Often people misinterpret social anxiety. You're either an asshole or your ill-equipped to handle life as an adult. I've teetered between both.

People who meet me often ask how I can even consider myself socially awkward or...gasp...a person with social anxiety disorder. Well, I shall share an ancient secret with you...they may call it liquid courage, I call it social lubricant.

I never like to use it as a crutch, but let me know the last time you met me and thought "Wow, I'm sure she is just as interesting sober." Yup, sad, but true. True not because I don't have these interesting stories and amazing qualities in my body, true because I'm scared as all hell to share them with people.

Social lubricant allows me to be larger than me. And like I said, it isn't crutch. Catch me on the right time and I will tell you more truths about your life and mine than you ever wanted to know. Hell, I will probably tell you more about your mom than that she reads "Fifty Shades of Grey". (Trust me, she is an interesting lady and you should appreciate that!)

At any rate, someone recently showed me this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRUS6QBiViQ&feature=fvwbrel

This killed me in so many ways. I am a crier, disclaimer. And I am always sympathetic to someone who thinks they are as pathetically awkward as me, but this really struck me. In fact, I think the part that really got me was when Royce analyzed how good he was (aka up there with Anthony "unibrowsexyhashtag" Davis, etc.) but realized he would NEVER be drafted like that because of his 'condition.' I put it in quotation marks because many people with anxiety disorders do not feel like others understand them or consider it a true disorder.

I get it. And that comment, as insignificant as it sounds, resounded with me. Perhaps because I followed college hoops or because I have an appreciation for human grooming. Either way, it stuck. White hit the nail on the head. No matter how good you are at something, it doesn't matter. If you aren't marketable, brandable or personable, you aren't necessarily worth the bargain.

Well here is the rub: Some people are smart and have pure skill, but they aren't genius public speakers or super confident enough to sell themselves. Forget about the plane rides for a second. This kid cannot even be confident enough in himself to know he is the real deal. And he is. That is something that doesn't fly in the NBA and a lot of other places. Trust me, I know.

I can't interview worth a shit, and I KNOW I've lost job opportunities because of my anxiety. It KILLS me because I know im capable and super smart....and most of all, dedicated! Just because I can't sell you a bill of goods about myself doesn't mean you should not hire me. But one thing I did learn about this video is that part of growing up is getting over the anxiety. Sure, it doesn't happen all pretty like everyone else. We don't go to a college public speaking course and see that our grade is 80% based on the speech we give about whether we want Chick-fil-a on campus or not. In fact, we'd rather wish a fatal illness on ourselves than stand up and give that speech....even though it is worth a fraction of our grade, and even less of a fraction of our time in the grand scheme of things. And it won't heal our ailing family members or our sad friends....we just dont even want to do it. Many people see that as immature and selfish. They have no idea. I am not cool, never thought I was, and a goddamned school speech would never change that. It DOESNT MATTER! It is anxiety. You don't know when it will happen or where it comes from. The important part is you know it interferes with your success and makes you look less than.

Kudos to Royce White for saying "Fuck you, anxiety! I have the talent and know how to give this  a try." I will never be in that public of an arena, but this gives me hope. I will never ever again compare myself to the Anthony Davis' of the job search world. I have something awesome and talented to offer. If the world isn't ready for it now, we BOTH can work on it.

I will never give up being a perfectionist and I want to be outgoing and be the cream of the crop, but if this kid can attempt to do it, so can I!

From what I can only characterize as the earliest part of cognitive growing process, I remember the concept of music – and particularly, I remember my dad.

My dad – a drummer by ‘trade,’ if trade means a high school past time and secret love interest – always had the most special connection with music.  I can say that I didn’t always understand it, but as I grew up, I found that perhaps I had been infected with the bug.

I remember my dad, whether it was next to his record player or his five-disk changer (but always with the largest headphones you’ve seen this side of Dr. Dre’s Beats), sitting in the corner, in the dark listening to music as far up as the volume would go. (Insert Spinal Tap eleven joke here).

That’s when my mom would say, “Oh Danny’s having one of his concerts again.” As if air quotes and eye rolls always accompanied the word “concerts”. I guess when I was little I didn’t fully understand why he did it or why it was a weird thing. It just was.  And this was despite the fact that when I was a wee babe, I would sit with him sometimes, in my mini rocking chair, and listen to the music. I’d rock so hard, I swear there were permanent creases in the carpet. He’d even quiz me on the music he was listening to. And perhaps the one I will never live down, and to this day wonder why my dad was listening to, was Whitesnake. I got it right, but Alex Trebek may have debated my answer due to my pronunciation: “WhiteThnake!” I was pretty proud of myself that day.

Now, I grew up in a house filled with music from all eras and genres – and I very much appreciate that about my parents. In fact, I think the only music outlawed in our house was The Beach Boys. (We can talk about “Pet Sounds” later.)

I can remember Saturday mornings listening to Genesis, winding the day down with a dance to Pasty Cline and cleaning the house to the Four Tops – or anything with four in the name for that matter. Although my dad was a little white kid from upstate New York, he has always had a remarkable affinity for Motown. Sometimes his concerts even involved a little air drumming – especially when it came to Led Zeppelin.

And then it hit me. Whether it was my Walkman, my Discman or my MP3 player, I was a mini-me of my dad. I would sit in my room, or the car on long vacations, and presumably wear my tapes and CDs out – listening at the highest possible volume. I was having my own ‘concerts.’ And to me it was magical.

It was like therapy without the therapy. Everything that can be said, everything that can be felt or everything that should be said or should be felt can be done so through music.

When I was in high school and college, I used to sprawl out in bed or on the couch and turn my iPod on full blast for hours at a time just to decompress. I used to be ashamed of this. I thought, how odd…I really don’t know any one who does this. But why the hell don’t they?

Sitting, listening and appreciating music helps me process. It is an escape, a chance to think of better things that will happen in the future and a chance to reflect on the nostalgic times I sometimes wish for when it gets quiet.

And if you know me at all or have ever heard me talk about my father, you might have a slight idea that he is kind of my rock, my hero and a little bit inspiring. And as much as people like to say I am mostly like my mom, I see a lot of myself in my father.

Although he can be hardheaded, sometimes hard to please and a little intimidating at other times, he is my dad and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And not just in terms of ritual music habits…

In fact, I remember my dad recalling the time he and my mother took me to see Captain EO at Disney World. I was so scared that I just buried my head in his chest the entire time. And he says the most remarkable thing about it was that he couldn’t believe how strong my little head was, smashing into his Bluto-like barrel chest. And maybe he was on to something – perhaps more figuratively.

While the love of music and using it as a kind of therapy may not be genetic, some other things are -- like personality traits. And I can say I am happy to inherit both from my Pops!

I just wanted to make my big dramatic exit :)

I will no longer be blogging because, despite what your friends tell you, it is a fruitless effort....and if you like writing, you'd be better served actually doing it and making things happen.

I have left Peter Pan-land... and hopefully next time you hear from me,  something will be published. (and if I can dream of being DeLillo or Bukowski or Miller, there is hope!)

Love
Me

“We all have potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It’s easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will probably be someone I haven’t even met yet. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usual happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened. You will recall sexual trysts with this person that never technically occurred. This is because the individual who embodies your personal definition of love does not really exist. The person is real, and the feelings are real – but you create the context. And context is everything. That person wins. They win and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.” CK

[Disclaimer: This is in no way directed at anyone or anything. Just food for thought.]

Because I forgot about this song and I like it. So there. 

 

You know you are getting old when the only items on your Christmas list are suits, nice jewelry and other accessories that can and should be worn in the work place. I asked for these things mostly because I was tired of being mistaken for an Occupy DC protestor at the office, and I just don't have a grand to drop on clothing right now. (But I do have a grand to drop on a computer, which was part of my two-month hiatus -- sorry.)

So in true growing up fashion, I decided to start my "New Year, New You," campaign today. I think it might be time to cancel my cable because I assume that is the only place I get these absurd ideas. Anyway, I wore my first skirt suit today. Yup, not just a suit...I had to go all D.C. and get a skirt suit. Don't worry though, I will NEVER pair it with sneakers and pantyhose. If I start doing that shit, you can slap me.

Well needless to say, halfway through my walk to work, I realized that I am not quite comfortable with my new found adult status. About three blocks from work I realized I looked like a total turd. A real big turd -- the kind you can't polish. I couldn't go home though, I was already running late (of course).

Now, this is a mighty fine suit, but there were aggravating factors that made this outfit look like something Mary Poppins might wear had she graduated from the Professional Bag Lady Academy. The skirt was down to my knees, if not longer. I had to switch to flats mid-day because my feet were achin', and my hair was in a very haphazardly arranged ponytail. Oooh, and I had to carry my lunch in a resuable grocery bag because my new purse is a wee bit small.

Actually, now that I think of it, it was some Benjamin Button shit. It is like a 50-something crazy cat lady being nominated for "What Not to Wear" and a 5-year-old girl trying on her mother's clothes, playing secretary at the kitchen table got stuck in the Freaky Friday machine and spit my ass out. So upon realizing this, I decided that maybe, just maybe, I will wait to break out my Laura Bush skirt suits until I have them properly tailored, or until I wait and wait and wait and realize I have a huge meeting coming up.

And although I don't think I am quite a grown up yet, I do believe I am coming down with a mean case of senility.

In typical Jamie fashion, I decided to get a head start on this year's panic attacks by losing my wallet whilst completely sober.  I mean, this tends to happen every other weekend, but this time it was a doozy.  Sit back and enjoy:

'Twas two days before New Year's Eve and all through the city, people were getting drunk, people were getting shitty. 

So Jamie decided that since no one would be in the office on Friday and it was a half day because she was heading to the "Switzerland of America" (aka Colorado), she would actually get her ass ready and go out on a weekday!

After checking her suitcase for the 359th time, Jamie decided she was done packing for the night. Surely she had everything she needed, even an emergency dress in case she wanted to get sexy in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. (You never know who you might have to impress, ladies.)

She hopped in a cab and was off like a rocket as she searched frantically for cash in her purse and her pocket. 

She managed to find a twenty tucked neatly into her wallet, so she paid the dear taxi driver and wished him a good night. She then scampered out of the cab and up the steps to the bar to meet her friends. When she got to the doorman she realized something, something horrible. Her ID wasn't there.

Oh and not just her ID, her entire wallet. 

She ran down the stairs with tears in her eyes, poured out her purse in the street and cried "Lies! Lies! Lies!" 

She realized she must've left the sacred billfold in the backseat of the cab -- all alone in that backseat with dried bits of vomit and the dignity of others. She paced up and down the block with her hand over her open mouth. In a state of utter shock, she began texting people, letting them know what happened, begging and pleading for their advice and generally being a miserable mess of irresponsibility. 

Some offered money for a cab ride home, others offered solutions like calling the cab association. It was no use. She could barely think straight. I mean, she had to get on a plane the next day and she had no ID....and god forbid she ever go on vacation and NOT be able to drink! How dare you suggest that! 

Realizing that the DC Cab Commission operating hours ended at 4 p.m. and that she had no idea which one-man cab operation she took to the bar, Jamie shrunk to the ground, sat on the curb and pretty much quit. 

Then out of nowhere came a valet in blue, a man with an accent, a man with a clue!

He said to Jamie, "Miss. Your ID. You drop. I give to cops." After getting over the fact that it took him about twenty minutes to bring this to her attention -- despite her walking the streets on the verge of tears and mouth all agape -- she ran to the Russian valet and asked for more information. He explained that he found it in the intersection right next to the cab and turned it over to two 'undercover' cops in a white Impala. 

Oh great, Jamie thought. He gave my wallet to two strangers. The wallet could very well be making its way to the liquor store right now, only Jamie would not be partaking in this party. She was busy trying to figure out how to get her wallet back.

Then at the corner Jamie noticed blue lights a-flashin', and she ran over to the car in a maniacal fashion. She knocked on the window, knocked on the door. The policemen must've thought, "Who the hell is this whore?"

The officers rolled down the window and the valet told them his story. They seemed to know exactly who these two undercovers were. And the officers agreed to call the other pair and see just what happened. They had Jamie stand in the light of their patrol car, in the middle of the street in downtown DC. Passers-by assumed the worst -- busted for drunk walking! But they were oh so wrong, for Jamie had not even had a beer yet. 

They called her back over and delievered the good news. The undercovers had her wallet and were en route to her apartment. Instead of leaving the wallet with the front desk at Jamie's apartment, the undercovers agreed to swing back around and personally deliver the goods. 

Jamie waited patiently on the side of the street, when the white Impala pulled up and handed over her black leather billfold, all together and neat. She thanked the officers and valet profusely, and headed back to the bar holding her wallet every which way but loosely. 

Now, there is your heartwarming holiday story. Goodnight, kiddos!

“Survival is the key word to remember – not victory, not conquest, just survival." -- Max Brooks, The Zombie Survival Guide

That is about where I am right now. Pretty much just surviving. Not conquering, not winning, but scraping by.  Which works for some, mostly those caught in a brutal zombie apocalypse as the aforementioned quote might suggest.

It has been a minute since we last spoke.  And speaking of surviving, I’ve made it through a hurricane, an earthquake and, most recently, my sister’s wedding. I throw out the term ‘survived’ because: 1) I did; and 2) I was not victorious in reprising Pippa’s role of best maid of honor ever.  In fact, I hope my sister isn’t reading this because although the deed is already done, her first wrong choice was choosing me for the position. I say this not because I don’t love the hell out of my sister, but because I am in no form responsible and mature or feminine and dainty.  In fact, I might even suggest that Kramer could fill the spot and make it less awkward than I ever could.

When I was growing up, I was always told to be careful, slow down, don’t break that, etc. And no matter what, 100 percent of the time every time, I did exactly what I was told not to do – whether subconscious or not. So when the photographer asked who would be buttoning my sister’s dress for photos and everyone said, “Jamie. She is the maid of honor,” my stomach sank and my palms became very sweaty. And for good reason. It was like my body knew before I did that I would inevitably destroy the one thing the bride is most concerned about the day of her wedding: Her dress. 

My big fat German (I know, an anomaly) fingers could not even figure out how to snap the corset that was sewn into the lining. Hell, I didn’t even know those things existed. Well I made it through that part, while putting my sister in great pain due to lack of air inhalation. Then came the buttons with the loopholes from hell. I could barely pick these things up with tweezers, let alone these man-hands. So I popped the first button on the dress and all hell broke loose. She started crying because she couldn’t see the back of the dress, she could only hear me gasp and start cursing feverishly. Then I started crying. First it was a wave of absolute fuckery, then came the anger and anxiety. I threw my hands in the air like a child, demanded that one of the other girls do the task before me, and I think I said something along the lines of “I quit this wedding!” Way to go, Jamie. Let your sister down on her big day.

I took a minute to re-group. Thank God there were some level-headed, not to mention girly-girls, in the bridal party. They fixed the dress right up and my sister looked absolutely stunning. I, on the other hand, was a mess. I didn’t even want to walk down the aisle, and now they were trying to tell me I had to hold her train for pictures and fluff it before the final send off. I decided at this point, it might be xanax o’clock. 

The only qualifiers I had to take this job were the following: 1) my sister is one of my best friends; 2) I secretly know her a lot more than she thinks I do; and 3) I would do anything in the world for her.  So I decided not to give up. I stomped my big clodhopper feet all over the tulle under her dress during the entire photo shoot. I dropped the train a few times in the rain and mud. And to top it all off, when asked to bustle her, I stood there with a look of horror and confusion and suddenly became an ESL student. This was all so foreign to me, and I thought, very foreign to her as well. But overnight, my sister – the girl who only had guy friends in high school and told me not to give a fuck what anyone thought of me – had become a woman. A woman who was in love, getting married and knew how to bustle a friggin’ dress. It made me want to cry in a very different way.

So while everyone says that they are their own worst critic, in this case it was very much true and probably very much deserved. And I was scoreless in the bottom of the eighth, but hit it out of the park in the bottom of the ninth with my maid of honor speech.  I steered away from the cynical (which was almost impossible) and didn’t stock it chock full of cheesy jokes (GASP), but instead tried to keep it as real as possible. Equal parts embarrassing childhood stories, congratulatory praise and flashbacks of a blossoming love story.  Siskel and Ebert would have given it two thumbs up if Siskel was still alive and Ebert weren’t such a dick. Also, according to my special date, who reads this and will be left out until he feels comfortable with his new found level of fame, said it had people in tears.

Actually writing this down just made me realize this is a tale of triumph for the underdog, and perhaps I was wrong in my earlier assessment. I have my brief moments of victory, not just survival.  I am signing off, so I can finish my bloody mary before my computer explodes in this coffee shop that I can only describe as being Steve Jobs’ wet dream (RIP) with a dash of the L Word. 

So, I am stuck inside of my apartment because my five-dollar Duane Reade umbrella finally decided to quit this bitch. I ventured outside to get some coffee and decided drinking mimosas by myself on the couch would a MUCH better idea. Although, I did get a tasty invite from a homeless man to come to his Hurricane Irene party because, and I quote, “It’s about to get crazzzzzy.” Yeah, yeah it is. You don’t even have a roof to party under, so we can’t let that mutha fucka burn. As tempted as I was to party with this man who smelled like Colt 45 and wet dog, I decided drinking at home was a safer option. Plus, when I am bored, I can stumble out and make friends in the elevator bank. We will have all kinds of cool weather phenomena to make small talk about. Hell, I could even slip something in about Steve Jobs’ resignation: 8/24 Never Forget.

Now let me preface this by saying I will feel really bad if some shit pops off in New York, but Hurricane Irene is about as powerful as the stream of a 60-year-old man with prostate problems. Getting a little sprinkle here in D.C., and my friend down in N.C. just referred to it as Hurricane Asthmatic Kitten, so there’s that. But I am going to take this opportunity to sit on my ass, drink like it is Snowmaggedon and watch really trashy television – something my roommate is already knee deep in. She is realllllly watching “She’s The Man.” For those of you with actual things to do and some brain cells, ”She’s The Man’” is a zany tween comedy about a girl who dresses up as her twin brother to win over the love of her life at soccer camp. Hilarity ensues or it is supposed to.  (And I know some of you asshole friends are sitting there saying, “Whatever, Jamie, you watch Toddlers and Tiaras and Dateline.” Well you can just shove it!)

Anyway, last weekend marked the final party that I had to plan for my sister’s upcoming nuptials: The bachelorette weekend. I had an amazing time even though I ended up sharing WAY too much about my sex life, something usually reserved for the soon-to-be bride. Woops. Looking back at it, it is pretty hilarious because all of the wedding gatherings turned out very well, and they were a large part of why I got a one-way ticket to Xanax-ville. All of that worry over nothing. But don’t tell my doctor, or I will not get the good shit anymore.

While I was at the airport waiting for the plane that would take me to the beautiful coasts of North Carolina, I had a bit of a revelation about how excited I was to get the hell out of D.C.

I had an original entry that I furiously scribbled out when I was in the airport (in my journal titled: My Dysfunctions), but I thought it was a little schmaltzy and forced. But I might just share it anyway.

I felt like a pretty massive dweeb journaling in the airport. A far cry from the hipness of Carrie Bradshaw smoking a cigarette in her NY studio, typing furiously away at her MacBook and coming up with the most clever puns and one-liners. Nope, I was sitting, sipping on some Dunkin’ Donuts–that tasted oddly char-grilled—watching ‘the suits’ stand around with the proverbial stick-up-the-ass look.

This is D.C., I thought. And if we ever got our own iconic t-shirt (instead of ripping of New York’s), I think it would be something like: “I [uptight, self-important man in a suit graphic] D.C.” I bet I have some out-of-work graphic designer friends that could knock that one out of the park. Thinking about it, why don’t we just go dirty seventh grade phallic humor and throw in a Washington Monument? I can’t be the first person who thought of this. Anyway, I digress.

I used to call D.C. my pit stop before New York. But someone better call the Guinness World Book, because at three years and still going, this has to be the longest pit stop in history. It also happens to be one of my longest and unhealthiest relationships.

Also, disclaimer: If you like D.C., you may hate me after this. If you’ve been thinking about visiting, disregard everything I say because, hey, diff’rent strokes. I wouldn’t want to sully anyone’s good time…not this Negative Nancy. NEVER!

I came to the nation’s capital right out of undergrad and I wanted to be a journalist – but not a political journalist. Mistake one! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am very passionate about being an unapologetic, flaming dirtball liberal, but writing for a Hill publication sounds about as fun as watching Danny DeVito and Snooki have sex, which I am thinking the 69 position would be the only thing that would work for those little nuggets. (Too much? Never.)

Mistake two: I came for a boy.

So here is my open letter to the District:

D.C.  --

I would just like you to know that I’ve never had such an intense love/hate relationship with anyone in my life. And you don’t even provide me with sexual tension or hate sex. Thanks.

Instead, everyday I wake up, another friend has relocated, Chinatown smells a little more like a petting zoo and the “Thriller” video extras now walk the streets during daylight hours. I have been mugged at knifepoint and hit by a car. I have no savings because of your insane real estate prices. I work for people who single-handedly destroy the environment with every over-indulgent business lunch at Charlie Palmers’. I’ve been called snowflake more times than I can remember. I’ve watched teens brawl on the metro, and I’ve turned into that person who upon meeting someone immediately asks some analogue of “What do you do?” or “Where did you go to school?”

But I still love you. I love you after three years.

You’ve taught me how to be street smart. You’ve built my resume. You’ve given me the pleasure of watching fat tourists fall of Segways.  You were there when I witnessed the inauguration of the nation’s first African American president. You’ve shown me that people from both sides of the aisle can get together to jam to the O’Jays and celebrate sanity. You’ve also introduced me to Kal Penn, or Kumar as many of you know him.

Even though I hate you a good amount of the time, D.C., I don’t think you are the worst.  After all, I can say that I discovered myself here – now I have some idea of what I like, what I don't, who I want to be, what I want to do and how I want to do it.

But I fear because of my own wanderlust, you may not have me much longer. However, I am always down for a self-loathing booty call. New York may have me next, maybe Boston, who knows – but always remember: it will just be sloppy seconds.

Always yours,
Jamie

I will say though that I needed that vacation. I needed that vacation like I need Alexander Skarsgard to be naked in my bed with a medium rare Shake Shack burger, a beer and five million dollars.

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.

I have a little advice for ya kiddies: Never attempt to cook dinner right after you've woken up from a nap because a few things will happen. First, you will burn the shit out of your fake chicken patty, next you will take 20 minutes to open a can of green beans, then you will clean your roommate's dirty dishes and finally, you will find yourself standing in the middle of the kitchen talking to yourself, asking, "What else do I need? What do I need...in my life...personally?" 

So that is how this post is starting. I am honestly still waking up, so cool your jets. 

This weekend I decided to do just about everything to prove to the world I am, in fact, having a quarter-life crisis. (Side note, the old 25th birthday is less than a month away.)

Friday, I went to the pool to catch some rays and ended up being bitten by mysterious bugs. Then a great dark cloud sat on the sun's face and told me I should go inside and take a nap. Well, I took that nap and guess what? I woke up the next day at 8:45 a.m. My old ass had skipped the early bird special entirely, gone straight to bed and comatosed it until the next morning! And you know what, it wasn't like the Disney movies. No fucking cute blue birds were singing at my windowsill to wake me up and welcome me to this bright and beautiful Saturday. So instead, I picked up my phone and started making some calls. I called an old roll dog and we decided to get brunch -- obviously somewhere with copious amounts of alcohol.

After two VERY stiff (*thank you Busboys and Poets*) mimosas, there was all kinds of crazy talk going around about renting bikes, riding to the beer garden, drinking like Germans and then getting a second tattoo. Well, we hopped on our federally-funded Obama bikes and rode off to the Biergarten Haus and proceeded to drink very large beers and talk about life. And somehow during the conversation we broached the subject of the logistics of scissoring. So there we were, a girl and her dude friend, sitting at a picnic table watching videos of scissoring on an iPhone. Then we decided to Yelp tattoo parlors, because that is a totally normal and reliable thing to do. The original place I wanted to go did not have any openings that day, so I settled for a place that a friend used to apprentice for. So after a parting shot of jager, we hopped on our bikes (and almost died trying to travel through DC's Caribbean Carnival) and made our way to the shop. I was in and out in about 30 minutes, leaving with a permanent reminder on my wrist that reads, "I am. I am. I am." I even convinced my roll dog to get one...or maybe that was the jager. Anyway, I left a little scared and a lot happy. I took a bunch of ridiculous photos of it with my iPhone right outside the shop...didn't want the artist to see me taking off the bandage, you know, I am not quite that badass.

So Sunday rolls around and I have plans to go sky diving. I will repeat, I have plans to jump out of a m*tha f*ckin plane (emphasis by Samuel L. Jackson). As I am suiting up for my dive, one of the carnies working there noticed I had a large bandage on my wrist and asked if I had poison ivy as well. I replied, "No, I just got a tattoo yesterday. Trying to keep it clean." (So don't step any closer.) Then my tandem instructor, a short peppy woman from Macedonia, says "You got a tattoo yesterday and now you are sky diving, what is wrong with you?" It was like word vomit full of honesty. I flat out said, "Well, I am having a quarter-life crisis. This is it." She laughed and assured me we would have a good time.

And we had an amazing time. I was completely calm until the rickety plane door was thrown open at about 10,000 feet. I remember sticking my legs out, hesitating, then having my instructor push my ass out of the seat. Let me just say...it is an interesting feeling free falling towards the Earth at 160 mph. I wasn't sure if I was going to let out a stream of explicit and inappropriate curse words or let out a stream of urine. Once I finally realized I was falling through the air and there was no way to stop and nothing to grab on to, I realized I was fucked. Just kidding, I realized I was not in complete control for once in my life and it felt GREAT. It was a rush and it was beautiful. The wind was cold and the clouds engulfed us. Then came the scenic farmland dotted with mountains in the distance. When I got to the ground there wasn't much I could say. My legs were a little shaky and I wanted to just run around screaming about how awesome it was.

I called my parents that night to let them know I survived and wasn't burning in plane wreckage somewhere in Hicksville, Va. My father was pretty excited -- like a little boy -- asking questions faster than his mouth could form the words. From the background I could hear my mother screaming, "Don't you ever do that again!"

Which brings me to my decision to tell them about my two tattoos. I took the wimp route on this one and wrote them an e-mail. Yelling is clearly less defined via gmail

I got the responses I thought I would. My sister said she still loves me and is happy I am doing what makes me happy. My mom said she doesn't understand it but she still loves me. And my dad was the most supportive, even expressing his own interest in becoming a pirate. "I'm still thinking about an earring....can't come to grips with it yet. If I got a tat, I guess a sail boat might work or a cresting wave," he said.

My mom was a little disconcerted about the fact that my wrist tattoo is a quote from The Bell Jar, and as my dad put it "she thinks there maybe a "dark" side to the meaning of the wrist Tat...her being an expert on things and knowing about both the book and the author..."  Well she most certainly thinks she is the expert on most things and perhaps that is where I get it from. In fact, I know that is where I get it from.

Let's break it down real quick. The quote comes from a scene in The Bell Jar right after the main character attempts to kill herself but hears her heart beating, saying "I am. I am. I am." Also, the author, Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven and killed herself. So, yes it has a little bit of a strange background. But I take the quote to mean something different and less sinister. It symbolizes something bigger than me. Something bigger than self pity: the body's desire to live. The heart is a stubborn mule reminding us that we are alive and we exist. Something I can sometimes get caught up in and forget. 

And I would just like to remind my audience that mother is the same woman who last week declared she was changing her name to Ghost Face Killah. Oh and when she was 13, she snuck off to this little festival called Woodstock...and you know she wasn't there for the sno-cones and flower headbands. (Did they have sno-cone refreshments? I just assumed they would.) She also used to take her friends' parent's cars out for joyrides and stick records down her pants and walk out of the store. And sometimes I want to rip her face off when we are around each other for too long, but I take a step back and realize we are disgustingly similar. And I am totally ok with her name change. Love you Mom. 

Because I feel like being emo as fuck and it is a good song:

Sadly, my life isn’t only meager in the cubicle; it is pretty down right sad in the bedroom right now.

(Hence the above title for those of the dense variety.)

So there I was…somewhere between “I can’t get a date to save my no-leg-shaving ass” and “Wow, am I wearing some sort of sign that says: Crazies – sign up here?” when I decided I was giving up on dating. In fact, I am unsure if my dating life has actually been mediocre or off-the-charts nutty. Either way, I gave that shit up about four months ago.

Actually, looking back on it, I cannot help but hysterically laugh out loud at how lame I was being (a habit of mine you should be familiar with by now – see previous entry). Anyway, I was imaging myself a single sage with globs of time to read great books, study the art of yoga, pick up gardening and learn how to cook. I called it my “Zen” period. Few things wrong with this scenario, kiddies:

1) I don’t have gray hair or 10 cats.

2) I live in high-rise in D.C. Where the fuck am I gardening exactly?

3) Anyone who knows me knows that I am restless; try as I might, Zen ain’t happening.

 I was out with some friends one night when I saw there was a cute boy (turned out to be running in the same circle) at the jukebox playing Led Zeppelin. I decided to mosey on over and give him more money to keep rocking the Zep – because if everyone was lucky, I would break out the leg guitar a little later. The best part is: I was totally uninterested because I knew he was there to meet a girl, so I felt no pressure and just wanted to drink beer, listen to music and chat. 

Well in the day and age of Facebook stalking, Mr. X found me through our mutual friends and wrote me a lovely little message about how nice it was to meet me, offering a hang out session soon. Seeing as he didn’t have a baby arm or a heinous high-pitched Midwestern accent, I was pretty excited.  Fast forward a few weeks and I am at a birthday party he is throwing for a friend. We hit it off, talking, drinking and listening to music. He was rather aggressive, hugging and touching on me in front of people – which I happen to be Ms. Awkward McGee, so I do not respond well to that sort of stuff. 

Then there was the next day text messages…going through the motions about how fun it was, how I loved our chat and how we should hang out very soon. Well certainly, he said, right after he got back from his trip to Miami. That date came and went, and I heard nothing -- except for a few intermittent texts promising that we would hang out soon, but he really needed to buckle down on school. (Full disclosure: He is a third-year law student coming up on final exams.) I was torn. I was torn between being understanding and having used that excuse before on people I really didn’t want to see at the time. I also had the idea in my head that perhaps in that fleeting moment that he kissed me goodbye, he saw me in the light and immediately regretted everything he had done the night before.

Well time goes on and heals all wounds or something. I didn’t hear much until I had a friend’s birthday to plan. Well, of course, he was invited, as this birthday party was for our mutual friend. I didn’t think he would come and I didn’t think too much of it…until I got super sweet Facebook message #2:

Hellooo

Just wanted to say what up and apologize for my little disappearing act. I actually didn't disappear entirely... I'm still here, BUT i've been a complete social recluse for the past couple of weeks, and sadly prolly will be until exams are done :( (May 7)

My fun-loving ways have come to bite me in the ass such that I literally need to grind out work like i've never done before if there's a hope in hell that I do okay this sem.

While you'll prolly see a bunch of my friends tonight at *****'s bday (assuming you're going), I won't be there, I'll be here working.

Either way, I just didn't want you to think that I was being a dick and just fucked off or decided to ignore you. Not true!!

Okay, cool. Have fun tonight!! Wish I could come! :)

I typed and I typed and I deleted and I deleted until all I could come up with was, “Well, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

Then I stepped back, realized we still have mutual friends and wrote: “Well good luck with everything.”  

And then an Easter miracle happened.

After a night of too many shots and craft beers, I found myself drinking bottomless mimosas at brunch trying to mask that fact that I thought I was going to die – and I was dressed like Gwyneth Paltrow in "Country Strong." So after saying goodbye to my brunch buddies, I zombie-walked my way into CVS, bought the largest water they had and headed out the door. It is at this point that I open my purse and drop a wad of cash and my iPhone right into oncoming foot traffic. Then some spry hipster with a frisbee picks everything up for me and slyly says: “Good choice!” as he shows me we have the same iPhone case. Now, that is one line I have never heard before.

He immediately recognizes I am on the verge of death and says I should come sit in the park with him for a little bit because it is far too nice of a day to go home and coma off this hangover. Now, it is at this point that I would normally give a polite decline, crawl to the metro and wonder what might’ve happened.

Not sure if it was the three mimosas; the fact I still might’ve been drunk upon waking up; or just that I’m loving life a little bit, but I decided to take him up on the offer. And somewhere between me feeling like I was going to throw up or have an accident in my pants (to put it nicely), I realized I was smack dab in the middle of some hilariously awful rom-com. Set scene: Two mildly-attractive strangers bump into each other in the city street, the man helps the damsel in the distress, they end up in a park somewhere (presumably by a fountain) and realize they have everything in common! Well, it was not nearly as cute…but we chatted for what felt like forever until I politely had to excuse myself before I ruined his pristine image of me. We exchanged numbers and he hailed me a cab. Maybe this one will actually call.