Monthly Archives: March 2011

The Twenty-Something Gal’s Guide to the Wedding Season of Life

A while back I talked about girlfriends and how awesome they are. How much we need them in our lives to share trifeness and amazingness that we live with day to day. Still true, obviously, since time passing does not mean we need them less, only that we need them more.

Recently I have had a couple pretty stellar girls weekends that I super loved. It also seems to be the season for the girls reunion, as I have seen a bunch of other ladies celebrating quality time with their favorite biddies. Tis the season for lots of giggling apparently.

It is weird to me – in a good way – to see my old girlfriends and see some of them engaged and planning for such an adult thing: a wedding. And preparing for an even more adult thing: a marriage. I mean, you guys. Our first impressions of marriage come from our parents – whether they are happily married, apathetically married, not married at all, or perhaps the worst, unhappily married. Seeing our parents’ marriage from the outside looking in for 20-some years, at least for me, gives me this view into an adulthood that I have not reached yet. And yet here I am, attempting to choose between two extremely cute dresses to wear when I will witness one of my oldest friends committing to love her love for life. Yikes. [Side note: thank you, my dear Tallulah, for choosing a beautiful color and stylish/not-hideous dress.]

A couple weekends ago I was in Charlotte reuniting with some original roommates from college. We all lived together at some point during school, and were there for each other through our best and worst. And now two of them are engaged.  I got to be a back-seat listener to a conversation which included things like “where did you find your super discounted but adorable invitations?” And “his mother wants to invite like 100 people and I wanted to be like, well sure if you pay for all of them to eat!” And “I’ve looked through a billion wedding magazines and have no idea what I want my dress to look like!” These are serious decisions, obviously. But the deeper meaning of all of this is that, omigosh, we’re going to be married…how will we celebrate this great event and commitment with each other and our closest friends and families – without going broke and/or crazy? Happily I can say both of these girls are level-headed and not bridezillas. Both are extremely grounded and will not have any issues remembering the point of it all. And while choosing invitations and a dress and a menu is very “adult” in my mind, what’s even more grown up is that these ladies are essentially telling us that they’re done looking. They found their man and he sacrificed a new iPad 2 (or a car, depending) to buy a fancy ring to claim her as his own woman. Again I find myself saying, yikes.

This past weekend two of my favorite ladies came to Raleigh to see little old me. Raleigh greeted them with some ridiculously terribly weather (thanks mother nature), but we managed to have a great time. All three of us are still single. And when I say single I mean we’re not engaged or married…nothing is final until you say “I do” in my mind, and some argue nothing’s final until you’re dead but I choose to be optimistic. So we’re single aka not engaged, and obviously talk about weddings zero percent of the time. We do however discuss boys at length. I had a mini flashback to middle school where we used to pass around notebooks with charts in them depicting which boys were cute on a vertical scale of 1 to 10, divided by grade of course because 6th graders do not compare to 8th graders. Obviously. Looks ranked on one side, and personalities ranked on another. Now Miss Gate City teaches middle school, and is being courted by a man in the army via letters and care packages, while simultaneously attempting to avoid the affections of another teacher. I am currently seeing someone I met in the office (yes, like Jim and Pam, way to be original) (no inner-office jokes please, I’ve heard them all). Miss Foxy is still in love with a bearded and pony-tailed man who cuts down trees for a living, while lamenting the lack of young men in Roanoke. And Roomz is experimenting with Match.com because she’s tired of meeting drunk idiots in bars.

I sometimes find myself chatting with my ladies, shocked at how time passes. We sometimes talk more about bills and insurance coverage (true story) more than we talk about Gate City’s adorable wardrobe (for which I am green with envy, btw) or Foxy’s newest boy story. After a while it’s all the same…we met someone, he was cute, he took us out, then we got bored and now we’re still single. But it’s still fun and I still sometimes feel like a little girl ranking boys during Social Studies class. I look at my friends who are either preparing for marriage or already in one and I think…well actually I think a couple things. One is, “holy moly!” (remember I promised Ma I’d cut down the cursing…apparently this includes the word c-r-a-p). The second thing is, I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we’re there. It is the wedding season of our lives and I could be next. Which then prompts another “yikes!”

But hey. This is life, is it not? We are old but we are young and beautiful. We are happy with our fiances and our boyfriends and our non-boyfriends and our unattainable dream men. If we are single, we love it. If we are dating, we love it, and certainly if we are engaged or married, we love it. And if we don’t love it (or him), we should be open to and make that change. Whatever book or movie it is that says women have the exact love lives they want, is true. But at least I can say this: lovers, whether men or boys, come and go, but friendship loves last forever.

Also. Next time I have a GF reunion, I want to make a chart of all the men I know and rank them 1 to 10, old-school style. Perhaps on black paper with Milky Pens.

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White Diamonds and Mother Courage

You guys. I am, for some reason, seriously lacking inspiration lately to put up on this here blog. I am obviously out and about being sassy and classy per usual, but I am finding that when I sit down to write a post I sit here and just go, “ummm sooooo yeeeeeah.” Not cute. So here we are. Ho-hum-de-dum-dum.

Then today something tragic happened. Elizabeth Taylor died. Obviously ya’ll already know this since she was, like, a legend in so many ways. But seriously is it not super sad?! I was sad. I loved seeing her mondo-makeup’d face in pictures. And she was so beautiful even as a super hunched over old lady in a wheelchair whist going to the club and drinking martinis. We would all be blessed to be martini bar hopping in a wheelchair and still fabulously dressed with massive diamonds adorning our every joint. Yes please.

Anyway. Many other reputable publications have published wonderful tributes to Elizabeth’s life and accomplishments, among them a billion marriages and having violet colored eyes (now achievable via contact lenses) and inventing a top selling perfume, so I am not going to eugoogalize her. She was awesome and produced many quotable quotes throughout her lifetime. I mean if I married 8 times I think I could probably gain a fair amount of wisdom too. Right! But anyhooz, I think it is super cool that I am connected to Miz Taylor by only two degrees of separation! I think. It might be one degree but I’m not exactly sure how the whole degree-of-separation thing works. The point is, my dearest mother met the one and only Elizabeth Taylor and I could not be any more excited about it.

Here’s the story. I would say it’s not every day that a regular young gal gets to meet a celebrity of any kind. I guess it depends on where you’re from and where you live, but I can say with quite a bit of certainty that Momma Sassy was accustomed to “small-town” type life in small scale cities in which one does not encounter celebrities of national and international repute often. Namely Richmond, Virginia. Richmond is great, but really. Famous people haven’t lived or really visited there since Robert E. Lee was in residence on Monument Avenue. There are arguments against this but just go with me here: no one of Elizabeth Taylor’s caliber really chooses to live in a small city like Richmond without some other incentive, like marriage to a Virginia Senator for example. If you read the WSJ obituary of ET (LOLz…her initials are ET…phone home), you will know that one of her 8 marriages was to Senator John Warner, then Secretary of the Navy. During Warner’s campaign, Elizabeth famously choked on a chicken bone, thus tearing her esophagus and requiring surgery. Anyone older than Gen-Y will probably remember Saturday Night Live skits in which this was mocked. Anyone on staff at then-Richmond Memorial Hospital remembers treating her for said ailment, including the one and only Momma Sassy.

Dramatic pause for effect. Maybe this isn’t as cool for other people but it gets better. Elizabeth was put in a private room after her treatment for a couple night stay at the hospital and given around-the-clock nurse supervision, apparently primarily to prevent her from having to press the call button. I must say if I was a State Secretary’s wife in that day I’d have required the same. And Momma Sassy just happened to be one of these lucky nurses. Apparently, according to Ma, it was the coolest thing ever. She was 24 years old, aka my age, and still adjusting to life as a new nurse in a hospital. I equate this to me being a nurse and getting to be on duty for Angelina Jolie. The best part about Elizabeth in my mind is that she was the same height as my mother (and thus, same as me). Who would think! There is something about being a celebrity that makes you look taller. I mean, do any of you know that Shakira is under 5 feet? I know, right! Anyway. During her care of Elizabeth, Momma Sassy gave her a back rub AND brushed her hair. I mean. That’d be like if I got to brush Angie’s hair. Cool. I know, I sound like a 6 year old girl getting excited about brushing Barbie’s hair, but come on you guys.

Momma’s favorite part of her time with Liz was the evening they were watching TV the night that Jimmy Carter apparently was hosting an opera singer. The singer was dressed in a long and flowy caftan dress (hello, 70’s calling!) with a bunch of very blingy jewels on her fingers and wrists. Young Nurse Momma remarked at all the shiny jewels, and Elizabeth smiled at her and said, “They’re fake.” Of course, Young Nurse Momma, being young and probably never having seen a 69 carat diamond as Liz had, asked, “how do you know?” Elizabeth smiled and, pointing to her eye, simply said, “I know.”

Gasp. I mean really. I think I’d trust anyone who’d owned and worn over 150 carats worth of jewels possibly all at once to tell me if something was real or not. But how cool is that! I suspect that if I were a nurse in these times and I was assigned to sit in with Angelina Jolie or someone of equal fame/fortune, it would not be as exotic. Something about celebrities these days is much more human. They are real people because we see them do everything all day long thanks to People.com. [Love the headlines that say things like “they shop at the grocery store!” and “They go to the gym!” …I mean, duh.] But Elizabeth Taylor. She was a beauty, she had a talent, she was a mom, she was a grandmother, she was an AIDS awareness advocate (to put it mildly), she was a scandalous lover, and she was a perfume magnate. AND she was a Dame. High five to Momma Sassy for keeping composure. Even if it was just one or two nights of your entire life, It’s one of those things you never forget.

May I never have 7 husbands or 8 marriages. Though a 69 carat diamond wouldn’t be bad.

“I’ve been through it all, baby, I’m mother courage.” Elizabeth Taylor, the world will miss you. I hope you are resting peacefully on a fur-lined chaise with diamonds at your feet, girl.

Hump Day Fun Day Random Day

Happy Hump Day! I was tired of this week yesterday so I am thrilled that it is half over. Also, could summer please hurry up and get here asap. I’m tired of wearing my skirts and dresses to work and being cold all day long. We are in that glorious time of year when my iPhone weather app says it will be 70 and sunny and so I dress accordingly, only it doesn’t even reach 70 degrees but for 5 seconds around 3pm when I am indoors sitting at my desk working hard / writing this blog. Fun. Though I can proudly say I’ve worn dress pants only 4 total times since February 7th. All other days I go pant-less, which is quite a feat for someone who calls herself Miss Sassy Pants. Obviously it is also sassy to be without pants. By which of course I mean some other item of clothing covering my bottom half. Duh. I think HR might have a problem if I came to work in my underoos.

Also, random post alert. Ready go.

Does everyone remember back in the day when I said everyone and their momma and cousins own a Prius in San Fran? Literally. Well not actually literally. But seriously there were Priuses (Priusi? Pri-i?) everywhere. Though what I did not mention is that every Prius I encountered seemed to be driven by an incompetent person. And then when I moved back east, I realized the problem is not isolated to California, despite many other issues which are, thank goodness, isolated to this problem state. So now I have come to this conclusion: everyone from everywhere who owns a Prius is an incompetent driver. I now think there must be some kind of Toyota-administered test taken by all persons interested in purchasing a Prius. Seriously it is a serious problem. Next time you are out, take note of how many of these [ugly] [yet crazy fuel efficient] vehicles you see, and then watch their driving habits. I guarantee that a) they won’t know how or be able to accelerate unless they have 10 miles to get up to speed, b) they will start slowing down a ridiculous number of miles prior to actually needing to turn, c) they won’t then actually use a turn lane but slow down traffic while they d) make turns at a speed which is slower than how fast I could push their car around a turn. It is these people who make me yearn daily for my very own freeway on which to travel. Dear all Prius owners: move over or find your accelerator…your car won’t explode if you use it.

This is a hilariously accurate comic that a pal of mine found recently (obviously a nerd friend, since XKCD comics are the nerdiest of nerd comics out there) (also sad that I find so many of them funny…I suppose this means I’m a nerd). Doesn’t everyone remember going to the movies in large groups of 15 or more and never getting to sit next to the right person?! And the quote…”Guys! This is not socially optimal!” Loves. I honestly cannot recall the last time I went to the movies with a group of co-eds, as all movie trips of late have been with girlfriends to see some tear-jerking rom-com. Which obviously means seating arrangements are unimportant, as long as we all like to hold hands and can pass tissues to each other. But I distinctly have memories of going to the movies and wanting to sit next to my Axe-wearing-cigarette-smoking (the smell of high school boys…sigh) crush only to be put next to the most annoying girl we hung out with and/or the creepy guy. Absolutely not socially optimal.

Of course the same issue applies to carpooling. I hated riding with certain friends because a) they were turrible drivers, b) their cars smelled, or c) they were psycho on the road. Frightening. And not socially optimal.

Speaking of bad drivers, I have now dubbed Charlotte, NC as the absolute worst place to drive ever in the history of the world. I have never driven in NYC or any place bigger than San Francisco, but even in these large cities people navigate insane traffic congestion and somewhat complicated traffic patterns with ease. Even when it rains. In Charlotte, as with purchasing a Prius, there seems to be some sort of pre-test which only allows the absolutely turrible drivers to become residents. Symptoms include going 20 mph under the speed limit, rubber-necking at squirrels on the side of the road (I mean, you guys, it was just a cop car…no need to slow down traffic for 10 miles), not using turn signals, and other general incompetence. That place is worse than a church parking lot on Senior Bingo Night.

Happy Wednesday, ya’ll. Get thee to the nearest bar asap to watch some NCAA Tournament goodness. Or badness, since we have all already realized that UAB deserves to be in the toilet tournament of teams who can’t play basketball whatsoever, and that Virginia Tech was truly shafted to be passed over for a team with such terrible shooting stats. Go Hokies.

I’ma Sip Moscatooooo and You Gon’ Lose ACC Tournament

This past weekend was possibly the most emotionally turmoil-ish weekend in recent history. Firstly, I had the most amazing weekend with my old suite-mates from sophomore year in good ol Peddrew-Yates. There is nothing like a weekend full of girly chatting, mimosa drinking, and engagement ring comparing (not including me, in case there were questions…hardy har). I love reminiscing about hilarious college mishaps and embarrassing stories. Who doesn’t.

Secondly, the Hokies had a fantastic and then an absolutely shamefully turrible showing in the ACC tournament. That game against FSU was possibly the most stressful game for me since two weeks ago with Duke, but MAN what an ending! And what an awesome feeling, knowing, or at least thinking positively about our NCAA hopes now having beat FSU not just once, but twice! Cheers! Seth cried, Malcom Delaney made a depressingly cynical comment about getting an NCAA bid, I drank Ginger Ale to calm my nervous tummy.

Then the next day us gals sat around watching the semi-finals on ESPN HD with surround-sound, with mimosas (and then just Moscato…thus the title) in hand watching our boys in super swanky Burnt Orange jerseys forget to actually play basketball against Duke. Fun times. Best drinking game ever: drink every time we score. Too bad we ended up not scoring that much, so I changed it to drink-every-time-they-show-Kyle-Singler’s-disgustingly-hideous-face. That one was much more fun. HOLY MOSES is he ugly or WHAT.

Anyway, post-Duke smack-down and well on our way to buzzed and/or already drunk, we prepared for an awesome night in downtown, or if we want to be fancy and correct, Uptown Charlotte. It was, like, the best time ever. Everyone had a good hair day (including me! I know!), looked SO fetch, and watch Miss Foxy get hit on by a billion dudes. That girl has got it going on, I tell you. And really there’s nothing like a night of hilarity, popping bubbly and dancing like we’re crunk with great girlfriends to cure basketball sorrows. Plus, no one likes Duke. Except Duke fans. Whatever. But everyone loves a girls weekend.

And THEN on Sunday something even turrible-er happened. We got shafted AGAIN by the NCAA head a-holes who pick teams to play in the supposed best dance ever or whatever it’s called. Guess who doesn’t care about any stupid dance anymore!? Me. And Hokies everywhere who now hate the NCAA for being SUCH AWFUL HATERS. Not only was I / currently am PMSingly emotional over this, but the FACTS support me (a rarity) and every other pissed off Hokie out there. I mean. I’m not a sports writer and there are a billion other sources who research this jank and then write about it, so I won’t. Go check out Kyle Tucker’s blog for some real journalism and then come back here to help me rage at the man about it.

Luckily, the ladies and I closed out our awesome girls weekend with a trip to an awesome antique mall and the best store in the world, IKEA. Yes. You know you are getting old when you cease shopping for clothes together and start with the home furnishings and fun things like vases and kitchenware. It’s hard to say no to all the awesome deals and fun make-your-own-lamp department. Loves. So needless to say, despite hearing the disgusting news about the NCAA bracket while I was alone in my car en route back to R-town with no one to cry to, my high from my awesome IKEA purchases and amazing fun times with good friends helped me through [longest sentence ever].  Thanks girls.

Meantime. Dear NCAA Dudes Who Make Decisions: You suck. I know it makes me less of a lady to say it like that, but I say that with the utmost charm and batting of eyelashes. Next year don’t make excuses for blatantly not picking teams whose records show they deserve to play like “differing opinions of criteria” and etcetera bull hoo-ha. Just come out and admit that you are silly old men without a clue.

Also in the meantime, Hokies should do as I am doing: get over it and embrace new opportunities. It’s fun to rage and be mad, but apparently the NIT finals are being played in Madison Square Garden and broadcast nationally, which seems to me to be a perfect opportunity to show how awesome we are at choking on key opportunities OR how we can persevere and not be thugs on the court cough Jeff Allen cough. Seriously. It’s sad we didn’t get picked. Not even for measly last seed spot.  But then, I guess it’s not cool to whine and complain. Get it done at NIT, little boys, and maybe next year you can not foul out as much, make free throws, and find a cute dress for the Big Dance. A dropped-waist cut looks best on those with long limbs.

And I’m so happy to have such great friends. You make life’s sad times happy!

Go Hokies!

I’m about to be shallow, just let it happen

Last weekend I had an epically long convo with Miz Foxy-fox on my odyssey from DC back to Raleigh. [Side note: embarking on a 5 hour car drive on a Sunday night around 9pm after an entire weekend of little to no sleep is not wise.] We, shockingly, had a long discussion about boys. I know, it’s like, we just never talk about boys so I thought, like, it was about time.

She was telling me about her awesomely fun weekend during which she met a super cute boy. Only he was not really that cute, only sort of cute and he was also sort of chubby but not really fat but just not really the Fox’s taste. But his eyes, she assured me, his eyes were just really brown and great. Plus he’s hilarious and has a great personality and they really bonded. It’s just that he’s sort of chubby and she really isn’t attracted to him, but she insists that he’s still sort of cute but not really. So now of course she feels shallow. I laugh and remind her how many men I have snubbed and/or ignored and/or to whom I have confirmed “friend-zone only zone” in the past (not to make it sound like I get hit on 24/7, but you know). We remind each other of the phrase, “life’s too short to date ugly men,” and immediately feel better about ourselves.

But then we continue down this vein and really start to dissect what it means to be shallow and what, if anything, this shallowness indicates about us and our character as nice young ladies. I insist that a physical attraction is 100% necessary in order to have a legit, deep, successful, long-term, whatever relationship. When have you ever heard a groom-to-be say something like, “well I love my fiance because she’s just a great cook and she can crack a joke like no other, but she really doesn’t do it for me physically.” Um. If you have heard something like this, then that marriage is obviously doomed. I have always said, since always, that the man I end up with should and will think that I am the hottest piece of tush (I promised Ma I wouldn’t curse as much) on the planet. And I would also like to have a man whom I think is just mondo attractive. I will see other attractive men and think, eh, mine is better. And it will be because I am attracted to his physical handsomeness as well as his personality and all of that. Everyone knows a person’s personality makes them more attractive so I won’t remind us of this. But seriously. Even my mother still remarks about what a great tush my father has. I cover my ears and sing really loudly to avoid hearing things like this, but is it NOT the cutest thing ever that after however many numerous years of marriage, she still thinks he’s the bees knees. Presh!

So what does it mean when we meet someone and they are just PERFECT aside from the fact that maybe you think that really they’re just not that good looking. It’s not an objective evaluation, it’s your subjective opinion and you just can’t get past it. “It comes with time,” is one theory I’ve heard. To me this is sort of BS. I don’t want to be with someone who is, like, “working on” thinking that I’m attractive. I either do it for you or I don’t. Perhaps I become more attractive to you once you learn all of my quirks and things. But the initial attraction must already be present. “They can lose weight – it’s so superficial.” Sure. If you meet someone and you don’t like the way their body is shaped – too short, too tall, too skinny, too fat – there are things that can be done to combat this. IE wearing heels, or eating more, eating less, working out, whatever. But as my mother always says you can’t meet someone and then immediately resolve to “fix” them.

Maybe it means that we’re just very immature little girls. “I don’t want to be seen with you because you’re ugly” sure wreaks of a Mean Girls-esque attitude, which as everyone knows is SO junior year. Can we help this? Not really. This is what Le Fox and I ended up deciding and then immediately felt like 12-year-olds. Or at least I did. It sort of makes sense that it’s a sign of immaturity that I / we / any lady would prefer to not be with someone because he’s just not attractive. Again, it’s all subjective, and I can’t help what I like. So I think that makes me shallow, but not necessarily immature. But regardless, this super awesome guy that El Foxo met last weekend probably will eventually find a girl who thinks he is the most adorable thing since baby chicks. But it won’t be Foxy. And I saw his picture and I’ll admit, it won’t be me either.

So for realz. Life is too short to date ugly men, but the reality is, life is too short to date or waste time with someone to whom you are not attracted. If you have some other kind of awesome connection, that means you could be fantastic friends. I have at least a few close friends who are dudes who are perfectly attractive, handsome, or otherwise cutie-patooties, and at least 50% of them have insanely awesome six packs (high on my list of must-haves).  Yet I have never dated any of them. There are obviously other factors at play here, but the point is we all are not to each others’ taste and that’s alright. If I am unmarried in 20 years, I already have a contract with one said friend to be married. What a deal. In the mean time, I will stick to what I like and continue searching for my Vin Diesel. Jesse Eisenbergs need not apply.

Twitterings in the Twitterverse to Tweet about

Raise your hand if you L-O-V-E Twitter! Raise your hand if you despise Twitter more than you despise brussel sprouts and bad traffic! Regardless of how you feel about Twitter, we are going to discuss the hilarity that is the twitter-verse with a brief foray into the galaxy of Facebook status updates, though the two can be synonymous in this context.

Today at lunch, one of my fellow nerds posited this theory: that Twitter was nothing more than an imaginary friend. He has a point. Think about it. For many people, Twitter is a place to share funny or meaningful quotes, brief interesting or comical happenings in their day, complaints about poor service at a restaurant, celebrations of an awesome basketball game, questions about new products, updates on wars and revolutions, and in general information sharing and gathering. Information seems to range from true fact-based information to opinions to friendly shout-outs. But for the times when something funny / cool / hilarious / terrible / interesting happens and you just want to tell someone, Twitter is the perfect outlet. Because why choose just one friend with which to share this little tidbit of 140 character goodness? Why not share it with all 115 of your followers? And if you’re a celebrity, why not share it with all 356,177 followers? I am not here to argue the effectiveness or revolutionary-ness that Twitter provides for mass communication and promotion or publication. This is obviously a fact, one that has been proven time and again. How ya doin, newly liberated Egypt?

But for some, Twitter is also a place to help make oneself feel more important, popular, cool, hip, crazy, fashionable, forward-thinking, and/or all of the above, and/or any other complimentary adjective. It’s sort of like annoying post-New Year’s Eve status updates. “Apparently I had a great NYE…I remember nothing. I am that much cooler because I drank myself into oblivion! Party on!” Or “holy crap I’m so hungover. I <heart> NYE.” These updates are obnoxious. We get it, you partied your face off with the rest of America and most of the world to celebrate a new year. You are so original. Same goes for post-weekend tweets and status updates. “I lost my pants last night, must have been a good one.” Classy. Or “So many shawtys up in hur dey all on me” or some such nonsense. So you’re a hot pimp, congratulations. Drunk girls will hit on anything. Also it seems you skipped grade school grammar and spelling class…might want to do something about that. Or even better, “I’m in the grocery store, these fresh vegetables look delicious!” These kinds are so pointless. Firstly no one gives two craps that you’re at the grocery store. If you want to compliment a grocery store’s supply of veggies, at least tag them specifically and use Twitter as a utility to provide a customer rating on the fly. This is good use of technology. Giving the world a play-by-play of your daily errands is a waste of your time and everyone else’s.

The downside to all the check-out-what-cool-thing-I’m-doing-now tweets is that it rubs off on other people. I am not excluding myself from this. Friends of mine posting things like “Out with [friend 1] [friend 2]…[friend 25] at [insert super hip bar name here], awesome drink specials! [insert super fun pic]” only makes me think about the number of “cool” things I have posted recently. And it spirals out of control like so:

What if I don’t post enough about my social life? People might think I don’t do anything cool! But then people might not even read my updates! But what if they do read my updates and I only post awesomely cool things occasionally, then I will look like I only go out like once a year! But then why do I even care what people think of my social life?! I know I enjoy my social life! But I sort of want people to know I’m cool so they’ll want to hang out with me! Why is everyone always tagging others but not me?! Why do I never tag other people?! And why do none of the people I hang out with have Twitter so they can tag me in their updates?! Why do I care?! I don’t want to be annoying! I don’t want to be uncool!

It’s a Catch-22. You’re cool if you post a lot, you’re cool if you don’t post a lot. You’re uncool if you post too much, you’re uncool if you post nothing. Which is true? Which is untrue? Who knows. All I know is, I enjoy reading funny things on Twitter. I enjoy hilarious pictures my friends take when they’re out. If I can’t be there, it’s a neat way for me to sort of keep up with their awesome lives. I try to only post things that I imagine I would be willing to actually call/text and tell one or more friends. If I’d only call one friend, then I will specifically contact this person directly, rather than notify the entire interwebs of an inside joke that only one person will get. This is possibly the most annoying thing. Though I have noticed when someone tags me in an inside joke, I super love it. Why do we love sharing these little expressions of love for one person with all of Twitter? Is it really necessary? And doesn’t everyone who’s not in on the joke get annoyed to see these? And yet everyone also loves when they are included in something that they know only a select few number of people will understand?

This is life in the new age of everyone-connected-to-everyone-all-the-time. It makes us feel good about ourselves. It makes us feel bad about ourselves. It lets us effectively stalk boys we like. It lets us keep in touch with friends who are 3,000 miles away. It lets us connect with friends we haven’t seen in 2 years or 40 years. It makes me doubt my social life and love my whole life at the same time. You be you, and I’ll just keep laughing at all the jokes I don’t get.

And didn’t I tweet this so that people would see that I write a blog? Blogs are cool…therefore I am cool. Right? Hmm.