Oy vey is right

My husband told me about an application on Facebook for playing Blackjack. I loooove playing Blackjack, so naturally I was all about it.

I picked an empty table to practice and see how all the bells and whistles worked. I had a few games under my belt when someone else joined me.

She didn't do anything at first. I continued to play.

Suddenly there was a message from her down on the chat function in the corner.

All it said was:

"jewish?"

My name is a slight bastardization of a Hebrew word. My father happens to have been raised a Jew before converting to Christianity as a young adult. When I was young, my family would sometimes light the menorah next to the Christmas tree (well, not right next to it--didn't want to burn the house down.) But my Mother is not Jewish, so none of this makes me "officially" Jewish.

More like Jew-ish.

"yeah," I typed back to my nosy table mate, "no one usually gets that from the name."

And as soon as she read it, she was gone.

Nazi bitch.

Playing Catchup

This weekend I went up to Chicago with my friend Travis to see a "band" named Girl Talk at the Metro. What a clusterfuck that was.

Don't get me wrong. I had a fabulous time. We stayed with one of his oldest friends and her husband and I couldn't have asked for better hosts. The evening was a late celebration of the husband half of our boarders.

They had a little get together before the show, and hired a limo to take our tipsy asses into the city.

Travis did my hair and makeup and the end product was stripperific. I loved it.

The show wasn't slated to start until 11pm, so I was leery that I was even going to make it there without falling asleep. When we got to the Metro, the line was wrapped around the block so we hit a nearby bar to kill some time.

Sometime after midnight I looked up at one of the television screens to see that Obama took South Carolina with 55 percent. Suddenly I caught my second wind. How amazing is that? I was positively giddy.

I was so excited that I nearly forgot that we still a show to attend.

At close to 1:30 in the motherfucking morning, we stepped foot into the show. I didn't really know what to expect. I'd never even heard of this "band" before, but it was a free ticket and a weekend getaway so who am I to complain?

That was a joke. I'm totally going to complain.

The show was basically a dude on stage with a DJ setup, playing his CD and pretending to spin records. I think.

I was so confused.

The music was fun. It was basically "mash ups" of intertwined riffs and samples of everything from Elton John and James Taylor to Britney Spears and--I swear to the babyjesus--a snippet of a Tones on Tail song. Crazy.

Travis and I agreed that the whole ordeal made us feel elderly, or "oldsters" as we lovingly referred to our posse for the night.

The people watching was amazing though. I am such a stare queen in situations like that, and I was not left hanging for a moment.

I will say that while I joke about feeling old, I know I'm not. I am however too old to deal with the shitastic bathroom situation at the Metro. It was gross the last time I was there (13 years ago. Mazzy Star.). The full magnitude of its gut wrenching nastiness is even more apparent now without a cloud of smoke to cover it up.

We didn't get back to our hosts' house until almost 4 in the morning. Christ, who do I think I am?

The whole night can pretty much be summed up by the mental image I have burned into my retinas of a girl and her friend parting the crowd just fast enough to puke at my feet.

But seriously, I had a great time. Next time though, I think I'll go to the early show.

Sad.

Such a shame. His poor little one.

Best.Birthday.Ever.

I had far too much fun at my slumber party. Probably more fun than a grown woman should legally be allowed to have.

No, fuck that. I did deserve it. And my wonderful friends deserved a night of drunken revelrie as well.

Photographic proof of our night. LOTS o' pictures.

Flowers from my husband before he got the hell outta' Dodge.


I made some pretty cupcakes:


Enough?


It started off innocently enough:
"Hmmm...do I start with bourbon or wine?"










Present from Travis. He thought I needed a new gym bag. Inside the gym bag were colorful cigarettes and vaginal wipes. I love him.



My husband HATES celery. Hates it with a burning passion. This one is for him.


Who's a Pretty Barbie Birthday Princess? I AM! Thanks to Meghan.


Things went downhill (in a good way) quickly. Soon we were drunk.

Apparently I thought something we really fucking hilarious. I wish I could remember what it was.




No pillow fights, but Rachel got smoochy.










Phil is mysterious.


My dogs wanted us to shut the fuck up and go to bed.


But I made Ichabod play some Wii.


Full contact Wii.




Me. 3AM drunk in three parts.







34 is gonna' be a good year.

I haven't written much this week...

It's been a slow week around here. And that's OK. That's great, actually.

There's something to be said for quiet.

AND...today is my birthday. I'm 34. How did that happen?

I was at the grocery store getting a few things, including beer, and the cashier asked for my ID. I happily handed it over to her and after she checked the birthday, she gave me a most incredulous look.

"I know," I said, "I can't believe it either."

I'd LIKE to assume she didn't think I looked my true age, but my response was more of a "Holy shit, am I really creeping up on 40?!".

Never fear, gentle readers. I refuse to act my age (whatever acting 34 means...).

Tonight I am celebrating my birthday in a way I haven't in 22 years.

I am having a slumber party. Insert filthy sexual innuendo here. (No, really. Please do. I like that sort of thing).

I was cutting my friend Meghan's hair about a month ago and she asked me what I had planned for my birthday, then suggested I have a slumber party. At first I laughed, but the more I thought about it the more it sounded like a perfect idea.

We had so much liquor left over from the NYE party that I didn't have to get more than a couple of six packs and a few mixers. I've invited my Girls and my Gays, and the party is ON.

Come Sunday (or Monday, depending on my hangover status), I'll be sure to post the photographic evidence of my welcoming of a new chronological age.

Seven things you don't know about me (a few a which you might wish you didn't)

I hate having my face touched--by anyone. It creeps me out to no end. A back-o-the neck grab while I'm making out is fine and dandy. Just don't touch my face. I don't even like it when my children touch my face (mostly because I know where their hands have been).

I love makeup. I love what it can do (and have learned over the years what it can't do). I have a "set" way I like to wear my makeup, but I change it up depending on my outfit and/or my mood. I'm sure no one notices, but I do and mine is the only opinion that matters in this arena.

I can't go underwater without plugging my nose. I have an unwavering aversion to even trying it. My mother told me that when I was an infant I could swim like a fish. I have no idea where or when I lost that ability.

I love being alone. I don't get a whole lot of time by myself, but when I do I cherish it. An afternoon alone without an agenda is the best gift anyone could give me.

I try to avoid crying in front of people at all costs. I don't know why. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've shed tears (during my adult life) in front of anyone else. I'm not a robot. I do cry. I just don't like company when I do.

The first time I had sex was so awful and disappointing that I didn't do it again for another three years. Then I made up for lost time.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I read somewhere that some women poop while pushing the baby out. I told Jim about it and we laughed and laughed. He said that if I pooped, he was going to start dancing around the room singing, "YOU POOPED! YOU POOPED!". We laughed some more.

I did end up pooping on the delivery table. He did not sing.

A Friendly Reminder to the Fucktard Parents at After School Pickup

There is limited parking in front of the school. Please refrain from stopping your car three feet from the person in front of you instead of pulling up far enough to let another car in the line.

You are not special.

I'm looking at you BMW Bitch.

If you are driving a gaggle of children home from school--presumably other people's children in addition to your own--have enough seat belts and/or car seats for all of them.

Seeing a seven year with a toddler on her lap in the back seat makes me want to see how you'd like being thrown through a windshield face first.

Smoking on school property while waiting for your kid to come out is trashy.

...as is swearing into your cell phone in front of little kids.

That sign that says "Buses and Daycare Vans Only"? It applies to everyone--even you, Mr. Jesusfish Minivan.

Generally, and I'm just guessing here, it's not recommended to blast your stereo at full spleen-shattering volume with kids in the car.

That is all.