Oct 21, 2011
Another milestone reached.
Well, it finally happened.
My mother asked me if I'm a lesbian.*
I have crossed another bridge every single 30-something must bravely cross.
*I'm not. Yet.
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from Malaysia
seen from Singapore
seen from Argentina
seen from Russia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Japan
seen from Israel
seen from Canada
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
Another milestone reached.
Well, it finally happened.
My mother asked me if I'm a lesbian.*
I have crossed another bridge every single 30-something must bravely cross.
*I'm not. Yet.
I ought to wear a helmet.
So I woke up with a big puffy eye the other morning. To everyone's shock and disappointment, it was not pink eye. I am actually able to refrain from sticking the same fingers in my eye that I stick in my butt. I have two hands, people. No, this mini-shiner came from a direct face-wall collision the night before. If you are a long-time reader, you may recall that I hate getting up to pee at night. I bet you didn't know this was the reason. Fortunately, the only damage was a little goose egg-type situation that lasted about 24 hours. I'm a walking disaster. At any given time, I am 98 percent guaranteed to have an injury somewhere. I will often find mysterious giant green bruises…on my ass. How do I get a bruised ass? Am I sitting with too much force? Are my britches too tight? What am I doing wrong? I broke two fingers playing kickball when I was a kid. Who does that? I went to scoop up a gently rolling grounder. And broke two fingers. So 20 years later, here I am, back on a kickball team. (The KILFs. Don't hurt yourself figuring it out.) Proudest moment of the season? My face-first flop onto first base. Not into first base. Just onto it. In my defense, it was muddy. Which really just meant that I looked like an asshole…covered in mud. I almost passed that dive off as intentional. Almost. No, seriously. At least I didn't break anything. We'll see how indoor season goes this fall. A lot more hard surfaces involved there. I'm just glad my name isn't Grace. That would be a lot of pressure. Grace Kelly pretty much killed it. But I would not have been able to hang. Who's got two thumbs and has walked all the way across a college campus with the back of her skirt tucked into her tights? This girl. How am I still allowed to go out in public?
Apparently I'm 14 years old.
I haven't gone over my 450 allowed minutes in a pretty long time, but lately I haven't even been close.
Why? Oh, just because I've gotten into the habit of sending between 1,000 and 1,500 text messages a month.
OMG. WTF? Am I going to start sneaking out the back door of my own apartment next?
Ta Ta, 2010: A Photo Essay
Ahhhh, New Year's Eve. Full of hope. And beer. This year I spent the evening with friends watching the Old 97's, debating the merits of Crunch Berries and wearing funny hats. No complaints. I know I need to do a blog, but I'm feeling lazy so I'm cheating. I'm just dumping all of my random 2010 photos here and captioning them. Deal with it. Enjoy.
I met this guy in 2010. He's pretty great. Even if he does wear toe socks sometimes.
He enjoyed his first Sonic experience, but I was less than pleased when I discovered I had ordered the egg-and-hair sandwich.
I discovered my passion for brunch this year. I never knew I could love something so much.
I watched someone attempt to eat this four-pound burger in one hour. For a free t-shirt.
Defeated. Time: eight minutes. The waitress told us after the attempt that no one had ever succeeded in finishing this thing. I smell a 2011 resolution...
My sister got married. I provided the penis straws for the bachelorette party.
For some reason, my two other siblings and I attempted to move the reception party out into the hallway. (BTW, that is my dance face, not constipation.)
I went to a nude beach. Not as awesome as you might imagine. Actually it was a little gross.
Checking out some old naked junk...
I went to a few great concerts this year, including the Old 97's, Massive Attack and Matt & Kim. This is a photo of the Toadies, in case you can't tell.
I saw my family again this fall when my Grandpa passed away. My mother uses this as yet another new weapon of mass guilt: "Allison, you need to come home for the holidays. Everyone is dying. I could be next."
Lucy is alive, after eight months under my plant-murdering thumb. Ethel is also hanging on.
I inadvertently experimented with pyrotechnics this year. That Betty Crocker makes some bad-ass birthday candles.
On my birthday, it was confirmed that you can indeed find anything online. These bags contain Lucky Charms marshmallows.
I went to New York a couple of times this year. It's still dirty, smelly, crowded, overpriced and cold. I freakin' love it.
I got to see my friend Josh while I was in New York. Clearly he doesn't get out of the house much.
My rather sad fake Christmas tree.
Fail.
We were actually going for "sexy" in the bottom photo. We turned out looking a bit more "confused."
Personally, I thought 2010 was totally kick-ass. I emerged healthy, loved and employed. I do have resolutions for the coming year, but I won't bore the few of you who are still awake after this snore-fest of a post. I'll save that content for the next snore-fest of a post.
Happy New Year.
Pseudo-Adulthood Chronicles: When I Feel Most Grown.
So I'm 30 years old, but there are some things that always make me feel like an adult. Which I clearly am not.
Dry cleaning - This is like the ultimate grown-up errand. Every real adult's to-do list includes, "Pick up the dry cleaning." I have no special instructions regarding starch. I'm more like, "Please make sure this suit jacket doesn't still smell like happy hour when I come back for it." I'm not sure what it is about carrying a pile of freshly pressed slacks and blouses to my car...maybe it's simply the fact that in order to need dry cleaning, I have to wear professional clothing, unlike my typical uniform of knee socks, pizza-stained college t-shirts and pajama bottoms.
Gas pumping - This one is simple to figure out. No need to pump gas unless you can drive, which means that this is a chore only for those 16 and older. Grown-ups. I wonder if you can ever completely feel like an adult in states like Oregon or New Jersey, where you can't pump your own gas. I highly doubt it.
Having a P.O. box - I've moved a lot, right? So a few years back I finally wised up and got my very own post office box, to avoid the forwarding of forwarded mail from a twice-forwarded address. Making a special trip to the post office (with my very-own special key) just feels different than getting mail at home...along with infinite piles of those damned coupon sheets that never fail to bombard my mailbox at apartment complexes.
Buying booze - I gotta say, this is a major perk of adulthood. After you pass birthday number 21, I'm not sure any of the others are worth much. Long gone are the days of trolling liquor store parking lots for potential booze buyers and slipping them an extra $20. Not that I ever did that.
Going to jail - Just kidding.
dispatches from pseudo-adulthood
I moved my stuff in. Now I just need to buy important things, get ahold of the gas company to light my pilot light, figure out my new bussing route, and buy shoes that aren't TOMS WITH HOLES IN THEM.
related dispatches: I organized a brunch of work people (i was late); I went to the farmer's market (for like 8 seconds, but I will be back); I ate dinner with the big kahuna of my company in a friendly way because I date inter-office (and my boyfriend and him are sort of friends, not because I am a peon dating the CEO).
also, I'm doing a bad job of having 4th of July plans. But I am about to eat a giant sandwich. EXCITED!