BaddMinton

It’s officially Autumn, and in LA it’s gloomy and cold (60 degrees), and overnight I went from riding my bike everywhere and wanting to hike every day to having one desire in life: to sit in the house in sweatpants eating carbohydrates. Why, as a human, and in Southern California, do I instinctively want to hibernate? Were my ancestors bears? Maybe this is why when I asked my grandmother where her side of the family had originated she said she didn’t know. And here I took my family’s ignorance of our heritage to mean we’d been in America for hundreds of years; I never once considered my great-great-great grandfather may have caught fish with his hands and gotten his head stuck in beehives. Well, you learn something new every day.

Greetings! I am on drugs. Because I got my wisdom teeth out today. It was fun at first, like when I first woke up and was so heavily drugged I was a ragdoll and things were funny, but now I’m sitting here watching everything we’ve TiVo’d in the last two months while my friends are at my friend Theo’s birthday party, and only one of my cheeks for some reason has swollen up to the size of a beachball, so I’m a half human, half chipmunk. And while I’m complaining, I would like to point out that two days ago I was snorkeling in Mexico.

I was there for my American friend Virginia (not to be confused with my British friend Virginia who also got married this year)’s wedding, and it was wonderful and amazing, and such a relaxing and much-needed vacation. I flew down and back with Rebecca and Mike, and we extended the feeling of being on vacation as much as we possibly could, starting with almost missing our flight. We somehow forgot that we were in Mexico, and a snorkeling tour that says it’s going to return at 1:00 will actually return when it’s good and ready; in this case, 2:30. And then we had to get back to the hotel, pack, and get to the airport for a 3:50 flight. As the clock ticked, Mike asked the boat captain when we might be heading back, and his answer was, “Chill out, man, Relax! Tranquilo! You’re on vacation!” We ended up making it — albeit still covered in salt water and sand and possible sea creatures down our pants, and with everything crammed willy nilly into our suitcases — and even had time for one last tequila shot in the airport bar before leaving Mexico for good (well, for now).

I’ll probably upload all my photos tomorrow while I’m lying around half-chipmunking it up, so I hope you enjoy them.

Speaking of snorkeling, in the water I saw one of the guide dudes come towards Rebecca with a scary-looking crustacean with way too many tentacles all a-kimbo. I saw her wave her hand like, “No, no, I don’t want to touch it,” but he grabbed her hand and shoved the thing at her. I swam away as fast as my flippers could carry me, and when he looked at me all, “ehhh?” I yelled, “PLEASE DO NOT COME NEAR ME WITH THAT THING.” I have very mixed feelings about oceans.

P.S. I wrote this yesterday but fell asleep before publishing it, and now I’m too lazy to go back and change all the “yesterday”s to “thursday”s, etc. Morning update: My left cheek is now even bigger than before, and my right cheek is still perfectly normal. Now instead of a half chipmunk, I look like half Dizzy Gillespie, mid-song. (I’ve also turned into a black male jazz musician on that side, too. Weird).

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.

So yesterday I had this audition for the part of a Texas debutante in a TV show. It was a fun part, and I felt great about it and was really excited.

So I get in there all confident-like, and the dude takes one look at me and says, “How old are you?”

“23,” I said. You may think this is an untruth, but you’ll note he didn’t specify whether he meant actual years or how young I felt in spirit. How was I to know?

Apparently this was still the wrong answer, because he said, “They’ll never cast you as Deb. Here. Read for ‘The Mom.’”

Um.

The mom? Really?

So anyway, that happened, and I went home to complain to my roommates and run an errand before heading to work, and then something very interesting happened:

I went to the bathroom, then got up and noticed something in my pants that didn’t seem like it should be there. I thought, did the toilet paper get waylaid in my jeans on its way into the toilet? Surely not. I can be on the scatterbrained side, but come on, now. So I reached in and pulled out… another pair of panties. A balled-up pair of underwear that was outside of the underwear I was wearing, floating around in my jeans. The jeans I had worn to the audition.

I guess when I had worn them before, I took them and my underwear off at the same time and folded the jeans and put them on my “clothes chair.” Then yesterday morning I put them on, not noticing that there was a pair of panties inside. Then went to an audition.

Could it be the casting director thought I looked more like a mom than a teenage debutante because no young woman with a large butt tumor would ever be selected to make her debut into exclusive upper-class Dallas society?

I can’t imagine how I didn’t feel anything the whole time… parking, finding the audition, talking to the security guard, standing, sitting, walking, moving around in front of the casting director and all the other people who were waiting to audition… I can only hope this means the auxiliary, contraband panties were flattened against my butt in a way that made them invisible to the naked eye, and only when I shifted things around in the bathroom did they ball themselves up and appear like a freakish butt goiter.

I can only hope.

This has to be short because I’m sick with the cold that’s going around and I’m so, so tired… but before I forget I have to just say that I’ve been listening to Brandi Carlile a lot lately, and as a side note I saw her last week and she is amazing; so badass and incredible… but anyway there’s this song and I swear at one point she says, “my mind is full of raisins.” I know this can’t be, so I listen as hard as I can every time it comes around, but that’s all I can hear. Tomorrow I’ll look up the lyrics and let you know how far off I am, but right now I’m so tired I feel like my mind is full of raisins.

I had an audition today and have a ridiculous story to share. I think this story will make you all wonder why I’m not on a sit-com. Not because it will awe you with tales of my acting acumen, but rather because I pretty much live in a sitcom in which I’m the character who always runs into the doorjam on her way out the door, slips and falls, and walks around with toilet paper on her shoe. I’m that one. If my actual, real life were a sit-com, you’d watch it and go, “Yeah, right, nobody is that ridiculous in real life.” But you’d be wrong. Anyway, so I have this ridiculous story but again I’m dying of tiredness, so I will leave you with one final mysterious tidbit before I go to sleep: I just got a high five from Ryan Gosling. WOOT!

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.

So… A couple weeks ago, my neighbors put a cardboard box out next to the trash with a paper sign taped to it that said, “Swimming pool with cover and pump,” hoping someone would come pick it up. Nobody did, and so it sat there for a few days, and then someone moved it right next to our front steps. Why they would do this I don’t know, because I mean, duh, clearly the kiddie pool didn’t belong to any of the neighbors on either side of us who both have young kids; clearly it should be the responsibility of the house full of four adults who obviously would be the only people to leave a baby pool outside in a box.

Anyway.

At work last week, my co-worker Justin and I were having a conversation across our cubicle wall. It went something like this:

“Did you have a nice lunch, Justin?”

“Yes, I went to Target.”

“Did you buy any fun things?”

“Oh, not really, you know… Actually I was looking for a pool. I think I want to get a pool, like a kiddie pool.”

“So here’s the deal. There’s a pool that’s been sitting outside my house for the last week. Do you want it?”

So anyway, that was Thursday, and that night I put the box of pool in the trunk of my car so I could give it to Justin at work on Monday. So it rode around in my car all weekend including Friday, and then he wasn’t here on Monday, and yesterday was so busy I didn’t have a chance to go get it for him… So for 6 days that box has been in my trunk.

This morning work was slower, and we went down to the parking garage to get it. I pulled it out of the trunk, and he stretched it out to look at it. There was another piece of vinyl in there, and we’re like, “What’s this?” “Oh, the cover,” and then he pulls out a little blue plastic bag and goes, “What’s this?”
And for a fraction of a hair of a second, I was thinking, “the pump?” And then a horrible realization dawned, and I said, praying it wasn’t true, “A sack of dog shit?”

And it was.

People.

I have been driving around town for nearly a week with a pile of DOG CRAP. in my car. And to make matters more ridiculous, all week I’ve been like, “Why does my car smell so bad?” Yesterday I spent my entire lunch break at the car wash, vacuuming every inch of the interior, except for the trunk. Why did it never occur to me that someone would have kindly placed a bag of feces in the box that had been sitting in my trunk for the last week? I don’t know, maybe I had somehow maintained a shred of faith in humanity? Because who does that? Who puts a pile of poop in a pool box?

Yesterday I was in line at the post office, and there was a 5-year-old kid with his mom in front of me. He was SO excited about everything, especially stamps. He was running back and forth and shouting at twice the normal speed, “We’ll get two stamps! One for you and one for me! Mom, we’ll get two stamps!” Then he started singing this song: “Stamps! Stamps! Staaaaaaaaamps! Stamps. Stamps. Staaaaaaaaaaamps!”

A minute later he said, “Mom, can you just buy me a sticker? Mom, can you just buy me a sticker? Just buy me a sticker, OK?”

“They’re not stickers, they’re stamps,” she says.

very tiny pause.

“Can you just buy me a stamp?”

Me, I wasn’t planning on buying stamps, but after all that hype, how could I resist? Clearly, stamps are the hottest thing since sliced bread! Yeah, I bought a sheet, what? You jealous?

I was in line today waiting to order some lunch at a fast food dining establishment, and I saw the girl at one register look and point at the woman at the other register… and I wish I could draw a picture here of what her face looked like, but if looks could talk, hers would have said, “Alllll you.” And the woman she was pointing at, whom I assume was the manager or some type of senior-type employee, and whom we’ll call Darlene, went over to this customer man who was positively FUMING, like so angry he was about to cry. He looked like someone might look if they had just stumbled out of a burning, flipped-over car in the bottom of a ravine.

He says, through clenched jaw, “I wanted an extra-large Coke, but you’re out of the cups, and I don’t see why I should have to pay more to get…” something, blah blah, and she just says, “Limited time only. Those were limited time only,” and walks back to her register. Oh, Snap, Darlene! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

And he shouts after her, “OK, FINE! WHATEVER!” And I had to bite my tongue, because the smart-alec in me was very tempted to helpfully suggest that perhaps he was dehydrated from all those extra-large Cokes, which are really very bad for him, and maybe that’s why he was so irritable.

But I was pretty sure he would lunge at me, fists flying, and then his head would explode, so instead I just shared a commiserating chuckle and head-shake with Darlene. A few minutes later I snuck a peek at him, and he was still staring wildly ahead and breathing all raggedy.

I just have to stop… and point out… that this guy really wanted an extra-large Coke.

Friends, large was just not large enough for this gentleman.

Large was just… not… large… … enough.

So… The toilet paper at work never runs out. This is a good thing on one level, for obvious reasons… but I can’t help wondering what happens to the almost-empty rolls. Do they throw them away? That would be mighty wasteful. Or do the janitors take them home to their families? Are there a bunch of cute little Latino kids using scratchy office toilet paper that is never fuller than 1/8 of a roll? I wonder these things.

I tried to confirm my theory by peeking into the janitor’s cart when I walked by just now, but I saw no evidence of auxiliary TP stashed in any sort of “take home” pile.

Your theories are welcome.

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.

Last night at one a.m. I awoke with a jolt. Sat up straight in bed with a sudden inhalation of breath. There was some sort of loud noise and sense of movement, and I thought someone had broken into my house and was right outside my room. I remember thinking, “Should I scream? Would that help anything?” All this flashed through my mind in a fraction of a second, and then I noticed the chair near my bed was shaking. Ah! An earthquake. (It’s good to know that if there were someone on the way to hack me to pieces I’d just sit there frozen and confused — “huuh? Oh, you’re going to kill me? Ohhh, ok…)

I usually sleep through earthquakes, but I had only been asleep about 20 minutes, so I guess I woke more easily. The two others I have felt were just one quick jolt, but this one was just like the movies, where stuff goes on shaking for a while. Mind you, in my sleepy fog it seemed like forever, but I’m sure it was only a few seconds.

I was thinking about it today, and this, I realize, is completely backwards and a terrible way to think… but… I kind of wished I could live through a real natural disaster just so I could relax about some things. Does that make sense? You always hear people talking about their near-death experiences, and they say the whole thing has made them focus on what’s important, and suddenly the things that used to stress them out don’t seem like such a big deal anymore. They’re just so happy and thankful to be alive, they just want to enjoy their family and friends, and now they wake up every day with a smile on their face.

I think in general I maintain a pretty firm grasp on the big picture. I know I’m incredibly blessed in so many ways, and overall my life is amazing. And I also know that a big part of life and happiness is having goals to work toward — it’s the way humans are designed. So I know that no matter what I achieve, I will always want something more. It’s good, but it can also be exhausting.

In conclusion, God, if you read my blog, I am not asking for a natural disaster to smite me or my loved ones — especially not my loved ones! I’m just maybe going to try to pretend I’ve been through one. Yeah, I’m going to try that. I’m going to try to get up every morning and just be glad I’m here, breathing in and out.

I have a feeling it will be good.

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 need some window coverings, STAT, you guys. I’ve recently moved into a new bedroom, and whilst before I liked to complain that my room was a cave, now I long for its cool shadyness (See photo of my then-underappreciated shady room below in Appendix A). My new room has four windows arranged in such a way that there is at all times of the day direct sunlight on my bed. Naps must be taken squinched up in the crack between the bed and wall, as that is the only shady section. I have to get up butt-ass early even on weekends now because the temperature shoots up 15 degrees at 9:00 and keeps rising as the sun ascends. At night it’s not much better, because there’s a streetlight outside that shines directly in my eyes unless I build my blankets into a sort of shield between it and my face and hold very still until I fall asleep, so as not to disturb the shield.

You may think I’m making too a big deal out of this, but alas, I am not the only victim of this cruel fate. Please refer to Appendix B and note how the sun is burning the retinas of my little bear friend Chocolate Chip. The only way she can express herself is through her eyes — I mean, cha, of course she can’t talk, you guys, she is a bear, and bears do not speak to humans. But now her retinas have been temporarily burned out, and she is blind and can no longer communicate to me with her eyes. Also, she has a tail that squeaks to express both joy and outrage, usually when someone squishes her with his elbow, ahem. However, C.Chip is old in stuffed bear years. I adopted her when I was 2, and she was probably born in the factory before that, so she really is no spring chicken. Lately, due to age, her tail squeaker has taken to getting lost up in her body and I have to squeeze her and squeeze her to work it back down into her tail, and right now it’s up in her polyester fiberfill somewhere and she has no way to get any kind of point across, which must be very frustrating for her.

This is a long way of telling you that people, I need some curtains. I know, I know, I should just get some, but when do y’all have time for all this stuff?? Seriously, what do you guys do with your time? I work 40 hours a week, have classes, practices, and meetings, try to play instruments, see my friends once in a while, do the occasional load of laundry, get some exercise, and that leaves time for very little else. The answer here is clear: I obviously need to book a sweet acting gig so I’ll only have one job and not a thousand. Or if anyone knows of a fun part-time job that will pay me a lot, by all means, give me a shout.

Chocolate Chip and I will both give you hugs to thank you. (You’ll actually have to be the one to hug her; her stubby arms make it a little difficult to initiate, and plus, she won’t be able to see where you are).

Appendix A: In which Chocolate Chip relaxes in my old room and does not get her retinas burned out

Appendix B: In which Chocolate Chip becomes temporarily blind

Appendix C: In which Chocolate Chip becomes blind from another angle

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.