Age of Enlightenment: 8

I think there is a big difference between lying and story telling. Granted, both result in untruths, but I only lie when I have done something wrong. I tell stories for fun. For instance, I love telling strangers my "life" story. I'm never sure whose life it belongs to, but I am sure that it's always exciting.

In kindergarten I told my teacher that my mother was pregnant and that I was one of twelve children. When I could only name six siblings, two of which were "Jennifer" my mom got called in for a parent teacher conference. In first grade, since I was the only black child in the entire school I thought I should have a little fun, and told everyone that I was an African princess and visited my father, the King, over summer vacation. We used sticks for toothbrushes and no one wore clothing. Cue my mother coming in for a parent teacher conference. I also convinced my entire school that I was Michael Jordan's cousin, the entire time praying that no one would find out that Jordan is actually my Caucasian mother's maiden name.

Somewhere, however, around the age of eight storytelling lost its luster and I found a new hobby. Enlightening. I used to love the shock value of a good story, but WHOA! You tell someone something that they never expected to hear and it is the truth? That's what really gets things going. When I discovered the art of enlightenment I really started cookin' with gas.

My greatest enlightenment story was probably my first real foray into the world of those that enlighten. Wikipedia.com (haha yes, my source for all things true in this world) says the Age of Enlightenment "at its core was a critical questioning of traditional institutions, customs, and morals" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Age_of_Enlightenment). I haven't really picked a side on reincarnation yet, but if I were to be on the pro...yeah, I was def hanging out with these enlightened cats.

I have huge issues with authority figures and I think that this has something to do with my overactive imagination and my ability to see through bullshit. I imagine that Descartes and Immanuel Kant felt the same way.

Anyway, my first and greatest act of enlightening came during my 3rd grade Christmas party. My mother is left handed and writes backwards. Her writing is slanted to the left and looks somewhat skeletal and bare. As an observant child I was able to surmise that all of my presents from "Santa" were really from either Kathleen Jordan, who was too busy to disguise her handwriting; or that both my mother and Santa had the creepiest penmanship ever.

This realization, being coupled with the fact that at age two I told my mother "Santa is a myth", it really was only a matter of time until I spilled the beans to the rest of the morons that I had Afternoon Milk with. (My mother to this day has no idea who told me that Santa wasn't real, nor how I knew what the word "myth" meant).

So anyway, around 1:30pm on the afternoon of December 19, 1991 (circa) I stood on top of a desk in my classroom and pronounced in my best outdoor voice the following declaration:

Hear ye! Hear ye! I just wanted to find out who in this class STILL thinks that Santa is real! If you are STUPID enough to think that Santa is real go stand on THAT side of the room! If you are smart and you know that Santa is FAKE!!!! come to this side of the room with ME!

A lot can be said for good friends. Alas, I only had one that day. Jessica Marie Klos. She walked over and stood with me, while the rest of the class, including our teacher Mrs. Andersen, went to the other side of the classroom. Cue me getting sent into the hall and my mom coming in for a parent teacher conference.

The rest of my life has basically continued along the same vein: outrageous statement, one or two followers, major ostracism. HA! I love it. But...no one else really does. Through my travels in life I have found that people would much prefer to be lied to (taken for a fool, if you will) than told the truth. It took me awhile to realize that it wasn't my job to make people see the world as it really is. Michael Moore has the same complex that I had as an eight year old, granted his might serve a greater purpose than simply robbing children of childhood fantasies.

It was sort of a hard pill to swallow, but I now pick and choose my Enlightenment battles very carefully. I will, however, still tell stories with reckless abandon. I think the reason that I like telling stories is because I think people like to get away from their regular lives, myself included. Enlightenment is a lot scarier than Fantasy, hence those stupid Vampire books and Lauren Conrad all over the New York Times Bestseller list.

If I really had to choose between "enlightening" and "storytelling" I'm not sure which would come out on top. My life is pretty good for all intents and purposes, but I can always imagine something better and more exciting and more....more something. I just hope that whomever tells a story about meeting me does me justice. Or at least makes it a good story.

Blog of Shame

This morning I woke up on a couch in a very nice apartment at 19th and JFK. Why was I on the couch? There were two perfectly good beds that I could have slept in...I slept on the damn couch. Natalie Fuchs is the reason I slept on said couch. I'm not going to go into much detail but hear this Fuchs: there is a new sheriff in town and she calls the guest room at 501 Kennedy House and if you want to discuss this matter you have to do so in person.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Let it be known that Natalie Bossen Fuchs will be flying to Philadelphia in May to run a half marathon with me.

I'm posting this on the web so that she can't back out.

Roommates: Can't live with 'em....Can't live with 'em

I at the ripe old age of 26 have decided that I am done with roommates. If I get married or have a child this sentiment will have to change; but given where I am currently situated in life I don't see either coming my way anytime soon, so yes; I am done with roommates.

I hate living with roommates, and for the most part, most gentrified individuals hate being domiciled with me. I don't believe in folding clothes, let alone putting them away, nor do I find it necessary to curb any activity that I find enjoyable to increase the comfort of those around me.

That being said, I really do like having people around me so that I can regale them with stories of my adventures and mishaps...but that's all I want them there for. To be my audience. Once the whole shared lifestyle comes into play I have no use for them and usually don't respect them whatsoever.

I was walking around Philadelphia the other day after looking at one bedroom apartments, blissfully aware of the fact that I had now destroyed another living situation and was about to finally live on my own, when it finally hit me. I know why I hate living with people!

My mother. It always comes back to Kathie somehow. Not that she scarred me and created a she-monster that howls in the night or hides under people's beds and scares them...due to overprotecting me she created a very independent woman. Every time I live with someone I inevitably feel that they are trying to nag, smother and eventually, mother me.

Nothing will throw me into a rage faster than someone who will remind me that there are dishes in the sink, or that my purse has been emptied out on the table since Saturday. I'm well aware of all of these things, I just don't care.

Maybe when I become a mother I will understand the need that some people have to nag, smother and mother...but as for now I don't understand, nor do I care to. If you want to leave your toys all over the floor little Billy be my guest. Honey, if you want to get potato chip crumbs all over your side of the bed, have fun sleeping in that garbage, because I am not going to clean it up for you.

So I guess this a warning to all of my future ex-husbands and future emancipated children...I just don't care.

Planned Parenthood

I was watching Planet Earth yesterday...I think I am going to adopt a grizzly bear cub.

Interview with a Hipster

Alright. I've had enough. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!

I was walking to happy hour tonight and I got pissed. Oh no folks, this is not a cute little writing tool that I am using to snare you into reading yet another one of my nonsensical, pointless blog entries. Tonight, my happy hour was anything but.

Goddamned hipsters making a mess all over the city! (For anyone who recognizes the pretty blatant "Always Sunny in Philadelphia" reference, I give you kudos. Ben...this is probably only you. So, Kudos Ben.)

Anyway, tonight, on my journey through Center City and into Rittenhouse, I noticed something very peculiar. A bunch of 'twentysomething' women with grey hair. When I saw the first girl I thought, "Good God, she should fire her stylist!"
When I saw the second, I thought, "Well that ain't right!"
By the time I saw the third, I knew. "Goddamned Hipsters making a mess all over the city."

Now, I am a pretty judgmental individual, and I have never tried to hide this fact. Another thing I have never tried to hide is my fundamental dislike for the hipsters. As a people I find them to be an incredibly pretentious, ill-mannered, poorly dressed group of social pariahs, who can't decide who they hate more; their parents, society, or themselves. They are the quintessential 21st century cultural backlash to Abercrombie&Fitch and American Eagle. We created this monster, and unfortunately, it is up to us to slay this beast.

The only thing I hate more than a hipster, is a hipstette, the female incarnation of this new horrid form of douchebaggery. Gone are the days of the Muffy with her Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and her pleated khakis. Now we have girls with horrible assymetrical haircuts (apparently the new neighborhood salon is owned by a blind man with a butcher knife), ill fitting jeans, and the worst...tattoos all over their bodies. Gross.
I do not have a problem with ink. I have two tattoos, but no Joe Schmoe on the street can see them. These Hipstettes have them EVERYWHERE. What do their parents think? Worse...what will their grandchildren think? Nothing says "Happy Holidays" like coming home to Grandma's house and seeing her baggy, dayglo colored flesh hanging out the sides of her housedress.

So tonight, when I saw these Hipstettes with the grey hair I thought that maybe they were dying their hair in honor of Bea Arthur (RIP). Then I realized...the hair, the tattoos! Hipsters are vampires! Ok, hear me out. I just finished "Twilight" (which apparently makes me 12, but whatever). They are dying their hair grey, because they are immortal and they will never grow old! These poor young idiots will never face the cruel effects of time, so they are punishing themselves and playing Father Time themselves! Plus, since they know they will never age, they don't have any fear of how disgusting their tattoos will look once they hit middle age!

These poor hipsters are simply a group of the undead who are doomed to wander the earth for all time, covered in horrible, trendy body art, with horrible attitudes. (I would probably have a bad attitude if I knew I would never die too).

So now that I have realized the plight of the hipster, the first thing I am doing tomorrow is going to the Philadelphia Free Library and taking out a book on Van Helsing.

Mind over Matter

So last night could have very well been one of the worst nights of my life. I was all dressed up and ready to go to a fabulous dinner at a great restaurant in Center City. I had just finished working out with my new trainer (another post for another day) and seriously I was feeling awesome.

Awesome until I got to the restaurant and the dude was no where to be found.

SERIOUSLY?

SERIOUSLY?

I can't even believe the amount of courage that it must take to blow someone off like that. Granted, anyone who knows me knows that I am the Queen of the Bail. One of my favorite expressions is "something suddenly came up"....but SERIOUSLY?

What a douchebag.

Granted...I was twenty minutes late, but give me a break people. I can't even believe this happened to me. But...I am writing this now, so I clearly didn't step in front of a SEPTA bus, or go home and slit my throat...something way more awesome happened to me last night. Something that actually made last night one of the best nights of all time.

As I was standing outside of the restaurant, totally flabbergasted; a cab driver pulled up. As some of you may know, I recently dyed my hair blonde. I'm talking BLONDE. I've always gotten a lot of attention from random dudes on the street, but this blonde hair is like a freaking magnet. I have gotten more free cab rides in the last week than I have gotten in my entire life. I've probably gotten more free cab rides in the last week than my entire group of friends has gotten in their entire life...combined!

So as I am standing on the sidewalk looking pretty pissed, a cab driver stops and picks me up. I know as soon as we start driving that I am definitely not paying for this cab ride. I decide to tell the dude my sob story...and he ate it up with a spoon.

"You are too beautiful for this to happen to you. I can tell right now that you are a great person, and I am so sorry that you had to face such a terrible thing."
(Whatever dude, just drive me home).

As I am lamenting about how much dudes sucks and how I'm hungry, the cab driver pulls up to Pat's, and asks me what I like on my cheesesteak. 2 minutes later I am eating a steak (whiz/wit) and suddenly not feeling so sorry for myself. Another 2 minutes later and I am walking down the aisles of the liquor store with my new best friend the cab driver, picking out a reasonably priced bottle of wine.

When he dropped me off (two blocks away from my actual house...let's face it folks, I'm sure this dude is going to try to stalk my ass since he bought me a cheesesteak and a bottle of wine) he just said, "You are beautiful and I hope you have a good night."

So...the moral of the story is...

There is no moral, but who cares. I still got a free dinner and a bottle of wine.

Irony

45 minutes on the stairmaster. Once I was finished, I promptly fell down the stairs.

For Love of a Planetary-Sized Synth

I listen to all kinds of music. Bluegrass, Rap, Hip-Hop, Country, Rock, Pop...seriously, I listen to everything. I am always struck by the different kinds of talents that people possess, and music is a prime forum to illustrate this thought.

Who is more talented? It's much easier to compare a Mariah Carey and a Whitney Houston as opposed to comparing a Whitney Houston to a Tupac Shakur. Neither can do what the other is capable of, yet they both are able to create art and awesomeness.

I took piano lessons for several years growing up, I also played the clarinet. I was good at both, but never had the drive, desire, or most important, the natural talent to really go very far with either. I think that was somewhat of a curse for me growing up. I was able to pick up on a lot of things easily, and become moderately successful at said activities, but I never really felt connected enough to anything to pursue it intensely. No. That's not true. One year my friends and I dedicated a good deal of time to stuffing cheez balls in our mouths. I think my friend eventually became the champion when she could stuff some ungodly amount of cheez balls (like 38) in her mouth at one time.

My friend Erik is really smart. I've always known this, but recently it is becoming more and more apparent to me. He works with computers, and frankly, I couldn't explain anything that he does. I think it involves programming, maybe? Recently Erik has discovered a new passion for music. He has been layering sounds together and creating music. He just started and has already been on the radio. Every time he sends me a clip I am totally floored. I just don't understand how he can make all of the individual sounds come together like that. It's been pretty awesome to watch Erik throughout this new stage. His synthesizer is his new baby. He really loves what he is doing, and I think I sometimes forget that that is the ultimate goal in life. I feel like most people are just fumbling around in the cosmos, moderately happy, but knowing that they could be happier.

I'm always a little confused that despite my love for music, I've never really felt compelled to make it myself. Music really touches me, and can make me pretty emotional. Stephen Jenkins sang, "The four right chords can make me cry" and I completely understand. For instance, "Smash Your Head" by Girl Talk is one of my favorite songs because I tear up every time I hear it. It's not a conventional song by any means; Girl Talk is one dude named Gregg Gillis. He mashes up songs to create brilliant remixes. In "Smash Your Head" he mashes Biggie Smalls and Elton John. This particular pairing pulls at my heartstrings a bit harder than your average Girl Talk jam.

The coolest thing for me about Erik's recent endeavor is that he's not a 5 year old discovering that he is an awesome trumpet player, or a 3 year old child that is already pegged as a future Olympian. He is a regular adult, who started to dabble in something new and found something that he loves. I'm really jealous of Erik on this account. My biggest fear is of course that I somehow missed the boat, and somehow missed the opportunity to be awesome at something that I love. I doubt it though. As I have previously written I am a big believer in Fate. Everything happens for a reason, so I am positive that something led Erik to the synth, just as that same something will lead everyone else to their paintbrush, guitar, potter's wheel or...maybe a blog.

Bear Killed in Buffalo, NY for Stealing Picnic Baskets and Pies off of Windowsills. And for being Black.

I have never had a teddy bear; (I think everyone knows why. Cabbage Patch Dolls are awesome)but I think I need to get one soon in solidarity for all of my furry friends who don't get no respect. The teddy bear came into being after Teddy Roosevelt refused to shoot a little Black Bear cub whilst out hunting with his friends.

I was on Facebook this afternoon and saw that my cousin Amy had posted a news story about a black bear getting shot in Buffalo, NY.

http://www.wkbw.com/news/local/50586832.html

Amy was upset that the bear got shot, and frankly so was I. I definitely think that there was a better solution to the problem aside from shooting the poor creature. It just looks so cute in the picture!

Then I stopped being a whiny babypants and realized that about a month ago I almost fell out of my chair laughing when I saw a video of a bear getting shot with a tranquilizer gun.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42Or3_SOn70

Watching that again just made me cringe, but I cannot stop myself from laughing. At least the people from Missoula had the bear's best interest in mind when they attempted to remove it from the tree and take it back into the wildlife. I grew up in the woods and have seen many, many black bears in my time. I also know how to shoot a gun. I have never shot a black bear. Nor do I have any desire to. Black bears are pretty gentle as far as the bear community is concerned.

The American Black Bear (Ursus Americanus) are omnivores, but they mostly eat larvae and other gross stuff in nature. Humans are rarely, if ever, on the menu. Black Bears are not aggressive and usually run away if they sense a human presence. The poor Black bear can't even get a break from it's own species! Brown Bears are bigger, stronger and faster, and usually dominate the scene when they interact with the Black Bear. According to David Mech, wolves will also gang up on the Black Bear and attack it; though they are rarely successful in killing the creature. (L. David Mech & Luigi Boitani (2001). Wolves: Behaviour, Ecology and Conservation. p. 448).

Since the Black Bear is getting attacked by everyone, it's no wonder that sometimes they need to relax and unwind a little. This bear in Washington, decided to drink a case and a half of beer before it passed out at a campground!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/3580626.stm

You know what? Now that I think about it, I would definitely shoot a bear if it drank all of my beer.

The Slippery Slope of the Emoticon

I'm not a big fan of the Transformers but I think I can grasp the basic concept. Some stupid machines somehow start to think for themselves and rise up and wreak havoc. Seems implausible and just the stuff that summer blockbusters are made of. (It's too early in the morning for me to get started on Megan Fox and her bizarre desire to emulate Angelina "The Devil" Jolie...that is another post for another day. And don't worry. I could write a book about my feelings for Angelina).
But yeah, a car turns into a robot and now it wants to kill people or something. Normally I don't pay attention or care about storylines like this, but lately something has given me pause. What the HELL is with these emoticons?

I understand that texting and AIM completely changed the way that my generation speaks. I will also be the first to admit that I am a huge abuser of the system. I speak in "text slang" almost exclusively. I have always loved acronyms (my nickname is just my initials for crying out loud) and I loveloveLOVE being able to punctuate a sentence with a "BRB" (be right back) or "OMG!" (oh my God).

I first started to grasp that the text slang was a problem when my best friend Beth came to visit me and began saying, "OMGWTFBBQ!" (Oh my God, What the Fuck, ....) what did the last part mean? Beth calmly explained that BBQ had not changed it's meaning and still meant barbeque.
So this meant that people were actually going around saying, "Oh my God! What the Fuck?! Barbeque!!!" It's ludicrous and ridiculous and really made me start to think.

I did some research on the web and realized that some "OT's" (old-timers) probably have no idea what we young people are blabbing about when we speak in our choppy, new made up language. There are a myriad of websites to help the OT's with their difficulties.
www.noslang.com
www.web-friend.com/help/lingo/chatslang.html
www.netlingo.com/acronyms
....and the list obviously goes on.

So since we have obviously mastered abbreviating our words, I assume it was logical that the next step would be abbreviating our feelings and emotions. Enter the Emoticon.

Now, I like a good smiley face just as much as anyone. Sometimes a :( can say a lot in a text to a friend who is going through a rough time. I can handle the wink ;) but that is the limit for me. Yesterday my friend Ben was showing me all of his new emoticons, and I got riled up! He was showing me a mustache emoticon, a "more cowbell" emoticon, a crab emoticon, a ROBOT (???) emoticon, and a pile of shit emoticon. WHAT??? A PILE OF SHIT? HOW IS THAT EQUIVALENT TO A SMILE??

The entire point of the emoticon is to express an emotion that you would not be able to convey over electronic communication. If you are in front of the person you can SEE that they are smiling, or frowning or winking. An emoticon is an emotion that you have to show via text, because the person on the other end of the phone or the computer cannot see you! If my friend ever asked me how I was doing and I felt like a piece of shit, I would not bring said friend into the bathroom with me and show her a pile of shit. I would not perform the act of taking a shit, nor would I have left a shit in the toliet so that I could really illustrate how shitty I felt.

The pile of shit emoticon (in case you are wondering it is ~@~) brings this new text slang to new heights. Previously I was really annoyed by ROTFLMAO because I couldn't figure out what the hell it meant. (The beauty of an acronym is usually it's simplicity). Well ROTFLMAO means Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off. The last time I was on the floor laughing my ass off I wasn't shouting out random acronyms... I was rolling on the floor laughing my ass off.

As previously stated, I love a good acronym. A good one. These ten letter acronyms that don't mean anything or these emoticons that symbolize fecal matter are too much for me. And I'm not saying that if you type ~@~ that a pile of shit is going to come to life, squirt out of your computer and destroy the planet; but you never know.

Re: Missed Connections

This was sent to me by Laura...ironically this is a Missed Connection from Philadelphia.

I guess this is what happens when a Missed Connection goes horribly wrong....

http://dontevenreply.com/view.php?post=20
(this is the link but I cut and copied the text as well)

Original ad:
i saw you outside market east station. you were getting into a red ford truck. i was wearing a yellow shirt and had dirty blonde hair. our eyes met and we smiled. i hope you find me so we can meet up :)
From Mike Anderson to *********@***********.org

That was me. I don't know why you thought we had a moment. I was smiling because of how disgustingly fat you were. I was trying to hold back laughter as I got into my truck. When I got in I just fucking lost it. Dirty blonde hair? Try dirty, grease-soaked hair.

From Chelsea ******** to Me

FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!

Missed Connections

Recently I have become obsessed with Craigslist.com's "Missed Connections". This probably is largely due to the fact that every time I walk into a grocery store, public library, or gym I am convinced that every person that makes eye contact with me is in love with me. Somehow in less than a second, simply based on my good looks and my swagger this poor gent is ready to throw his life away to run away with me.
So I sashay through the frozen food aisle with an imaginary gaggle of lovestruck boys in my wake, knowing that they are incredibly turned on by the fact that I just picked up a 6pack of Heath Bar Crunch Klondike Bars.

As much as I try to poopoo and shy away from the rom-com genre (romantic-comedy), it has definitely helped define Fate for me. Fate could be getting ready to walk outside of your house, and then turning around to realize you forgot to turn off the light in the basement. As soon as you walk back inside you hear a CRASH! and someone has dropped a piano directly where you would have been standing, had you not remembered to turn out that basement light.

That is definitely an example of Fate. That is not the image that that word conjures up in my head, however. For me, Fate is sitting next to a handsome stranger on the 47 bus and realizing that he is thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Catcher in the Rye, your favorite book. Fate is going out to drinks with a friend who randomly sees a person from their eighth grade gym class that you can't take your eyes off of. And, recently, Fate is "Missed Connections" on Craigslist.

I once read a "Missed Connection" that was about me. It ended up being a disappointment. But, for the short amount of time that it took me to read it, I felt awesome and special and wanted. I had no desire to talk to the person who had written it, because invariably this person would be a disappointment. A "Missed Connection" authored with you in mind can be a real day-maker. We all know what a day-maker is. You are walking through life feeling lousy, and an old Vietnam Vet in a wheelchair will say, "Well aren't you just the purdiest thing I've seen all day". While you don't have any desire to strike up a conversation with this man, you will think of him all day because he made your day. Day-maker.

I consistently think about being a day-maker. Last night in the liquor store I passed a woman who had a sour expression on her face. I told her that I liked her earrings and her shoulders relaxed, she smiled and she didn't look as villainous for a brief moment. Let's be honest here. The woman's earrings were hideous, but I think that those minute details are basically irrelevant when we are talking about day-makers. "Missed Connections" are the ultimate day-makers because someone actually has to mean it.

I am completely obsessed. I'm enthralled. I'm enraptured. I think I'm mostly inspired and hopeful because of this tiny little link in the jungle that is the world wide web. To be fair, "Missed Connections" is the equivalent of shouting into space or shining a flashlight into a black hole. The chances that the guy who smiled at me when we were both buying milk two days ago will ever read my post, are slim to none. (If I were a gambling woman I would probably put all of my money on none). But...I don't gamble. So I'll keep reading these "Missed Connections", and I'll keep posting mine, and one day maybe I'll get some good old fashioned Hollywood Fate.