"If I say so myself, Happy Birthday to me."

Today I am 24. In preparing to write a brief retrospective, I keep thinking about the Jimmy Buffet book A Pirate Looks at 50. Despite my great love of pirates and all, I'm not a pirate and I'm not quite halfway to 50. So I have no excuse. Hmm.

My blog reading has sort of petered out to the point where I basically only read my friends' blogs and Sarah B.. Sarah B. is so wise and a couple months ago featured the ghosts of birthdays past. It has been said that I have a freakishly good memory, but I don't have any idea how that woman has such excellent records of 27 birthdays. I am scratching my head trying to come up with what I did at age 14, a birthday I was fully conscious for. Of course, who cares what a 14 year old did? It was probably lame. Actually, that brings me back to my general theme: mini-golf birthday party aside (age 8), I have had some super lame birthdays. This is partially a product of my birthday falling right at the beginning of school when everyone is moving away or busy or lacking imagination, or on vacation or celebrating the Leo/Virgo cusp or something. On that note, I present: birthday lowlights--fun times!

8/23/1985--age 5: Dad gets a speeding ticket on the way to a kids' amusement park; end up turning back. My brother burned my Birthday Bear Carebear figurine with his cigarette. Tears.

8/23/1991--age 11 I desperately wanted a dog. My parents got me a stuffed dalmatian I called Dot and assorted Sanrio dog accessories. I also got a training bra that I never wore until I was well past an appropriate training age. My mom also took me shopping for school clothes at Macy's and Marshall Fields and I was definitely stylin' (as much as I have ever been stylin' in my life), but it's not exactly easy to fit in as an 11 year old with Lillian Burch earrings and Adrienne Vitadinni sweaters when your classmates jeer at you for not having the same wal-mart applique sweatshirt as everyone else. Are you depressed yet?

8/23/1996--age 16 I spent the morning soaking my toe in Epsom salts as I had just had an ingrown toenail removed and was trying to keep my feet from falling off whilst at volleyball camp (the smell of ben gay abounded). The people on my hall made me a funny cake that said Sweet 16 in red hots. The boy I met on vacation and had been writing letters to all summer sent me some really cheesy roses and a shirt that said Jimmy's Pour House (why a boy of 17 was attending a Pour House is not mine to question). I also had been trying to get him to tell me his middle name and I believed that the cryptic ILY was an unorthodox spelling of Eli. (When I found out it stood for I Love You much later on, I basically told him to hit the road to pursue this other kid---a real hot item at age 19. His middle name was Vincent, btw.)

8/23/2001--age 21 Get thrown out of a bar at 1 am on birthday eve by haughty barmaid who demands to know what *time* I was born. Makes fun of me in front of other patrons, who, to their credit, encouraged said barmaid to give me a beer and birthday spanks. Birthday morning: wake up to screaming visiting Australian (friend of my roommate's) who is being licked awake by Molly. Molly promptly poops on new rug. My closest friends were all involved in O-week and were sworn to sobriety. End evening of drinking by saying to my boyfriend, Brian: I don't want YOU. Call Steve!

8/23/2002--age 22 S. and I attempted a peanut butter and chocolate chip cake with purple icing. No one was hungry for cake after entering into Chuy's comas (but it was okay, the cake was gross). Months later, I pitched the dry, lumpy cake with what turned out as a gray icing to make room for chicken necks in my freezer. M! gave me a jar of pickles that has followed me the last two years. On an upnote: My ex, J.D. gave me a fondue pot which greatly outlasted the relationship and led to bliss once I realized I could use it to roast s'mores in the comfort of my living room.

I could thrill you all more, but you'll just have to wait until next year.

Question I Will *NEVER* Have Time For

"ASL???"

The only response I could possibly give that is a parallel one:

"WTF???"

So let that be a lesson to you.

The Fine Art of Thanks

The current Abigail van Buren, née the daughter of the original Abigal van Buren, i.e. Pauline Phillips, is kind of a moron. Well, except the fact that she gets paid probably a lot of money to write what I consider to be marginally lame advice and persons like me, who read it faithfully every day, just bitch about it for no pay, which is in no way helpful or productive. I am ever forwarding her column to my friends asking "Excuse me, Abby, but WTF?!" This does nothing. I'm aware. But I feel better and it's not hurting anyone. So there.

However, Old Abbers and New Abbers have fully got a handle on one thing: gracious thanks and common courtesy. I was raised on it. I am sworn to it. I guard it and protect it as my credo. It's all based on the golden rule, really (easier to remember that way).

We all know please and thank you. And if you are among a we who doesn't, well, learn them--please--before you come to my home, preferably.

But do people write thank you notes anymore? The answer is yes. And if you are among those who would answer: no---better think again.

There are very few gestures that take so little, yet mean so much, as the thank you note--which is currently acceptable in email form*, but will always be gratefully accepted handwritten on paper. A few lines is all it takes. No need to write superfluous and insincere extra junk.

Dear Jane and Bill,
Thanks so much for the recipe collection that you gave me for my birthday. I am sure I will have a great time trying out all the different ways of making soup as the winter months roll by. I appreciated seeing you both at my party and hearing about your trip to Mexico.

Your friend,
Mrs. Doe

is a great note.

But even:

Dear Jane and Bill,
Thanks so much for the recipe collection that you gave me for my birthday. I am sure I will have a great time trying out all the different ways of making soup as the winter months roll by. I appreciated seeing you both at my party and hearing about your trip to Mexico.

Your friend,
Mrs. Doe

would be a completely acceptable note and takes only two minutes and $ 0.37.

An alternative to the thank you note, which may require some forethought is the host/hostess gift--e.g. a bottle of wine to a dinner party, a bottle of bubble bath (or somesuch trinket) for someone who invites you to their home**, and so on. Remember, the gift and price is of no consequence (also, while a gift may be used in lieu of a thank you note, it is not exclusive to writing one, if you choose to do so). The host/hostess/thankee likely did not perform the good deed with the ulterior motive of some kind of gift/praise windfall (I speak from experience and say FIE! to those that would do nice things only for the gift returns; though further speaking from experience, I smirk [respectfully] at your anticipation of reciprocal attention). But it is nice to know a kindness is appreciated. It is, in fact, the thought that counts. No budget is too small for thoughtfulness. Even homeless people have cardboard, and evidently, a sharpie of some sort.

So go forth, my readers, and let others know how much their kindness and consideration for you has made your day. I guarantee it will make theirs. And if you would be so bold as to disregard the significance of a thank you-- I also say FIE! on you, rude boy.

*depending on the formality of the occasion, as more formal occasions call for paper only
**major shout out to A. for the personally appropriate books --so awesome!

How I Knew I Didn't Love You

You can call me shallow, if you wish. I know it isn't true, but what I am about to tell you might make you think otherwise.

If I don't like your name, I'll admit, it's a little hard for me to date you. But I can get over it, move on, and eventually come to love your name. It's true. It's happened before.

But there are some things about a person, little, tiny, seemingly insignificant things that come across as chalkboard screeching to my heart and lead me to one conclusion: I could never love you.

One moment, please, before we plunge into this lengthy, cruel attack on idiosyncracies before every person reading this goes directly to my comments section to tell me what a horrible person I am and why I am doomed to roam the planet alone forever. First, I am already aware that this is a distinct possibility, despite all my awesomeness. And I am awesome; make no mistake (and if I have a fault, it must be my modesty). Second, there have been those-- pioneers of my heart--who have somehow made it past these little hang-ups of mine and gotten under my skin. Just how they did it, I can't tell you. But it is possible. Be forewarned however, if you do/have/are any of these problems: it's not looking good for you and me and happily ever after.

And finally, maybe some of you are wondering why--if I am the confident, independent woman I profess to be-- I am constantly writing laments about my dating life, I have no answer for that. Perhaps it is because I see domestic bliss* all around lately and I have experienced the gambit of feelings surrounding it from envy, to disdain, to nausea, to fear. Then again, maybe it's because I've had such a sucktastic dating life the last couple (or 5) years in which I've had my heart stomped on endlessly by unworthy gentlemen. Or maybe I am just a bitter person. A little of all, probably.

Item #1:
The Past Participle
Please use this correctly. If you do not use this correctly, I may have to shriek repeatedly. No child of mine will be guilty of rattling on about where they should have went and what they should have did. NOOOOOOOOO! I am genuinely sensitive to words and sentence constructions, so if you can't hack it, do not write me any sort of email. Sharp lasers shooting through my eyes will inevitably follow.

Item #2:
Voting
Do not tell me you don't vote. Do not make a statement along the lines of "I can't ever make a difference," or "Who cares about that politics stuff?" I care, damn you. *I care deeply.* Even that nefarious phrase "I am a Republican," is nowhere near as hurty to me as declaring political, and therefore social and cultural apathy. And now a quick joke: What's the difference between ignorance and apathy? A: I don't know and I don't care.

Item #3
Dogs
I love my dog. Yes, I baby her, though I am well aware she is not an actual baby. However, she is my love, my best friend, my loyal companion. And if you cross her, I will bust your shit up. Do not tell me you hate dogs. Do not tell me you hate pit bulls. Do not tell me you hate my dog and do NOT tell me how I should care for her (unless it is a helpful tip, such as adding lavendar oil to bathwater to repel mosquitos and fleas). If indeed these are true, please keep them to yourself as you--oops! lose my phone number and all other means of contacting me. Also, do not insult my dog**. By insulting her, you insult me and I would NEVER dream of insulting someone else's pet/child/handicapped cousin. That's just bad manners. Call me oversensitive. I won't call you at all.

Item #4
Cars
If you're going to have a penis-mobile, please have the balls to go with it. The less sensible the car, the more sensible you are required to be to make up for it. Sorry, these are the rules. Please park your Escalade elsewhere.

Hmm, I feel better for now, but next time, at the exact moment I realize someone has made me not love them, I vow to write it down and pass it on to you.

*Or that which passes itself off as such.
**"Molly jumps," is not an insult, but a statement of fact and will be received rationally. "Molly sucks," may get you a broken limb.

P.S. Readers should NOT take this list as any sort of reflection on my past flames, because, as I mentioned, no one I really cared about could have had these issues, let alone all of them. I do not bash past loves on this site. I think it a sign of poor breeding. (I prefer bashing them to their faces. Heh. Just kidding. Kinda.)

"I notice when someone wears two distinctly different shades of black."

As you have no doubt noted, a lot of things irk me in disproportion to their global importance. However, my purpose is to advance my agenda, not to explain my psychosis in any sort of excusatory manner.

That said, please note that "ya'll" written as such is incorrect.

Y'all, as it is known to the more astute, is a contraction of you and all. In a contraction, the apostrophe goes where junk is missing.

If you just take the word all and put an apostrophe in it, you seem of the more retarded persuasion. Because an apostrophe after a would suggest that something is missing between the a and ll. Only one thing could be missing: your brain.

For the mathletes in the audience, I will demonstrate thusly.

(You - ou) + all = Y'all

(You + all) - rational thought= ya'll (or some variant thereof).

"Good day*."

*For Noonan: To be used in conjunction with, "Has anyone seen my pocketbook?"

Just Desserts

My mom is always saying that Ken Lay should get the death penalty for robbing so many people of their pensions, retirement, etc. Now, my mom is a peaceful person and she's just horsing around when she says that, but if she weren't it kind of looks like the state of Texas would agree with her. I am not a fan of capital punishment, myself, but I am going to be freakin' psyched if the state of Texas really sticks it to him. Lay's attorneys filed for a speedy trial, presumably to keep the media's nose out of it as much as possible, if that's possible because I really think he's damning himself by hurrying it along. I just wish he would hurry it along enough to be in jail before the election. What do you say to this, Georgie Porgie?

Who's Who Among British Actors

I'm not mocking Harry Potter. Truly. I'm no heretic.

I just think it's hilarious that the Harry Potter movie franchise has become a roll call of Who's Who among British actors. Truly, I think it's a testament to the brilliance of the books that classically trained, snooty Brits are signing up left and right to take on the fantastic roles. Alan Rickman, the late Richard Harris, Emma Thompson, Kenneth Branaugh, Dame Maggie Smith, Gary Oldman, and so on and so forth.

Now, the role of Lord Voldemort in the forthcoming movie version of The Goblet of Fire has been announced. He-who-must-not-be-named has been named.

I am anxious for the announcement of who Ben Kingsley might play. Maybe he'll play Mad-Eye Moody. That'd rock!

All Hella Smart

I exhuasted a great deal of energy trying to come up with both a title and a limerick for this particular entry. For newcomers (and none of you are, as my inconsistency has dismissed all but my most steadfast audience), I don't typically write a limerick for each entry, but as this has to do with dominant hands or handedness and I once wrote as a clue to my person for whom I was Secret Santa if you had demanded if I'm right or left handed, I'd tell you I write with the left, I thought I might one again for a similar topic. Yes, well, I was in the 9th grade. Anyhow, no limerick and weak title. Moving on.

It gives me great pain to see our summer interns at work leave. The Bobsey Twins, as we called them, were so spritely and said such teenagery things of great hilarity as to render themselves a constant source of amusement. While M16 (the latest installment in the army of Matt, who can be none of Ms 1-4 and therefore is now M16, because it's funny) was in Ecuador, one of the twins asked dramatically WHO I would eat lunch with. Now, as I often eat lunch with M16, this isn't that odd of a question, unless you heard the context in which it was used. Basically, I was instantly transported back to high school--a high school in which my one friend had left the continent; I was left to sit alone in the lunchroom and suffer the social consequences--an outcast. In actuality, I just ran errands or went home on my lunch break, much as I often did before I knew M16 and as I do fairly frequently anyway. But still, I enjoyed the anecdote and thought y'all might, too.

So this same twin asked me yesterday when we went out for her farewell lunch just if and how much I minded being left handed. (E's snappy response--two days late-- was that I should have asked if and how much she minded being retarded.) This person is not retarded and her randomness reminds me a bit of myself, but in any case, I said the only *reasonable* thing I knew to say: I've never been anything else to compare, but if I'm right handed in the next life, I'll let you know. She laughed and told me she had always wished she were left-handed because we're (yes, this IS a direct quote) "all hella smart."

I do know some random lefty trivia as I am a loyal shopper at the Leftorium and I once had a lefty page a day calendar, but concerning the lefty lifestyle that you all dream about having someday: I really have no comment. Many people have refused helping me do things on that account however, like calligraphy, golf, and so forth. One might think this would toughen my resolve to learn or make me more innovative. Not really. I sort of fake my way through calligraphy and golf is boring anyway, so I content myself with being the eternal novice-- the kid who just whacks the hell out of the ball at the driving range. Besides, no matter which hand is your dominant hand, I think all hands can give a thumbs up to my philosophy that perserverance, hard work, and tenacity may pay off over time, but leisure always pays off now.

Ah, the twin was right. I am all hella smart.