Nerdy Birdy, Look Who's Turning Thirty

There is nothing more depressing than reading the New York Times Weddings/Celebrations section close to a month before your thirtieth birthday. The Weddings/Celebrations section is full of presumably the elite in and around the New York area that are getting married--the ones who can either afford to announce their marriages or whose elite parents advertise for the engaged.

Here's an example of one: "Dr. Ezekiel Shields and his wife Myrna are proud to announce the marriage of their daughter Sarah Shields to Brad Goldberg.  Brad and Sarah met while attending law school at Cornell.  Brad was birthed from the womb playing classical piano, and Sarah the same.  After they met, both found they shared an interested in Russian literature at the age of 3."

Okay, so I made that up, but that's how I feel when I read the announcements.  And the pictures always kill me.  The engagement photos of these people make them look so old.  I don't mean wrinkly, but like distinguished.  Though the couples average in age from 25-30, they looks so well put together--like they take their clothes to the cleaner and have facials and professional expensive dye jobs or makeup artists--all while I rinsed my hair this morning, halfway blowdryed it, and sprayed some TreSemme in it because I was in too much of a hurry to do anything else.

I haven't thought much about turning thirty until today.  I used to think about it.  After I re-enrolled in college and found out I would graduate in 2010, I laughed.  I never thought 2010 would come, and I never thought 30 would, either.  I think I had more of a problem with turning 25 because at 25, you're expected to quit fucking off and decide what it is you want to do with your life.  And it is looking at these people in the New York Times and comparing myself to others in my age group that makes me nervous.

Lady Gaga--born in 1986, she just turned 25.  She still gets to fuck off and drink a lot and wear meat suits, but she is easily now a millionaire (billionaire) and shits gold records.  I will never shit gold records, though I will eat plenty of meat and never wear it.

Jessica McClure--better known as"Baby Jessica" born two days before Lady Gaga, just turned 25.  While her claim to fame was falling in a well, and the media attention and multiple surgeries she had to endure were horrendous, she just cashed in on a trust fund set up by "well-wishers" in the eighties which contains $800,000.  She is also married and has two kids.

Tiffany Brissette--better known as V.I.C.I. the robot in A Small Wonder is 36 years old.  She's a nurse.  And she was once a child-actor and a robot.  How can I compare with a robot?

Erin Smith--totally not her real name, but a girl I was in G.A.T.E. (gifted and talented education) with in elementary school.  She got a big set of fake boobs--what's that cost?  $5,000 dollars?  Seems like an accomplishment to me.

Alisa Baxter--her maiden name.  Another girl I went to school with.  She is now a neurosurgeon.  In the tenth grade, do you know what her dream was?  To be a neurosurgeon.  How the hell do people know that at 16?  Did Alisa know her boob would fall out of her dress at the high school prom?  Probably not.  Did she want it to?  Probably not.  Did she assume I would remember it for the rest of my life?  No, but I did.

So, I guess what I am trying to say is, I don't know what I want to be, yet.  I know I am going to graduate school, and I know that is an accomplishment, but it took me a long time to get here.  I did a lot of screwing around in my 20's, and it was a time of tumult (some self-inflicted, most not.)  I just don't feel like I'm an adult yet.  I don't take my clothes to the cleaner; in fact, I don't even buy clothes that have to be taken to a cleaner, especially since my gay friend that did my ironing moved away--no lie.  Most of my friends have kids and spouses and dogs and houses and things to take care of.  I'm lucky that I remember to feed my cat (I remember when he meows at me) and water my plant (I remember when it is sagging down the sides of the planter).

I wonder this:  will thirty make me feel and look like more of an adult? I doubt it.  Will I keep fooling people?  I hope so.  Will I come to love vacuuming?  Never.

Buying Cheap Cock

There is restaurant on a corner near my house.  For the longest time while I was in high school, it was a Denny's.  It was the crack den of the century.  I remember going there after concerts downtown and drinking coffee.  I don't actually remember eating there, but it was a place to go and smoke cigarettes and hang out.

After Denny's closed, the building remained empty for a long time. Finally, I noticed through some paper on the windows that someone was building stalactites and stalagmites from the walls on the inside.  Then, the restaurant was dubbed The Bedrock Cafe.  I went there once, and I ate an omelet that tasted as though it came from Denny's but was served in caveman style.

After The Bedrock Cafe closed, the stalactites and stalagmites just stayed there forever.  It must have cost a fortune for such garish decorating, but an evening bigger fortune to tear them down.

The next restaurant to go in the spot was a chinese buffet.  I don't remember the name for certain, but I think it was called Chopsticks.  I went there twice: once with my mom, and we were both grossed out that the crab rangoon had old crab claws stuffed into the ends of the puffy pastries--though I loved the chocolate fountain that they had very briefly.  The second time, I went with my roommate.  At the end of our meal--which wasn't very good--we left our money on the table with our bill, and we left.  As we were pulling out of the parking lot, a small, Asian woman started beating on the driver's side window of the car--and beating hard for a small, Asian woman--while yelling "YOU NO PAY!"  I politely (right) rolled down the window and told her our money was on the table and to get her hands off of my car.  I never went back.

So once Chopsticks closed, I wasn't surprised.  It's like crack den Denny's is haunting the space, never to let another restaurant survive.  So, when I saw Sushi Joy, a new Chinese and Japanese restaurant go in, I was a little shocked because no one has really learned their lesson yet, it seems.

I stopped on my way home from work and ordered some spring rolls, a couple of sushi rolls, and a coke.  When I paid, I found that that is not actually what I ordered:

Yes, that's right.  I have been caught.  I am guilty of buying cock--well, it's cheap!  Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same.  I pondered telling the girls working there about maybe reprogramming the register, but I couldn't figure out how to say "Hey, this receipt here says I am buying cock, not coke.  Cock is a penis. Coke is not a penis. A cock is a dick, a wiener, a prick, a tube steak, a skin flute.  A coke is a soft drink, a soda, a pop, a carbonated beverage."  I just thought the conversation would turn out awkwardly, so I avoided it all together.  But if they keep selling cock for $1.75, this restaurant may just make it.

Jesse Better Shut His Pie Hole

Today is my nephew Jake's eighth birthday.  For people that have read my blog before, he is the boy who wore an Uncle Sam costume on superhero day at school, and subsequently, while visiting our fireworks stand, decided to go and advertise on the street.  Then the sheriff showed up and accused us of child endangerment.  Poor us.  Poor kid.  Nobody told him that though he loved that red, white, and blue top hat, Uncle Sam, although fictional, is not technically a super hero, nor is he probably anyone's favorite about now.

So, for Jake's birthday, he asked me to get him Nancy Drew books.  I happily and a little grudgingly agreed.  See, I am more than happy to be buying him books for his birthday--books and music is what I always remember wanting for birthdays--but I thought he might want something a little more gender-specific like The Hardy Boys.  I have no problem with him wanting to read a book about a girl detective, but I thought his eight-year-old party guests may think differently, and I didn't want to embarrass him--in case Nancy Drew  was his little eight-year-old secret passion.

After the party had wound down, and most of the kids had left, I was inspecting some other books he got for his birthday from The Diary of the Wimpy Kid series.  I had never seen the books but know they are wildly popular.  As I was flipping the pages, I noticed something written in the front cover of the book:

The photo is lacking, for sure, but here is what the inscription reads: "Jesse better shut his pie hole."


I asked my sister "Did Jake write that!?" And my sister replied "Yes."  When Jake was walking through the kitchen, he agreed that he knew Jesse, but when we brought up that "Jesse better shut his pie hole" he magically knew nothing and walked off nonchalantly.  Later, as he sat at the table alone, I went up and whispered in Jake's ear "Jesse better shut his pie hole," and Jake giggled--he knew, and he had done it.

Now, I'm confident that no kid will make fun of Jake for reading Nancy Drew or any other kind of book, and for that, I'm grateful.

Seriously, Jesse, you better shut your pie hole.  Happy birthday, Jake.