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.