Well, as I alluded to last entry, it was my birthday last week. The big 2-5. A quarter century old. Oh whatever, time to quit the bullshit. I feel like something happens when you turn 25. You become a walking contradiction.  You are both completely freaked out about getting ‘old’ (even though you might’ve just hit your prime), and yet you are completely complacent about celebrating or really letting anyone know it is your birthday. Maybe it is just that I HATE planning. Which reminds me of the time I yelled at the Planned Parenthood street solicitor: “No, I will not donate. I HATE people that plan things.” That should show you how much I despise it.

So Wednesday, the big day, rolls around and I have not told anyone of any plans because truth be told, I didn’t give a tit. And a good friend was coming into town the next day. I figured us old folks cannot be rallying for four days.  Well, when I got home, I found a nice text from a friend asking if I wanted to do dinner and drinks. I accepted so as to not feel like a total recluse.  If I didn’t even get a drink on my birthday I would be the lousiest alcoholic ever and would inch that much closer to becoming the crazy cat lady. (P.S. I am convinced I will make the crazy lady cat moniker stick to any crazy bitch, even if she doesn’t own cats.)

We had a lovely dinner at Oya and proceeded to order a fabulous champagne rosé called simply, “Sex.” I had a devilish time listening to my friend ask the waiter for sex and follow it up with “Have you ever had it before?” He didn’t get it :)

After our fabulous food and libations, we headed to a rooftop bar/pool and chit chatted while over looking the city. It was a beautiful night and I did not regret going out. We then made our way to another bar, where I felt the need to find every awkward man and talk his face off. At one point (ughhhhh) I was smoking a cigarette and some young whipper snapper came up and said, “You look really sexy smoking that cigarette.” Question: WHO SAYS THAT?  I don’t give another tit if you look like Paul Newman; no one looks sexy smoking.  That is when I started feeling old. So I put the cigarette out and called it a night – but not before giving half of D.C. my phone number with no intention of ever picking up the next day. 

Then the real party began. We got into a cab and my lover Beyonce came on the radio and seemingly out of nowhere, our cabbie said, “She is a bitch.” I have never heard such vitriol when talking about Queen B. And this shit was not about to stand. Apparently this cab driver was unaware that B’s unofficial fan club/stalker brigade was sitting in the back seat. Now, I have gotten into fights with cab drivers before (taking the longest fucking route known to man, not having change, telling me to hurry up, etc.), but this was historic. Two little drunk girls were in his back seat DEMANDING to know why he was calling our ‘friend’ a bitch. Let’s just say his reasoning sucked. And ours sucked more. “Well have you even met her? No? Well neither have we.” “Wouldn’t you want your daughter to be empowered like her?” “Whatever, you are just a hater.” We definitely put him in his place….

Then Thursday rolled around and my good friend from North Carolina arrived.  I was pretty tired, but I knew I had to put my party pants on like a big girl and do it up right. Well, that non-planner mess slipped in and I ended up sending an e-mail invite to dinner and drinks at 5 p.m. Woooops. That could be why only two people showed up. It was slightly traumatic. Kind of reminded me of when I was a kid and had my birthday parties during the summer while every normal family was on vacation. “They are just out of town; you have plenty of friends,” my parents would reassure me. Well it was kind of like that. But the three of us had a great time. Great dinner and great margaritas. We made fun of Nancy the town drunk and decided that one day I would take over her royal thrown.

Friday was pretty fantastical. My friend and I had a lovely dinner and plenty of hoppy beers at Birch & Barley. We even got free dessert -- chocolate cheesecake with sour cherries, cherry sorbet and pistachios. The most hilarious part is we left feeling very, very full only to realize we ate very little of what was on our plate; we had instead decided to drink our dinner. Then we visited more friends at another bar before heading to our final destination where we danced our pants off. Totally off.

I sat in the corner and pretended I was a pageant mom and directed my friend to dance like crazy. I even did the motions reminding her to turn and smile…don’t forget the jazz hands! It was extra awesome because our other friend was at the bar grabbing drinks and only saw me…sitting in the booth making violent hand gestures. Then a few minutes later, I came up with a really fun dance contest: dance like the whitest person you know.  And wouldn’t you have guessed: I WON!

Overall, it was a fabulous weekend and I feel amazing. I can say with all honestly that I like the way 25 looks on me. I keep peeking in the mirror and I don’t immediately flinch or gag. I thought that perhaps I lost weight or my skin cleared up or maybe I was just having a good hair day, then I realized that something else was going on. I am growing up. I love it. And every day, I get closer to being completely and totally comfortable with myself. I thought maybe there was a 25-year-old glow to me or perhaps some sort of hangover fog, but it just turns out that with age comes confidence and I am enjoying this new skin I am in.  I may be too old for Hef, but I have a whole lot of living to do!

Side note: I would feel remiss if I didn’t mention this (and since I have already gone all after school special on y'all, here it goes):

While I may be glowing because of my newfound awesomeness, I am still a little sad. We lost a great musician this weekend – Amy Winehouse. Although she became a joke to most, with websites asking “When Will Amy Winehouse Die?” I feel taking that view is too simplistic. Certainly she made some shitty choices, but who hasn’t? And who made us all judge, jury and executioner? The truth is she was deeply troubled and struggled in the most public eye, but we cannot forget her immense talent. Her music was crass and vulgar, but it had heart and soooo much soul. Real soul, not that pre-packaged bullshit. And while Beyonce taught me about the freakum dress, Amy taught me about the fuck me pumps. And Back to Black got me through one of the worst (or so I thought it was at the time) periods of my life because it was real and honest. It was tongue-in-cheek. I could cry my eyes out then laugh at myself for taking everything too seriously. I could find solace in the sorrow. Her voice moved me. I want to thank her for helping me through one of my darkest times, and I only wish someone could’ve helped her through hers. 

And I can't hide it anymore, I love Beyonce. So get it together!

Warning: this entry is going to be super emo and about my ex...which will hopefully be the last time I use that term/speak about him. (Friends, I know you are excited about this declaration.)

I had a first love and haven't really had love like that since -- but still looking :) To be quite the honest loser, my heart physically hurt [each time] we broke up. But the final one was pretty ugly and I was told to never be in touch -- it just wouldnt be a good idea. *PS This gentleman was 11 years older than me and was always speaking to me in a condescending manner.

Well, unfortunately, we both live in DC, which is a painnnfully small city. I had dreamed about the day we would run into each other, and me being the creepy ex girlfriend (quit acting like you bitches haven't been there once), I always pictured it to go something like this:

He would be bloated, balding and older. I would be wearing the sassiest outfit money could buy. My hair would be perfect, my shoes would blow Dorothy's slippers out of the water, and I would have some gorgeous cabana boy eye candy on my arm. First I would be civil, then as the conversation closed, I would say, "You know, you really aren't as good of a person as you think."

I always debated that last line because it is petty as hell, but that is how it works with exes.

Well July 4th weekend came around, and I was really in a funk. Most of my friends were out of town and I found myself eating a lot of ice cream and watching "In Her Shoes." It was a BAD scene. I was sleeping a lot as well. I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. Then I thought, ahhh subconscious. I hate you. It was the anniversary of the breakup. And I always associate July 4th weekend with that bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The breakup and the boyfriend didn't really occupy my thoughts, just remembering that feeling. People that breakup with people on or around holidays should really just quit life. It is mean!

Well, I decided to get myself together, put down the sweets and take a friggin' shower. I went out for the Fourth with some new friends and had an absolutely amazing time. We bbq hopped and drank 'shitty' margaritas. I Joey Chestnut'd so many Hebrew Nationals. Oh man. Then we watched the fireworks on a city rooftop. I was so glad I actually went out. I only really knew one person in the group and generally, I don't accept invitations to go places where I only know one person because I get scared I will have to mingle and deal with STRANGER DANGER. But that day I wanted to be out going, pull myself up from the bootstraps and quit feeling so goddamn sorry for myself. And all I can say is, I should do it WAY more often. So from now on July 4th weekend is the weekend of making friends, eating way too much, celebrating Amuuuurica, getting drunk and discussing really inappropriate things with strangers and strugglin the next day at work.

So this weekend, I went out with a friend for 'fancy drinks' at a local bar. I immediately walked in and saw him. The ex. Barf city. Not only was this not playing out like my super awesome scenario, but he was with his girlfriend -- who is not a total troll goddamnit! I just walked by and kept my cool. Then my friend went and spied on them for me. She had witnessed many a drunken night of me being hysterical about how this kid had ruined my life. I should probably give her some moneys for listening to me. She was there when I saw he had a girlfriend and decided we must immediately drink wine. And as I opened our second bottle of wine, I chipped the shit out of my tooth on the wine key. I was the hot mess express. Choo Chooo.

After cooly walking past him and his girlfriend, I made it to the bar and leaned in and told my friend "He's here." And she knew exactly who it was. She couldn't believe how cool I was being and honestly, I couldn't either. Since his greatness had cut off all communications, I literally hadn't seen him in close to two years. It was like seeing a ghost, and I was totally fine with it. It was actually the best closure I could ever ask for. Also, his spare tire was bigger and he was wearing a messanger bag and going bald. (hate hate hate). And I looked REALLY frickin cute, if I do say so myself. And I never say that about myself. I was happy, giddy almost. So my friend and I got champagne with ginger liquor and a blueberry garnish. In a fitting twist, as we are turning to leave the bar, a cute young man said, "Champagne? Celebrating something?" and I wanted to say "We are celebrating realizing your ex is lame and they are your ex for a reason...and also, if anyone makes you feel bad about yourself, you need to move on." But instead of scaring this total stranger, I said "Celebrating being awesome." Then I walked away, not realizing that was his opening line and he was trying to hit on me. After we left, I heard his friend pat him on the back and tell him it was a 'good effort.' So we toasted that night, toasted to being awesome and self confident, being civil and mature.

So there is finally closure and I will quit creepily mentioning this ghost of a person. Time to keep on rocking in the free world and being awesome.

PS I am almost 25. I will have fun birthday stories for sharing. That is all.