i'm thinking 26?

There are many things about which adults seem able to consistently extol the virtues, that I fail to find useful in any way. I understand that there are certain non-negotiables that go along with being an adult. One particular aspect of adulthood that I fail to understand, especially as holiday party season approaches, is the enthusiasm directed toward wine glass charms, and the accepted belief that the use of them creates a funky, quirky, generally creative and more fun than normal party atmosphere that is definitely worth upwards of $20 for a set of four. Just…no. I can’t justify the need to “tag” your personal glass of wine with an individualized charm anyway. These seem to come in handy mainly when one is not holding one’s own wine glass, and because I cannot fathom putting the damn thing down long enough to lose track of it, I guess they just seem kind of useless. I also don’t quite own a full set of wine glasses. I had been collecting my mother’s castoffs, until my friends had a champagne party that required the use of my mother’s half broken set, which created a fully broken set by the end of the night. I’ve also managed to steal several mismatched wine goblets and a champagne flute from bars. A classy collection it is not. It would most likely not be drastically improved by affixing some desperate Pottery Barn charms to the stems. Nor would it disguise the fact that over half of the party was still drinking out of stolen pint glasses.

Still, those little guys are pretty cute, and my complete and utter disregard for their usefulness not only makes me feel like a shitty adult, but also a shitty person. Which in turn makes me hate the dumb Rachael Ray wannabes who have already affixed these little reindeer heads to every hostess gift they're going to give this season and are forcing their lack of creativity on the world underneath the guise of marginally cute paper reindeer and felted "snow."

I might be inferior, but I will hide under this imaginary superiority complex for as long as I can.

i guess this rubbish was considered acceptable at a college with a conservatory

In college, some of my favorite pastimes, for which I also received moderate praise from my peers, included making sculptures out of wire and cheesecloth, and drinking. Still, I would have never thought that asking someone to watch me do these things counted as a “date.” It’s possible to argue that most dates revolve around drinking as an activity. I would argue that because there is some standard of conversation, the drinking experienced during these “dates,” cannot count as a pastime. I mean, I get it, you are good at playing guitar, which is an impressive talent, but I’m not one of those girls who is blind to the fact that this is not a symbol of virility or even an indication that you will produce children without any birth defects. It just demonstrates diligence, talent, and quick fingers, which does more for some people than others. And if you’ve invited me to your little guitar concert as a “date,” or even a “hang out,” it also demonstrates an inflated sense of self-worth. Maybe once I’ve been given some reasons to care about you I will be interested in sitting by myself and watching you play an instrument. But until then, unless you want to spend the next night watching me go for a run, let's do something where we're both on equal ground, shall we?

personal jesus?

Every time I send an email with terms such as "reach out" "touch base" or "connect," I pretty much want to gag myself with the closest spoon-shaped implement. I am also pleasantly reminded of Depeche Mode, and then, naturally, Marilyn Manson. That's what I think of when I think of connecting. And reaching out. To touch faith. Et cetera. I'm not cut out for the corporate world.

after using the bathroom hand-dryer as a hair-dryer the day is mainly looking up

Right now, one of my main responsibilities at work is to memorize (familiarize? please is that a word?) myself with the information in a fairly gigantic virtual binder, to better prepare myself for facilitating and running the 6-hour day long interviews that the non-profit I work for basically exists to run. I mean, I don't have to run them, my boss does that, and will probably help me with a lot of my job in the end, but STILL. This binder also includes pages upon pages of information and rubrics and instruction sheets to copy and distribute to all sorts of different people involved in these days, and the myriad messages I'm supposed to be "messaging" to all of them. Like signs - signs for every ind ividual activity. Also a welcome sign. Seven signs total. And they're all stored virtually somewhere. It's not hard t o sort it all into little computer folders, it's pretty rudimentary. I just wish I co uld stack it all into tangible little stacks and make folders and copy them al l. It's just kind of a VI RTUAL PAPER OVERLOAD.

really? not even a little bit?

"Really? Not at all? How about a Margarita…no you’re right that does have alcohol in it. You just want to get to know each other by talking? Sure we can talk…uh huh…totally…you don’t say…nope fuck this shit. I was hoping to make out with you later and maybe even take off each other pants and that’s just not going to happen without alcohol. Dating is super awkward (I can’t even look you in the eye!) and you’re taking away the one thing guaranteed to help it go a little smoother. Drinking has been a social lubricant for thousands of years of human history. Jesus Christ fucking drank wine. But you are a “mature person” so I guess you know better. Whatever. No hard feelings. Maybe you should move to Utah, that might be more your speed."

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Joel Church Cooper.

Because, what are we going to talk about? I don't actually find you that interesting. Sheesh.

but i'm sorry, the new rihanna kills it

My boss is playing all the rap music on her ipod after hearing of my love for Lil Wayne... as a result, I am rediscovering my love for Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, especially that song with the Fleetwood Mac (?) sample. Wind Blow, I believe it is called. The rap coming up is mostly late nineties gems along those lines, including Mo' Money, Mo' Problems, O.P.P., and other such gems.

adjustments

My life is like some sick adult joke lately that more reminds me of a cross between high school, the most boring parts of college, and some weird alternate universe where I am responsible.

My body has started to freak out, too, when I do normal things that I always used to do, like drink 40's. Last night, in what didn’t even seem like a mildly good idea at the time, I drank two steel reserve 40’s because they were so ridiculously cheap at the backdoor liquor store we went to, that had to buy 2 AND a pack of gum to bring my total up to five dollars to allow me to pay with a credit card. I am really glad I didn’t buy three, but I can’t even think about that right now. It is after I do things like this that I realize why I am, and probably always will be, very single. Would you honestly want to date a girl who even considers drinking two steel reserve 40's unless you live in a double-wide? Probably not. Anyway, after drinking what would have been considered a "pre-game" in college (although we never used that term, it was more like drinking and then going somewhere else to do more drinking), I puked in my bed this weekend. Disgusting. Really gross. No excuse for any person who can legally drink to do this. But I did. And then I woke up to the war going on inside my head between the remaining steel reserve trying to exit my system apparently through my temples, and the rest of my head.

Oh also there was someone else in my bed while I was completely relieving my self in it. Yep. Seriously. Why am I still alive? He made up some polite excuse about having to wake up early in the morning, but even if that was true, why are people still nice to me? Not only was I lying in a pool of my own vomit, I am a drunken mess who cannot hold my liquor in an adult way by any stretch of the imagination, I make poor choices almost constantly, I don't shower every day, and I refuse to vacuum the leaves off the floor of my apartment because they blew in through the window and I didn't put them there. Seriously, I don't deserve nice things, and I certainly don't deserve people putting up with my less than acceptable behavior. It would just make things a lot easier for me if people treated me the way parents treated children and not let me have any privileges until my behavior improves.

excuse me, what?

They make fleece-lined leggings now??? EXCUSE ME? This has Appleton written all over it in neon pink. Srrsly, in college, I refused to leave my dorm before I was wearing at least five pairs of these things because there was just too much room for wind to get through while wearing normal pants. When you combine the frozen tundra, ice age flashback that is Appleton with the constantly hungover induced laziness that is college, you get leggings. All the time. Lined in fleece? Please, I would have been unstoppable. Now I'm a real person and wearing leggings as pants is no longer excusable I guess, but I'm getting these anyway and wearing them out of spite while I nostalgically drink whisky out of Starbucks cups in celebration of things I did in college to announce the arrival of winter. Next I bet they'll start making attractive UGG boots. Kids these days have no idea how lucky they have it.

because those are funny and not tragic

went home to help my mom correct papers. watched the hills and the city in an effort to try to connect with people my age, and not slip out of the under 25 age bracket while i'm not paying attention. wondered why people my age watch these shows. then wondered if people my age actually like these shows, or are able to follow the plot without confusing the significant amount of scruffily facial-haired, Ed Hardy-wearing gentlemen who look like they drink girl drinks. seriously, do people watch this, or do they just read the recaps on nymag.com?

when i break i break

Today = worst day of life since I bought a twelve pack on Friday. I usually don’t have stupid days when I wear an outfit that makes me look older than 12 and is 100% brand new, down to the underwear. Waste of a new outfit and 3 ½ inch heels. NOT FAIR. I plan on taking the 30 to Urban Outfitters after work and buying things on credit, and maybe going to the gym and watching the Kardashians after that. I mostly refuse to be thinking or trying past five o’clock today.


(this is me attempting to walk in those damn things)

So here I am, clomping around in these 3 ½ inch heels, which make me all of, WOO-HOO 5’7” exactly, and over-priced black pants that I would be able to wrap around the bottom of my foot twice if I weren’t wearing hooker heels, trying to fix some stupid technology problem on a PC desktop computer. As far as I’m concerned, it isn’t realistic to assume that I would be able to make that do anything other than start up. The way PCs work is so adverse to the way that I assume things work, that when I get hired to perform jobs at companies that refuse to use modern computers, my technological knowledge should be compared to that of a baby boomer, not a normal person my age. What I’m pretty sure I was trying to do was make sound come out of the computer. There’s only so many buttons you can reasonably push in this situation. So I’m punching buttons on this computer, silently wishing that one of them will make it blow up and injure me only enough to require prescription strength Ibuprofen, and coming to the cruel realization that just because you wear a grown up outfit, you will not magically be spared from having what you once naively assumed were college kid problems. Nope, they’re just people problems, turns out, and your cognac, celebrity-toed, imitation expensive shoes aren’t going to help you clomp away from them any faster. They cost $80, which is more than the US government paid me for spending 2 hours solving that problem. Actually, it’s more than the US government is going to pay me for enduring this WHOLE DAY. I’ll see you in hell, Bill Gates. You bring the Windows ’97. I'll bring these shoes.

Celebrity Toe

For a while, since Christian Louboutin came on my radar, I've envied what I think of as the "celebrity toe." All fashion-forward celebrities have it - the elusive, not pointy but not rounded and definitely not the dreaded square toe, perfectly curved almond toe. I don't know why I'm so obsessed with this, but I am, and I've searched tirelessly, even refusing to buy other shoes, for a poor girl's almond toe pump. This weekend, I finally find myself the proud owner of $80 almond-toe heels, courtesy of Aldo, that make my feet look as famous as I've dreamed. It's typical, I know, to imagine that owning a certain item or style of clothing will drastically improve your life, help you make friends, become more respected, generally desired, and loved by everyone, and that's definitely what these shoes have done for me. I imagined my short, stumpy, small-footed self sliding into a pair of celebrity-imitation shoes and automatically turning from a college-student pumpkin into an adult. I'd sort of imagined that once my shoes gave the illusion of my perfect toes, I'd project the natural style and elegance of Marion Cotillard or Rihanna. I guess that might happen, but it's probably important to note that the only reason I was inspired to make this stupid dream a reality was because my boss told me I needed shoes that made me look more grown up, and the shoe salesman told me that these shoes would help me gain respect as a short person in the workplace. Thanks. It is confusing that I have not turned into Marion Cotillard, complete with Frechman on my arm. But I am a little taller, so at least won't get mistaken for an eighth grader. And, you know, our toes look the same.

Here's how I know I spend pathetically more time at work than I do awake at home: Today I thought of bringing my cottage cheese and yogurt to work and putting them in the fridge there, because I only have the desire to eat them while I'm there, never while I'm home, and I'm sure they'll soon go bad.

I'm too young to be living this way.

I've started sleeping on my couch to prevent the desire to sleep in. I'll determine whether this is fully successful after I do it without actually sleeping in. But hopefully, this way, sleeping in my bed is like some kind of weekend reward that I only get to do if I wake up without slamming my hand down on my alarm 10 (yep, seriously) times each morning and waking up an hour after originally intended. I rationalize this by telling myself that the people who live upstairs can hear it, and they deserve it for CLOMPING AROUND LIKE CLYDESDALE HORSES IN A BUDWEISER AD FROM SEVEN TO EIGHT EVERY MORNING AND NINE TO ELEVEN EVERY NIGHT. I don't understand how one, maybe two, people could possibly walk so much in a studio apartment. What are they doing? Where do they need to GO? What are they rolling around that is making that outrageous noise? I hate them. I don't think they can hear my alarm. There is zero justice in this world, and I am always running to work with that stupid nineties song about wishing your bed was already made blaring in my head. Like I even make my bed.

Today I told my boss that it is possible that some people might consider me to "have an embarrassing obsession with Lil' Wayne." She laughed, so I think that went okay.

i'm not making any lemonade from today

These are some things that (seriously) happened today:
8:42 - Got on the bus. Apparently, this was a bus coming straight from the crazy factory, because that's what everyone on this bus was. One woman was using her old-fashioned metal shopping cart to hit people, and she made everyone clear the aisles so she could unfold it and wheel it out. On her way off, she hit the foot of the man next to me, but told the bus driver that the man assaulted her and was evil. As soon as she got off, another crazy lady with a shopping cart (bus total: 3) got on. This lady wanted to go to M & I bank, but was refusing to walk, which was impossible if she wanted to take this bus to get there. So instead, she made the bus driver stop at LITERALLY EVERY STOP and tell her what it was. After each stop, she would announce that he missed her stop and he had no idea what he was doing and now she would never be able to get dropped off right in front of the bank. WHAT A ROUGH DAY FOR HER.
9:28 - Got to work. That bus ride usually takes fifteen minutes.
Then, after work, I went grocery shopping. I haven't done this in over a month, so I had two heaping bags of food as I was getting on my fourth bus of the day. I barely made it on, and had to show the bus driver my pass WITH MY MOUTH, so as soon as I got on I kind of dropped my bags and anticipated kicking them over to one of the close handicapped seats. There are three on each side, but there was an approximately twenty year old dude sitting in the middle of each of the seats, and each asshole refused to get out or scoot over, so I had to stand balancing my bags for the entire ride, during which food fell out and rolled around the bus, and I had to crawl around at their feet to collect it. Not only did they not budge, but they couldn't even be troubled to help me pick it up. THIS REALLY HAPPENED. I don't really understand how I am expected to put up with that kind of bus ride, while some old lady, crazy, old, or not, expects that a bus driver will personally deliver her to her desired destination and that on the way, everyone will clear a complete berth for her to move herself and her SHOPPING CART around the bus. Everyone except me is crazy.