Hi Blob! Blob! OH MY GOSH, I seem to be incapable of typing “blgo” OH MY GOSHOHMYGOSH, I promise you, I’m really trying to type it correctly! B L O G. There. Phew.

It’s been a long time. I keep meaning to write, but it’s like the friend you haven’t talked to in months, and even though you really want to talk to them, you feel overwhelmed because you feel like you have SO much to catch up on. That’s kind of how I feel about this. But I’m just diving in, and instead of giving you some long-winded life update, I’m just going to tell you what’s going on now.

I’m sitting at my dining room table in my newest apartment (Mary and I moved again in March) and looking out the windows at the streets below (we’re on the 2nd floor). About 15 minutes ago, a guy in a green shirt walked by on the street that runs perpendicular to my street, and he reminded me of Kenneth from 30 Rock, which is why I noticed him. It wasn’t him, but anyway, he was carrying a manilla folder, and I wondered if he was on his way to some type of audition or interview and was glad it wasn’t me. Even though I should wish I were going to an audition, right at this very moment I’m tired and have a sinus headache and am happy to be sitting at my table looking out the window. So anyway, that was like 15 minutes ago, and just now, like one minute ago, he walked by on my street, still carrying the folder, but now carrying a water jug in each hand. What is he up to? What do y’all think he’s doing out there? The worst thing is, I’ll never really know.

Another thing that happened the other day while I was sitting here was that I saw on that same perpendicular street a girl who I at first thought might be this girl I kind of know who we’ll call Marjorie, because she had a similar haircut and distinctive style of dress. But it wasn’t her, BUT about half an hour later, old Marjorie really DID walk down that very same street. WHAAAT??

Here’s another thing: I was just writing an email to my sketch team, and I cut a sentence out, then decided to paste it back in — BUT, I guess I had maybe deleted it instead of cut it, because it wasn’t on the clipboard. What WAS on the clipboard and what I ended up pasting in was… well, I’ll see if you can guess. Here is the real email with the real sentence that I pasted:

Hey TSP Actors!

Last night at the writers’ meeting we discussed a new potential system of paying Kevin in which the writers would pay him for writers’ meetings, writers and actors would both pay him for the initial read-through, and then actors would pay him for the actors’ rehearsals. Would you all be ok with that? It seems like it would come out about even for all of us. Marie hugs Jane and gives her a bouquet of flowers.

Thanks!
Marcy

Oh man, email hijinks, right?

Well, this has been a thoroughly weird blentry, but you’ve gotta just jump back on that horse. Except not literally. I’m done with horseback riding after a fateful “adventure” on the last horse I ever plan to ride. But that’s a story for another time.

Recently someone suggested I get some plants for my room. Since I value this person’s opinion and since I could always use an extra dose of Oxygen — hey, who couldn’t? — when my friends Mike and Rebecca offered me a peaked-looking plant in their living room window, I eagerly agreed. He was a spider plant, so I immediately named him Peter Parker and resolved to nurse him back to excellent health — this being opposite of my usual M.O. of taking perfectly healthy plants and killing them in record-breaking time.

I brought Peter home, watered him and left him in the sink overnight, and the very next day, instead of procrastinating for weeks, which again would have been the usual protocol, installed a hook into my bedroom ceiling, tied a pretty ribbon onto it, and hooked his pot onto the pretty ribbon, where he has been hanging for the last few days and at least in my imagination seems to be improving health-wise.

But tonight I got home and something unsettled me a little bit. Nothing even tangible, but something about his leaves gave me a very, very slight case of the willies. And this reminded me of why I didn’t already have a room full of plants, why I’ve never even purchased one single houseplant, at least not for myself. I will make no bones about it — plants are creepy! I look at Peter, and it’s like his leaves are tentacles lurching out at me, or maybe they’re strands of hair on the head of a tiny troll submerged in the dirt of the pot. Either way, there’s no escaping the fact that plants are alive, and just because they don’t speak doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t plotting a coup against all animal life. It makes me shiver.

Mind you, I’ve never gotten anything but friendly vibes from Peter. I assume he must be grateful to me for rescuing him from the negligent parenting of my friends and giving him water, sunlight, and his own hook in the ceiling where he can swing merrily all day and observe goings-on from high up. I mean, he should be grateful! But plants need more than water, sunlight, and prime real estate, from what I’m told. Like animals, plants, I’m told, also need love. And folks, I’m just not sure I’m ready for that. I’m just not sure I’m ready.

*****

Update: I wrote this about a year ago and didn’t post it for whatever reason. I’m pleased to announce Peter is still alive and has accompanied me to my new apartment (new as of last March). The bad news is, my plant-care habits have waned down to a level that keeps young Pete alive, but barely. I regret to admit that he is much less full than he was at his peak. (His health really did improve at my last house; I’m thinking it was all the sunlight. Oh, and the watering). In fact, about a third of him died altogether. There were about three sets of spriggles planted in his pot, and one set completely died. Also, he had a baby! Who died. Not sure how familiar you are with spider plants, but when they’re healthy, they form baby spider plants at the ends of their tentacles; and he did, and I intended to plant the baby and let her grow up and name her M.J., but alas, she died, and it’s all my fault. I did find her pretty creepy, but I didn’t mean to kill her. Sigh.

Guess what, Internet?

My sister is having a baby, and she just told me today that it’s a little boy, and they’re naming him Lucas, which I think is the most wonderful thing ever, and just now I was thinking about it in the bathroom at work and unconsciously began dancing around on my tiptoes, and then a woman came in and I had to pretend to be adjusting my hair like a civilized person.

My old friend Rebecca, a.k.a. The Feisty Tourist, had a post on her blog suggesting that her readers make bucket lists, like that old man movie with Jack Nicholson from a couple years ago. ”Bucket list” meaning a list of things you want to accomplish before you die (kick the bucket). I don’t know why I’ve never done it before, but why the H not? Goals are always good. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Attend the Kentucky Derby wearing a fabulous dress and hat.

Have a passionate make-out scene in the rain, just like in the movies but real.

Travel around the world, especially to Japan and New Zealand.

Ski in the alps and stay in a cute alpine chateau.

Learn to speak Spanish fluently.

Learn to meditate.

Visit New Orleans and Philadelphia to experience jazz, food, history, and brotherly love.

Go to the Sundance Film Festival to watch one of my own films.

Clarify my spiritual beliefs.

There! Now after a few short minutes, I’ve created all these things to look forward to! What would be on y’all’s lists?

Aaaaaahhhhhh, dudes, I was just in my bathroom in my underwear standing at the sink, and I felt something very light touching my back, and without panicking, I turned to look in the mirror, and there was a terrifying spider on my BARE BACK. He or she had climbed down his/her web from the ceiling, I’m deducing, and stopped to rest on my BACK!!! I shouted, “OH MY GOSH! OH MY GOSH!” Luckily s/he kept on moving down the web, and I was able to grab the web and move it away from me, and the spider went on the floor and I was able to look at him/her more closely, and s/he’s the kind with stripey legs and a picture of something on his/her back, and I left the scene and abandoned my task and came over here to tell you guys about it. I really don’t mind spiders that much; I don’t! I just really and truly do not want them on ME!

I was playing the guitar just now and noticing how my left pinky, when not in use, curls up into a gimpy little ball, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And it made me remember one time a year or so ago when I was playing the guitar for a boy I liked, and I’m all nervous and sweaty-palmed like, “This is it, I’d better be good so he’ll keep liking me and think I’m awesome,” and then I’m thinking, “Wow, this sounds really good; go me!” and I noticed that he was watching my hands and figured he was impressed by my fancy fingerwork and was probably falling in love with me because of it. But instead when I finished the song, all he said was, “Wow, you have really long fingers.” And suddenly instead of feeling proud I just felt embarrassed, because all along he’d just been sitting there mesmerized yet horrified by the car accident that was my comically long Jafar fingers: fingers that probably gave him nightmares at night; fingers that are attached to giant hands made more ridiculous by their juxtaposition with my teeny tiny wrists.

So I was thinking about that just now, and then I remembered a time long before, when I was in high school and visited a new friend’s house for the first time. The minute I stepped onto the big, sweeping porch (we’ll call it a “vast veranda” for effect), I was already feeling insecure, wishing he had never seen my little plain-jane house. He took me on a grand tour of the premises, ending at his room, which was pretty much a tower, with windows lining the walls on three full sides. It was stunning, but when he asked what I thought, all I could manage was a nonchalant “It’s nice,” like, “Whatever, I am sooooo not impressed; I eat houses like this in my cereal with sliced bananas as part of my complete breakfast.”

My point is, and I know we all know this; we’ve all heard it a thousand times, but for some reason it just now finally clicked with me: Insults stem from insecurity most of the time. Insecurity because the insulter is threatened by the insultee, because something the insultee has or is doing is better. It’s so much better that it’s scary to the insulter. So it must be pretty good. And that means that when someone is insulting me, it might mean I’m on the right track. It might be a sign that I should just keep going, keep doing what I’m doing, but more so.

I’m sure you’re like, “Um, Really, Marcy, you’re just now figuring this out? Duh, this is the most obvious fact in the universe.” Well, yeah, I don’t know, suddenly it just makes a lot of sense because I have practical things to apply it to. In any case, I finally get it, and I think this knowledge is going to help me a lot. And if it doesn’t, that’s cool, too; I’ll just find a genie and wish to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world! Mwahahahaha!

I went back into the bathroom after typing that blentry and didn’t see a single spider. Woke up in the morning, no suspicious bites anywhere. Phew! I thought I was home free. Until last night, when I’d just gotten out of the shower and was leaning over with my hair upside down while I dried off, and saw a baby spider dangling off my hair. Yes, repelling down his web, which was attached to my hair.

The saga continues.

Y’all, this is so trippy. I’m pretty sure my future self accidentally called my present self from a plane at LAX. I got this voicemail — the kind where someone’s phone accidentally dials you so there’s just muffled talking for a minute or two, and I swear to you I hear myself talking to someone… but it couldn’t be present or recent past-self me, because they’re (I’m) clearly in an airplane, and I hear the person (MYSELF) say something about LAX, and I haven’t flown since December. It’s so so trippy, you guys. I figure it must be someone I know if their phone accidentally called me, but my only friend who’s flown recently is my roommate, who sounds nothing like me, and plus I don’t recognize the number. This girl (ME) has my exact voice and a slight, subtle North Carolina accent, JUST LIKE ME. Obviously there are only two logical conclusions here:

1. I called myself from the future.

2. I called myself from an alternate universe in which I am a fabulous jetsetter.

If only I had picked up that call and could have gotten my attention! I would have asked myself so many questions about the future (provided conclusion 1 is the one we’re going with). For example, I could have asked myself if I’ve met the man of my dreams, if I’ve achieved a fulfilling career, and most importantly if I’ve managed to get rid of the adult acne on my forehead.

Anyway, guys, this one has me stumped. The only thing we really know for sure is that phones in the future are freaking awesome. I mean, the iPhone has a lot of functions, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t dial back in time.

You all know the Christmas Newsletter. Some people love them, some hate them. Personally, I like receiving them because I like to know what my friends are up to, and I’ll be the first to agree that it’s easier to share news with everyone all at once rather than one at a time (see also: this blog). Frankly I’d rather receive the news than not receive it, and if it comes in the form of a newsletter, so be it. Have you ever noticed, though, that the news is decidedly one-sided? It’s only the good news, which is why some people call it a “brag letter.” It makes sense, because nobody wants to send out a Debbie Downer Christmas letter full of depressing news, but still… I’ve decided that when I snag myself a husband and a coupla kids, and a newsletter seems the appropriate thing to do, I am going to make it as candid as possible. I’ll give the bad news right up there with the good. Just for funsies.

An example, for your reading pleasure:

Dear Friends and Family,

Happy Holidays! We hope the season brings you much joy.

We’ve been married now for 20-some-odd years, and frankly that’s 20-some-odd too many, if you ask us. This year has been very eventful for us. From January through March, Frank had yet another in a string of affairs with his co-workers. But don’t worry, he got his just desserts. He got fired, leaving the family in financial ruin. Marcy’s shopping addiction and refusal to get a job of her own hasn’t helped. But we’ll pull through; we always do. Whether that means going on welfare, declaring bankruptcy, or simply mooching off friends and loved ones, we always find a way. (We are enclosing a self-addressed, stamped envelope in case you’re feeling generous. Charity is always welcome this time of year and always).

Denise is fifteen now; can you believe it? My, how the years have flown. In May, she got knocked up by her 18-year-old boyfriend and is now living in a convent for teenage unwed mothers. She keeps in touch, though, with the occasional profanity-ridden phone call and/or request for money.

Speaking of money, Jack hit up another convenience store in August, and his parole officer was none-too happy. He’s back in prison for five to ten, but on the bright side, he’s become quite the little license plate maker.

With both kids out of the house, we’ve got a little bit of the empty nest sysndrome, as I’m sure many of you can sympathize. We stay busy, though, so there’s not much time to be gloomy — between Frank trying every miracle hair-growth “cure” on the market and Marcy trying in vain to control her chronic athlete’s foot, we really haven’t any time to complain!

Other than that, we’ve just been keeping busy overeating and chain smoking! So here’s to a joyous holiday season to you and yours, and a New Year as blessed as ours will surely be.

Love,

Frank, Marcy, Jack, Denise, Scruffy and Buttons

P.S. After we typed this letter, Scruffy died of mange and Buttons was hit by a car. Happy Holidays.

The Christmas Spirit has siezed me in a firm grip. I am nearly maniacal with love and cheer. Right now I’m at work, and it’s blissfully slow, and there are various treats from Harry & David set out on a table, and I got a big, fat pear and am waiting impatiently for it to ripen, because it smells so good I could simply die. As if that is not enough, they’re giving free chair massages in the health club downstairs, and I just got one, and if you know me at all you will know that I am a complete massage whore (for evidence please refer to this blentry) and will know how happy this makes me. This morning I received two photo Christmas cards and a newsletter from friends and family, and my co-worker is playing Christmas music. I, of course, have been listening to two Christmas CDs over and over in my car for the last two weeks. I can’t get enough! I am *this close* to hand-sewing an elf costume and setting up a nativity scene in the yard. Don’t ask me why it’s got me so much this year. Maybe it’s all the Christmas parties I’ve been attending; Maybe it’s that my white Christmas tree (pictured below) looks awesome for the first time thanks to some solid-red lights my mom sent; Maybe it’s because I’m going home to North Carolina for the first time in three Christmases. MaYbe it’s all of these things. I don’t know — but I’m not complaining.

Merry Christmas!

Welllll, as most of you already know, I dropped my cell phone in the toilet at work on Monday. I emailed a bunch of people in my address book to ask for phone numbers, and I got so many sympathetic and hilarious replies back, it made my day. It’s pretty great that I have so many sweet, funny friends. The other thing that’s great is that I’m using the phone now that I had 2-4 years ago, and after I got it activated, I went through all the ringtones and listened to them (see Appendix A for my rant on ringtones), and it hearkened me back to the time in my life when I was using this phone. My main ringtone reminded me of New Year’s 2004, which I spent in Boston and New York with my friend Elise; the choo-choo train sound reminded me of being in Delaware shooting Jeremy’s movie Wrestling; the “rainforest” alarm sound reminded me of my trip to Australia in March/April of that year with five of my friends, because on the morning we had to get up really early to literally go to the rainforest, I set that alarm so as to be thematic, and for once in my life I hopped out of bed without hitting snooze, because we were going! to the rainforest! Come on guys, wake up!; and so on and so forth, with warm, fuzzy memories for each ringtone.

Screetching subject change: Some of y’all have asked me how I got the high five from Ryan Gosling that I mentioned 2 blentries ago, and truthfully I hadn’t updated you because it’s a pretty boring story and I enjoyed being mysterious, because maybe in your minds you were picturing me hobnobbing with high society and whatnot. Nah… I went and saw a screening of Lars and the Real Girl, and Ryan was there doing Q&A afterwards, and then after the Q&A he actually stuck around to talk to people, so my friend and I went up to talk to him, and we chatted for a second and he gave me a high five. So yeah, booooring. But I thoroughly enjoyed both the five and the movie. In fact, the movie was really, really, incredible, and I highly encourage you to see it. Best movie I’ve seen in years, except of course for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Did I just discredit myself for saying that, and now you won’t go see Lars? Well, your loss… and HP5 was truly a badass movie, even if you aren’t a Potter nerd like I am.

Appendix A: The Ringtone Rant

It’s so annoying how none of the newfangled cell phones on the market now have nice ringtones. They just expect you to download songs, so they don’t bother. But ringtones used to be my favorite part of phones! I used to not buy a phone before I had heard and approved of all the ringtones. I think it’s more fun to have a cute jingly tune than a song, because if you choose a song you like, you will get sick of it and stop liking it as much, and if you pick a song you don’t like, that’s just dumb. In conclusion, I am resistant to change (just call me Gramps) and plan to keep my old-ass phone until it falls apart or I drop it in something wet, and every time it rings its beautiful jingly-jangly ringtone I will feel rapture. By the way, the first time I heard a polyphonic ring tone, as opposed to the single-toned beepity ones that they all used to have, I was visiting my friend Jamie in Brooklyn, heard his phone ring, and thought it was the ice cream truck. Yep.

Y’all, what is the matter with me? I’m sorry I haven’t written a blentry in forever. I just keep getting distracted with things. Yesterday, for example, there was a one-legged cricket in my bathroom all day. Every time I went to pee, I eyed him suspiciously to make sure he knew I would not tolerate him jumping on me. This was before I knew he only had one leg. At that point, he actually may have had two, because it wasn’t until later that I saw a leg sitting on its own a short distance away from the cricket himself, bless his heart.

I kept hoping he would just disappear like magic, but by the time it was time to go to bed, he was still there, and had in fact hobbled to right in front of the toilet where I would be forced to either step on him with my bare feet or risk him jumping or crawling on me when I sat down. I don’t like killing bugs like crickets because they’re big enough to hear a crunch and make a mess, and plus crickets aren’t gross like some other bugs. At the same time, though, I knew I didn’t want him jumping on me, and I was faced with a call from nature I simply could not ignore… so I got a big plastic cup and a newspaper and hooshed him into the cup with the newspaper, then poured him out the front window into the window box, which is probably a much more pleasant place for a one-legged cricket than a bathroom floor.

Point being, things like this keep happening and things like blog writing keep not happening, so I’m sorry. You might think a cricket in the bathroom is a poor excuse for not writing a blentry, and you are entitled to your opinion. You might also wonder what I was doing while not writing and while the cricket was relaxing in the bathroom, and the answer is: I woke up at 10, showered, rode my bike up to the corner to a massage studio and got a massage, rode home, got back in bed with my laptop and watched episodes of Clark and Michael until I feel asleep, napped for an hour and a half, then got up and went across town to my improv practice, then after practice went to El Guapo with most of my team for half-price bad food, then went home and went to bed. As you can see, I am far too busy and important to spare a moment for blog writing, or “laundry,” or “cleaning my room” for that matter.

P.S. I am SICK! With a dumb cold. I sneezed a billion times in a row last night, and my nose is all tickly. Please feel sorry for me.

When you find yourself wearing one white sock with lace around the ankle and one multicolored Curious George sock, it is time to do laundry.

Where can I purchase a baby? I haven’t been to Target in a couple years; do they sell them there? How much will a top-of-the-line baby set me back? Fifty bucks? A hundred? I’m out of touch. Should I check Consumer Reports?

***

Something spooky is happening to me. Perhaps my female peers can relate. It started when I turned 26, then let up for a while, and has now snuck back up and has smacked me upside the head. My body wants a baby. That sounds weird, but it’s true. I don’t want one in my mind, logically, because I’ve got goals and whatnot… but… this is disturbing, but true: I’m admitting something kind of embarrassing here, so just… just… don’t…. whatever. I’m going to tell you, Internet. I recently glanced at match.com, simply because my friend was doing it and I wanted to just see what kind of gentlemen are actually on it. And I’m not saying I’m embarrassed because it’s something one should be embarrassed about, because by all means, it’s hard to meet people, especially in big cities, so by all means, you know, knock yourself out. But the embarrassing part is coming. First you must know that on match.com you can browse other people’s profiles for free and don’t have to sign up unless you want to contact one of them. So I was freely browsing, and I came upon this one profile with this one picture… and the picture was of a guy who looked very cute in this particular picture, holding in a very cute way the cutest damn baby the internet has seen (not including any of you who read this and have babies, because of course your baby is the cutest). And I must specify that the baby is the dude’s neice, not his daughter. But I mean, the combination of the cute boy and the cute baby made my ovaries shriek and jump up and down with excitement, like 13-year-olds at a slumber party. I very nearly joined match.com just to contact this boy with this baby, but then logic took over and I realized he doesn’t come with the baby; I believe she is sold separately. Boy, did he know what he was doing when he set up his profile. If ever there were a way to catch the interest of a girl in her mid-late 20s, that’s how. For girls our age, the baby trumps the puppy as girl-magnet material any day, as long as the baby doesn’t actually belong to the boy.

In any case, can I get a set of those? The boy and the baby? It’s not even that I logically want one; I’m very happy being single and frankly have no time whatsoever for dating anyway, much less raising an actual tiny human, but if I could just maybe order a set online, just to appease the ovaries, I could maybe focus on more urgent and pressing matters, like you know, my career and reading Harry Potter 7.

I think it was my friend Missy who told me this story. 4th of July 2004, she was at a party on a boat, and there was a girl there who wasn’t from around these here parts and didn’t speak the best English and didn’t always quite get what was going on, but always pretended she did. At the pinnacle of the fireworks display, right at the big finale, in a fit of ecstatic love for her new country, she gleefully shouted, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FOURTH OF JULY!”

You gotta love that.

I celebrated America’s independence today by eating McDonald’s food and drinking a Coca-Cola. I was at work, and there were only two of us there, because who in their right mind wants to celebrate our independence from Britain by sending out press releases? (answer: Canadians). Point being, it was really slow and there were only two of us, and I was working a later shift but had eaten lunch really early, and I suddenly became starving. The cafe downstairs was closed for the holiday, and the next closest place was the Mickey-D’s across the street. And let me just tell you something right here and now. I have a pretty serious weakness for Chicken McNuggets. They are so, so good. And please don’t get me started on the sweet & sour sauce, because that sauce? is the nectar of the gods.

Now, I realize McDonald’s is an evil, wicked corporation who does terrible things to people, animals, insects, small businesses, the earth, your health, clowns, inanimate objects, and all that is good and right and holy in the world. But damn, those McNuggets are good. I don’t really know the extent of McD’s sins, and I’m kind of doing the thing where I close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears and hum so I don’t have to face facts, because I would probably be forced to boycot them if I knew. I have a bit of a boycotting problem as it is. I love a good boycot. I haven’t been to Target in over two years simply because they have an unfair return policy and surly store managers. And just today for the first time I tried this new organic deodorant because 1. aluminum is bad for you and 2. I try not to buy cosmetics that are tested on aminals (yes, please pronounce that a-mi-nals, just for fun. Just humor me). The deodorant worked for a good three hours while I sat still at my desk in my air-conditioned office, and frankly I was amazed and waaaay too optimistic about the whole thing. I kept smelling myself and thinking, “Wow, it’s actually working! I smell nothing but the intoxicating aroma of lemon and clary sage. Amazing!” but the minute I moved… like, turned my head to the side or stapled something, that was just too much to ask, and it gave out, and my armpits became gummy for the rest of the day, and I kept having to re-apply (yes, I brought it to work in anticipation of this very problem) until when I raised my arms they didn’t want to raise right at first because the deodorant was acting as a kind of glue, sticking my arms to my sides. (As a side note, tonight I went to a party, and the soap they had in the bathroom was the exact same thing as my new deodorant — Nature’s Gate organic lemon and clary sage. Too bad that as of today, I now associate that smell with that of failing deodorant. mmmm).

So anyway, my point is, I have to pick my battles, and if I’m willing to walk around with gummy armpits so as to avoid causing dead bunnies, then surely I can be excused from the occasional 10 pack of McNuggets. Just sayin’.

Tonight I left work at 8:30 and took freeways to the party. During the whole drive I was surrounded with fireworks in every direction. It made me laugh and smile and feel carefree, and well… patriotic. Whatever people’s reason for celebrating, they were — and it made me feel kind of… un-lonely, like I belonged, like there was this sense of unity — and it reminded me how lucky I am to live here. This country is home, and it’s a good place to be. At a time when I’m not proud of things America is doing, and in many circles patriotism is soooo uncool, I will say that I am proud of where we came from, what we’ve acheived, and most importantly, I’m proud to live in a place where I can be free to go out and celebrate the things I do love about America, and speak out about the things I don’t. In many countries, I wouldn’t even be allowed to have this blog without worrying about getting in trouble for things I say. (As it is, all I have to worry about is looking like a jackass and embarrassing myself). And in some countries I would have to have gotten married by now, and my old, gross husband, to whom my father would have sold me for a cow and a dozen eggs, would tell me to keep my mouth shut and know my place. Or I might not even know how to read or write because I wasn’t allowed to go to school. As a woman, and as a woman in my twenties who is able to be single and free and pursue my dreams, I am so thankful I was born here instead of so many places I could have been born. So thankful I could kiss the ground beneath my feet and give America a big, fat hug.

Happy Birthday indeed, Fourth of July. Happy Birthday indeed.