Matthew told us that you were in jail."
1. I overheard a group of my students discussing 50cent. Their conversation went something like this, "You know, 50cent is a very brave man. He's been shot nine times!" For the record, most of my students cannot tie their own shoelaces, cannot tell time, and don't know how to spell their own last names. But, don't you worry! They know that 50cent was shot nine times.
2. When going to the school book fair, Michael asked me if he had enough money with him to buy a book that cost "twenty nine, zero, zero dollars."
3. I was teaching my math class, as a 5th grade sex-ed class was going on simultaneously, loudly out in the hall. I heard the teacher's end of the conversation, "A white, creamy substance will come out of the tip of the penis, once puberty begins. This will happen frequently." (She then launched into a lesson about wet dreams--which by the way-- still baffle me). Following this lesson was a chorus of, "I hope that never happens to me."
4. While playing football during recess, Andrew kept shouting at the others, "It's out of balance! It's out of balance, stop the play!! It's out of balance."
5. And, lastly. I recently received a phone call from one of the parents whose son I teach in math class. She called to ask where I had been for the past two weeks. (FYI: I sent a letter home letting the parents know that I would be on jury duty. However, because I have often seen her son's shoes in the middle of the hallway, I didn't quite expect that letter to make it home to his parents). I told this mother that I had been selected to be on grand jury, and had been serving for the last two weeks. She replied with a laugh, and said "Oh, that makes so much more sense." Matthew told us that you were in jail."
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Ninety-Five
Back in the year 2000, I read a statistic that rocked my very core of existence. At the time, I was a sixteen year old highschool sophomore, obsessed with the new millennium. (And subsequently loved anything that had to do with the Millennium, even...wince, Will Smith's, Will2k, and The Back StreetBoys album, cleverly titled, Millennium).
I remember reading Newsweek magazine from January, 2000. (An aside: I probably have not picked up a Newsweek since). The article that I read stated that x percent (I can't remember the exact number) of the babies that were born in the 1980's will live to see the year 2100. Yes, I know, knowing the actual number would probably make that statistic more credible. However, I am telling the truth. I even swear on Luke Perry's life, that I once read this statistic, remembered this fact ten years later, and am now reporting it here on my blog. In the year 2100, I would be One-hundred and sixteen years old. Whoa. I can barely wrap my head around turning twenty-seven.
One of my best friends, Brooke, has a very special goal: It is to be the oldest living woman. Yes, that is her actual goal in life, that she has stated out loud, to other human beings. Brooke really reaches for the stars!
Though, my grandmother is not the oldest living woman, she is getting pretty dang close. Today, we celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday, at a party thrown for her by my parents. I can't even begin to comprehend ninety-five. My grandma was born during World War One, before television and radio were invented. She lived on the Lower East Side in a tenement. Her family of five were crammed into a one room apartment, while her father supported the family on less than minimum wage. She was The American Dream. Sometimes, talking with my grandma feels like speaking to an alien from another life time. (I mean that in the most loving way possible). It's just that my grandma really is from another time. She recently asked my younger sister if she was apart of Facelift. (Facebook). My sister and I were actually quite impressed that she knew what facebook was, considering she just learned what an e-mail was last month.
Grandma Eva is the cutest little lady you ever did see. She still lives by herself, and even though my mom is always around to help if she needs, she is still an independent woman! (All the women who independent, throw your hands up at me!)
A party was thrown today in her honor. She was like Homecoming Queen at the prom, and the gigantic smile on her face said it all. So to you, Grandma Eva: Even though, you will never see this blog, (and don't even know what a blog is), it was amazing to be at your birthday party today, to see so many people attend who love you, and who want to celebrate you, and your ninety-five years.
I remember reading Newsweek magazine from January, 2000. (An aside: I probably have not picked up a Newsweek since). The article that I read stated that x percent (I can't remember the exact number) of the babies that were born in the 1980's will live to see the year 2100. Yes, I know, knowing the actual number would probably make that statistic more credible. However, I am telling the truth. I even swear on Luke Perry's life, that I once read this statistic, remembered this fact ten years later, and am now reporting it here on my blog. In the year 2100, I would be One-hundred and sixteen years old. Whoa. I can barely wrap my head around turning twenty-seven.
One of my best friends, Brooke, has a very special goal: It is to be the oldest living woman. Yes, that is her actual goal in life, that she has stated out loud, to other human beings. Brooke really reaches for the stars!
Though, my grandmother is not the oldest living woman, she is getting pretty dang close. Today, we celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday, at a party thrown for her by my parents. I can't even begin to comprehend ninety-five. My grandma was born during World War One, before television and radio were invented. She lived on the Lower East Side in a tenement. Her family of five were crammed into a one room apartment, while her father supported the family on less than minimum wage. She was The American Dream. Sometimes, talking with my grandma feels like speaking to an alien from another life time. (I mean that in the most loving way possible). It's just that my grandma really is from another time. She recently asked my younger sister if she was apart of Facelift. (Facebook). My sister and I were actually quite impressed that she knew what facebook was, considering she just learned what an e-mail was last month.
Grandma Eva is the cutest little lady you ever did see. She still lives by herself, and even though my mom is always around to help if she needs, she is still an independent woman! (All the women who independent, throw your hands up at me!)
A party was thrown today in her honor. She was like Homecoming Queen at the prom, and the gigantic smile on her face said it all. So to you, Grandma Eva: Even though, you will never see this blog, (and don't even know what a blog is), it was amazing to be at your birthday party today, to see so many people attend who love you, and who want to celebrate you, and your ninety-five years.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Marathon Sunday, and Some Other Things.
Yesterday was truly a great day. It was the New York City Marathon, and what would later become a day of pure inspiration for me. I traveled to the Upper East Side, to watch the marathon, and cheer on DBA (one of my besties) from the sidelines of First Avenue. It was magical. From the amount of people cheering, the spirit, the balloons, banners and signs, it was amazing. I had the chills as I watched runners, young and old, make their way up First Avenue, with smiles on their faces, as they recognized their loved ones from the sidelines. What I know is this: I need to run this marathon. I don't know when. But, the thought of it kind of thrills me, in a way that I never would have imagined.
I learned something quite valuable while at DBA's Post-Marathon Party Sunday night. Aside from the fact, that I love LHS c/o '03 (quite possibly almost as much as '02), I learned that boys do things that girls do too. For example, I watched as an un-named boy deliberated over a text message that he was sending to a girl that he had met the night before. He carefully thought about the wording, edited the text, and then had another female read and re-edit the text before sending. After careful consideration, the text message was sent to the girl who he had met. I often go through a similar ritual when sending a text message to the opposite sex. However, I did not know that boys do this too. Somehow, this news was both baffling, and comforting to me.
I also learned a new deal breaker for guys. One of my friends briefly dated a girl that was affectionately nicknamed Dumb-Dumb. (Surprisingly, this was not the deal breaker). But, what I did not know was that she had been given, yet another secret nickname; Burnt Hair. Creative, and yet straight to the point. Burnt hair's hair smelled burnt the way that can only come from hours of using the straightening iron. Lesson to be learned: Easy on the flat iron, bitches.
Lastly, I would like to write about today. My final day of jury duty. I am sad. For realzies! I never want to go back to work (aka--back to my real life). Jury duty ended, (but not first without a final lunch including all twenty-three jurors together). Numbers were exchanged, facebook friends were added, and hugs and kisses were given amongst all of us. I never anticipated finding, real actual friends in my two week stint as a juror. But, I did. And, you know the old saying, don't you? Jury Duty Friends, are friends forever. I am really going to miss my jury duty crew. I'm not joking. And, I am really not joking that I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. Though, it was not a vacation; being able to wake up at nine am each morning (as opposed to six am) sure feels like one. Coming into "work" each day, to sit next to my new-found juror friends, without any real pressures of deadlines, lesson plans, and overbearing parents is a luxury that I have come to treasure.
And most importantly (and most scarily), I learned that a world without children is kind of glorious. Yes, I love kids, and I do appreciate my job. But, my god--I loved living in a land of adults. What a welcome change! And, according to my original hypothesis, I was in fact atleast sixty-four percent less exhausted than I am during a typical work week. And, so tomorrow--back I go, off to Brooklyn, after a two week hiatus to reclaim my former life. Good-bye rape, murder and scandal. Hello, farting sounds, un-tied shoelaces, and recess.
I learned something quite valuable while at DBA's Post-Marathon Party Sunday night. Aside from the fact, that I love LHS c/o '03 (quite possibly almost as much as '02), I learned that boys do things that girls do too. For example, I watched as an un-named boy deliberated over a text message that he was sending to a girl that he had met the night before. He carefully thought about the wording, edited the text, and then had another female read and re-edit the text before sending. After careful consideration, the text message was sent to the girl who he had met. I often go through a similar ritual when sending a text message to the opposite sex. However, I did not know that boys do this too. Somehow, this news was both baffling, and comforting to me.
I also learned a new deal breaker for guys. One of my friends briefly dated a girl that was affectionately nicknamed Dumb-Dumb. (Surprisingly, this was not the deal breaker). But, what I did not know was that she had been given, yet another secret nickname; Burnt Hair. Creative, and yet straight to the point. Burnt hair's hair smelled burnt the way that can only come from hours of using the straightening iron. Lesson to be learned: Easy on the flat iron, bitches.
Lastly, I would like to write about today. My final day of jury duty. I am sad. For realzies! I never want to go back to work (aka--back to my real life). Jury duty ended, (but not first without a final lunch including all twenty-three jurors together). Numbers were exchanged, facebook friends were added, and hugs and kisses were given amongst all of us. I never anticipated finding, real actual friends in my two week stint as a juror. But, I did. And, you know the old saying, don't you? Jury Duty Friends, are friends forever. I am really going to miss my jury duty crew. I'm not joking. And, I am really not joking that I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. Though, it was not a vacation; being able to wake up at nine am each morning (as opposed to six am) sure feels like one. Coming into "work" each day, to sit next to my new-found juror friends, without any real pressures of deadlines, lesson plans, and overbearing parents is a luxury that I have come to treasure.
And most importantly (and most scarily), I learned that a world without children is kind of glorious. Yes, I love kids, and I do appreciate my job. But, my god--I loved living in a land of adults. What a welcome change! And, according to my original hypothesis, I was in fact atleast sixty-four percent less exhausted than I am during a typical work week. And, so tomorrow--back I go, off to Brooklyn, after a two week hiatus to reclaim my former life. Good-bye rape, murder and scandal. Hello, farting sounds, un-tied shoelaces, and recess.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Noviembre
Happy November! It's pretty hard to believe that in a few short weeks it will be Thanksgiving. (My favorite holiday of the year), and soon after the official holiday season will be upon us. Eeek! Oh, where has the time gone?
Also, I would like to note that it is currently around four am. I was sleeping. My dream woke me up. (Sex dream), and now I am all riled up; and so, I thought that I'd check in here.
Yesterday, I purchased Shannen Doherty's new book. Some could say that for me, this is all it would take to make for a perfect day; as yet, another former Beverly Hills 90210 star (Brenda Walsh--the bitch of Beverly Hills), released a book. Fact: If you were once on Beverly Hills 90210, and write a book, I will buy it. However, I am disappointed with the redundancy, and snooze factor of this text. I was hoping for some kind of explicit tell-all that detailed Shannen's former "bad girl" ways. Instead it is a "how to" guide on being a bad ass. Oh, really? Did I actually just spend sixteen dollars on a book teaching me how I can be more of a bad ass? Say it isn't so.
I'd also like to point out that while Shannen Doherty was notorious for being a bitch, and extremely difficult to work with, I'm not quite sure how "bad" she was. She was in her twenties, going out to bars, drinking moderate amounts of booze, and having sex with guys. To be honest, this does not sound all that different from the behavior of my single girlfriends living in New York City. None of who are deemed "bad girls." (Just horny, drunk girls).
Tonight (or last I suppose) we celebrated Galzbabi's birthday with a festive, celebratory meal. There were lots of people in attendance, and so, we had to spread out into different tables. Sitting with me, at our all-star table was Ms. Rweissypantz, Mikey A, and Shankman. I will say no more about the time spent at our kids table, because that is just what you three would expect me to do, right? I will say this though: I kind of loved our romantic dinner together. And there is something wonderful about sharing a meal with people who have known you since the mid-90's. After all, who else can you accuse of at one point calling you ugly (me), and fat? (Un-named other female at our table), way back when.
Also, I would like to note that it is currently around four am. I was sleeping. My dream woke me up. (Sex dream), and now I am all riled up; and so, I thought that I'd check in here.
Yesterday, I purchased Shannen Doherty's new book. Some could say that for me, this is all it would take to make for a perfect day; as yet, another former Beverly Hills 90210 star (Brenda Walsh--the bitch of Beverly Hills), released a book. Fact: If you were once on Beverly Hills 90210, and write a book, I will buy it. However, I am disappointed with the redundancy, and snooze factor of this text. I was hoping for some kind of explicit tell-all that detailed Shannen's former "bad girl" ways. Instead it is a "how to" guide on being a bad ass. Oh, really? Did I actually just spend sixteen dollars on a book teaching me how I can be more of a bad ass? Say it isn't so.
I'd also like to point out that while Shannen Doherty was notorious for being a bitch, and extremely difficult to work with, I'm not quite sure how "bad" she was. She was in her twenties, going out to bars, drinking moderate amounts of booze, and having sex with guys. To be honest, this does not sound all that different from the behavior of my single girlfriends living in New York City. None of who are deemed "bad girls." (Just horny, drunk girls).
Tonight (or last I suppose) we celebrated Galzbabi's birthday with a festive, celebratory meal. There were lots of people in attendance, and so, we had to spread out into different tables. Sitting with me, at our all-star table was Ms. Rweissypantz, Mikey A, and Shankman. I will say no more about the time spent at our kids table, because that is just what you three would expect me to do, right? I will say this though: I kind of loved our romantic dinner together. And there is something wonderful about sharing a meal with people who have known you since the mid-90's. After all, who else can you accuse of at one point calling you ugly (me), and fat? (Un-named other female at our table), way back when.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)