Thirteen Years Ago, Tomorrow...

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.