All Night Long

So, there’s been this thing on facebook where you post the video of the #1 song when you were born.  I’m too ashamed to do it.

Because this is it:

And I think that by participating in this kind of social media ritual, you’re accepting that the #1 song at the time of your birth says something about you.  And I’m not sure I like what this says about me.

Parties hard (all night long!), but tries a little too hard as well (just a wee bit too much interpretive dance and afro-sheen, no?)…and is just a little out of place with that pseudo-caribbean rhythm.

Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself.  But I often feel this way (minus the pseudo-caribbean rhythm).  And I’m not sure I really want to post my underlying fear that I’m a cheesy overachiever to the world’s largest social media engine (my guess, not necessarily a fact).

Though I think my interpretation of the song and its relationship to me tells you more about my personality than the song does.  And the rational part of myself knows that who I am has more to do with the things I remember and the people who’ve come in and out of my life than the cosmic union of bulk music purchases in late 1983.  Lionel Richie is not to blame for my insecurities (though he should be – this video is trash), but I suspect the major demographic of the 80s buying this single also had a major impact on my upbringing.  Are the boomers to blame?

Happy Baby!

My mother’s birthday was about a month ago.  I failed to put her gift in the mail on time, but I knew I’d be seeing her for Christmas, so I just opted to give it to her late.

I was so prepared when it came to wrapping Christmas gifts this year I totally forgot about wrapping her birthday gift until the very last second.  When I dropped in to our local has-everything superstore, I picked up a gift bag.  It was white and had the letters from BIRTHDAY written on the exterior.

When I wrote the to-from bit on the label, I realized that the only letters from birthday that were actually on the bag were B, A and Y.  And that the label said “sweet baby.” 

My mother wanted to know what I was trying to say.  Did I have big news for her birthday?

I think the big news is that I’m definitely not ready for a baby if I can’t read the difference between BABY and BIRTHDAY on a white bag in a brightly-lit discount department store.  My mother agrees.

On my birthday

It was my birthday on Friday. I turned 28. Next year will be my first 29th birthday. Then I’ll turn 30 (because it’s a fab excuse for an awesome party). Then I’ll turn 29 again. That’s how it works, right?

It’s not as though I’m really afraid of getting older. It’s just that I’m not…getting older, that is. I feel like I’m in my mid-twenties…in that I have a real job that’s stable and provides me with enough remuneration to fund my weekend proclivities. But I also recently had a diet Coke with my breakfast because I ran out of milk and o.j. And I’m kind of sleep deprived because my weekend activities just were more fun than being asleep.

And I feel like people who are older have it together. Like…they always have milk in the fridge. And nobody’s asking them if they’re feeling ok because the Friday/Saturday party sleep-deprivation makes them look like they have the flu for the first 3 days of the work week.

My Dad is meeting my boyfriend’s parents tonight. This terrifies me. Partly because I’m afraid of the inevitable awkwardness of a forced social situation such as this. But also because of what it means. This means I’m being mature and responsible. I’m facilitating the networking of other mature adults. I’m in a meaningful relationship. And that’s exciting. But it also makes me want to go fingerpaint rude pictures in the hall of my rental unit.

What if I’m not awesome, either?

This picture has been popping up all over the interwebz:

So.  I’m not getting married.  And I’m not getting pregnant (I hope).  But I’m also not feeling more awesome. 

Now, I don’t have any particular want to be married, or pregnant right away (though this statement should not preclude future married-or-pregnant-ness).  Truth is, I’m terrified of the whole idea.  Particularly the pregnant bit.

In the summer, I was visiting my boyfriend’s extended family for the first time.  In fairness, he ventured forth into extended family territory well before I did.  And he withstood the pecking ceremony presided over by my aunts, as well as their wafer-thinly veiled allusions to “family” pictures, rings, etc.  I endured no such torture on my turn.

Instead, I was exposed to his cousins-once-removed.  Both under the age of 3.  Both of whom I haven’t a sweet clue what to do with.  Until someone can answer the question “Hey, how’s it going for you today?” with something other than one or two inarticulate syllables and a string of drool, I’m utterly useless with them.  And to be exposed to these children for an entire weekend was nearly unbearable.  Not so unbearable, however, as being exposed to his grandchild-less mother cooing over them.  Yeah, they were pretty freaking adorable.  But I was pretty freaking terrified she’d break into my overnight bag and replace my birth control pills with tiny mints. 

This is not the first time I’ve felt this way.  My friends have had babies.  My other childless friends pick them up, bounce them, play peek-a-boo.  I feel silly doing stuff like this.  I feel like the babies can sense that I’m a total sham.  They cry immediately.  I recently gently squeezed the hammy finger of a friend’s 3-month-old.  He immediately scrunched up his face with DISASTER-STRANGE-TOUCH tears.

My response to this, strangely, is not to declare my apartment a baby-free zone.  In fact, it’s to attempt to increase my exposure to babies.  Not only because…you know…one day (not today) I’d like to have one.  But also because, dammit, my friends keep having them.  And the only people who actually think I’m getting more awesome are my friends.

Just not enough boxes

I've inexplicably been battling my cat's attempts to play soccer with his poop again.

Actually, there is an explanation. My apartment's a shambles. Nothing is right. He's pissed off at me cuz I've messed up his shit (so he's getting back by messing up my shit with his [literal] shit). Because I'm moving. Again. For the fourth time in 3 years.

And I'm really disappointed, because I'd made a promise to myself that I would be contracing the services of professional movers this time. However, despite the fact that I make exponentially more money than I did the last time I moved, I can't afford a moving service.

So what am I doing?

• Stealing boxes from the grocery store. At 27.
  
• Using an empty wine case from the liquor store to take my cans of hard cider home. All two of them.
  
• Buying Wal-Mart out of their cloth bags at $1.47 a piece.
  
• Seriously contemplating walking my crappy couch down the street to the Sally Ann because I don't have the means to drive it there. Or stealing a grocery cart for same. A la circa May 1st in any university town. Unless of course, I strap it to the roof my Yaris. Hmmm...I might have an idea there, actually.
• Writing totally extraneous blog posts to avoid putting things into my stolen boxes and cheap cloth bags.

I have a week until the big move and it's nearly impossible to put a foot on the floor without stepping on my junk.

BUT

I have high hopes for my new place. I fully intend to do a thorough inventory of my chattles and dispose of any that I really don't need. And THIS time, I'll decorate. You know, take some pride in my surroundings. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Why do I sound like a drug-addict inearnestly swearing to quit...next week?

A-hoy-hoy?

I just spent a good half hour mopping poop smears off my bathroom floor. I never thought I'd see myself doing this.

Now I'm going to bet that half of you reading this think I'm talking about how I wasn't prepared for the vagaries of motherhood but, in the end, I love it too much to give it up (not to mention that I might be charged with neglect if I did). But that's not the case. I'm unmarried, childless, and willingly admit that I'm totally unprepared for the vagaries of motherhood.

Nope, it was cat poop caused by a bout of kitty indigestion brought on by the fact that I left the butter out. Again.

But back to that total lack of preparedness. I'm, like, verging on my thirties and I'm pretty terrified that I'm never going to be a grown-up. Sure, I've held down a pretty sweet job for OVER A YEAR, and I haven't managed to completely total the car I bought last year. But I'm pretty sure a trained monkey could do both of those things. It takes more to be a grown-up. Like maybe, consistently not leaving the butter out. And that's what this blog's going to be about. Not leaving the butter out.

Jokes.