Humor

It’s my birthday and I’ll angry-cry if I want

/ Ashley / 10 Comments

I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but you’re currently reading the blog of someone who’s only had six actual birthdays.

Leap Day

I’ve never understood why people react with such pity when they find out I was born on Feburary 29. On Leap Years, I’m completely justified in having a gigantic celebration. Not that I have enough friends to invite to a big party, but if I did, I would have epic celebrations.

note to self: make more friends in the next three years

The general public thinks my birthday is February 28th. My family says it’s March 1st. I tend to side with my parents, but I just go with the flow by accepting the Facebook notifications on the 28th and knowing my grandma will call me on March 1st to sing to me. Last night she called around nine. She didn’t even bother greeting me, she just started crooning. While she was singing, I told her I thought she forgot. “Don’t interrupt a polack when they’re singing,” she told me after her performance. She’s full of great life lessons.

I spent Thursday evening at my parents’ house, then I went home, determined to get some reading done. Instead I ended up spending about three hours on the phone with Andrea. Sometime around 11:30, we decided to stay on the phone till midnight so we could ring in my birthday together. I think I got to bed around 1am, which made Friday a long day.

I'll understand if you're intimidated by my ability to mix mint, coral, and trouser-style denim.

I’ll understand if you’re intimidated by my ability to mix mint, coral, and trouser-style denim. 

Friday started out just fine. I woke up with an absurd amount of energy for getting about four hours of restless sleep. I decided to dress all fancy and post a selfie on Facebook because that’s a thing adults do, right? My department had thrown a small pig-out for a coworker who was moving to a different department, so I didn’t pack a breakfast. I had three cups of coffee and a donut. Around 11:3o, I decided to touch base with my brother, who works in a different department, to see if he had lunch plans.

“No, I haven’t thought about it,” he told me in a biting and exasperated tone. “I’ll probably just go out and grab something.”

“Okay, well do you want to plan on going to Festival at like 12:30?”

“Ash, just go by yourself. I just got this project and I have to work on it.”

“Fine. Bye.”

I slammed my phone on the receiver, appreciating the satisfying smack of a pissed off phone slam you can’t achieve by aggressively pressing the END button on a touch screen. “Well fuck you,” I said in my head. “Don’t be nice to me on my birthday.” Then I started doing that inner angry-crying thing where I threw the most intense 20 second pity party the world has ever known.

It’s my birthday and I didn’t even have cake yet and you can’t be nice to me and I didn’t even get much sleep and why is it too much to ask to take lunch a half hour later than usual and damnit, Corey, you don’t need to be a jerk to me on my birthday and gosh this is the worst birthday ever and omigosh I can’t even get my brother to be nice to me and what an asshole and what is wrong with my life if I’m about to cry in my cubicle on my birthday and oh my god if I cry and ruin my eyeliner I am going to be so mad and oh my gosh Corey should be buying my lunch anyway because it’s my birthday and oh my god nobody loves me and I am so alone because nobody understands me ever.

When my stomach grumbled, I realized I hadn’t taken care of myself that morning. I blinked a few dozen times to make my hunger tears go away and started my Dan Savage inner monologue.

You need to calm the fuck down. This might come as a shock to you, but the world does not revolve around you. What did you expect? It’s not like Corey’s supposed to coordinate a fucking food parade for you just because it’s your birthday. He’s got his own shit to deal with. Now put on your big girl heels and go get yourself some damn food – something more substantial than a damn sprinkled donut. What were you thinking anyway? Yeah, that’s some great brain fuel, Ashley. Sugar and caffeine. Breakfast of fucking champions right there.

I imagine some people kindly talk themselves out of these sorts of things. You know what, self? You normally make better food choices and you know that it feels better. So just go get yourself something with a lot of protein. You’ll have a much better afternoon. Also, you’re gorgeous and perfect. Don’t forget that, self. Obviously my brain works a little differently. I don’t react to coddling; I react to a bitch slap.

Before going to lunch, I decided to finish up the file I was working on to give myself a chance to calm down. Corey called back a few minutes later and apologized for being short. Then he asked if I still wanted to go to Festival.

On the way back from the store, I told Corey about what had gone through my head. We had a good laugh and went back to our desks. I basically inhaled my lunch (fruit and dip with a bowl of chili that was essentially a quarter pound of ground chuck drizzled with some chunky tomato sauce) and marveled at my renewed sense of optimism. Isn’t it kind of amazing how much food and rest can affect your mood? I bet Africa is full of crabby people.

All in all, my twenty-fifth birthday has been good. It’s been sort of a week-long endeavor: on Sunday I met an old friend from high school who gave me a Real Book so I can start butchering some jazz standards. My aunt sent me a package full of goodies. My roommate indulged my New Girl fangirl and gave me a copy of The Douche Journals. Last night, Andrea showed up with six and a quarter red velvet cupcakes before we went out with a few friends for shots and cucumber vodka drinks. Tonight Vince (he’s the academic, I’ve mentioned him enough times that it’s getting weird for me to not use his name) is making me dinner. Tomorrow, I’m spending the afternoon with my family for cake and quality time.

If you've never heard jazz violin, it's sort of bizarre. Regardless, it's still pretty fun to play In the Mood and Call Me Irresponsible alone in my apartment.

If you’ve never heard jazz violin, it’s sort of bizarre. Regardless, it’s still pretty fun to play In the Mood and Call Me Irresponsible alone in my apartment.

That necklace is the brightest piece of jewelry I own. I'm a little afraid it will blind people on sunny days.

That necklace is the brightest piece of jewelry I own. I’m a little afraid it will blind people on sunny days.

I can stop looking for the perfect coffee table book now.

I can stop looking for the perfect coffee table book now.

 

Andrea made me red velvet cupcakes with vanilla frosting and triple-double stuft Oreo crumbles. She even went through the trouble of eating 3/4 of one cupcake to properly reflect my age.

Andrea made me red velvet cupcakes with vanilla frosting and Oreo crumbles. She even went through the trouble of eating 3/4 of one cupcake to properly reflect my age.

The bar we spent the night at is kind enough to put pictures of hunky men in the women's bathroom. I had to crop this one to make it family-friendly, but you get the idea.

The bar we spent the night at is kind enough to put pictures of hunky men in the women’s bathroom. I had to crop this one to make it somewhat family-friendly, but you get the idea.

Now that I can rent a car at a reasonable price, get cheaper car insurance, I’m sure I’ll run out of things to blog about since I’ll stop making all the mistakes women in their early twenties make. Just kidding, I’ll keep drinking too much coffee and swearing at people in my head. 

Throwback Thursday: “I MUST HAVE LOVED YOU BECAUSE I KNOW YOUR SEVENTH GRADE LOCKER NUMBER.”

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

Every Thursday, I dig out an old diary and share an entry sans editing (in hopes we’ll all see my grammar and apostrophe use improve) with a short commentary. If you like laughing with/at Young Ashley, feel free to use the handy search bar to the right and simply type “Throwback Thursday” and you’ll find the whole archive. Thanks for reading!

Friday December 24, 1999

Dear Genna, 

Been a while, ya think? I’m still Ashley, but now I go to Maplewood. I still like Andy, but I’ve added a crush or two to my list. 

  1. Joey
  2. Andy
  3. Tyler
  4. Sam
  5. Todd

Joey is in seventh grade. Locker number 2632, Bus number 862, Bus route 66. 

<3, Ashley

Saturday December 25, 1999

Dear Diary, 

Sorry, but when I named you “Genna” I was a total freak! So now, you’re just plain ol’ diary, k, k!

For Christmas, (so far.) I got two pairs of Levi flare jeans, a tech vest, two shirts, the 98° Christmas CD, and a camera!

Either more later, or tomorrow, Ashley

Friday January 14, 2000

Dear Diary, 

I just got home from (it’s 11:35pm!) my first boy-girl party. And it was really fun. At first it was really boring because most of the kids were just sitting around. But then when people started leaving, it got better. (Oh yeah, this was my friend Ali’s 13th birthday.) When just me, Ali, Emily, Anna, Isiah, and Corey were left. (Not my older bro. A really cute and quiet kid.) I danced to some really funky, up beat song with Isiah, just a twilling thing, (Mom!) nothing serious. Ok, sorry Mom, but I was trying to get Corey to dance with me but he didn’t Corey said the only way he would dance is if we got his hat off, which he had, pracitcally glued to his head the whole night. I got it off twice! He barely danced! The first time I got his hat, I ran into the Girls bathroom, where I thought I’d be safe. But He ran in way in the back and said, nonchalauntly, “Can I have my hat back?” Emily and I were just shreiking. But I had a great time. I hope I’ll have parties that cool.

Ur’s always, Ashley

Good God. Young Ashley. You’re still a “total freak” even after renaming your Pooh book. I hope all 11-year olds are this psychotic.

I’m starting to hesitate with these posts, you guys. I often joke around that I’m a dork, but I’m offering you prime evidence here. Soon we’re going to be getting into my high school days. That’s going to be mortifying. Then college? Hot damn. You just might see me get truly vulnerable. I’ve been pretty nonchalant (or nonchalaunt, if you’re eleven and into phonetics) about sharing these prior diary entries, because in an abstract sense, I don’t think you should be embarrassed about anything that happens before you’re 18. Everyone was once an awkward kid trying to figure out their place in the world – navigating a new terrain of crushes, interactions with the opposite sex, name brand clothes and the relative popularity status. However, in a more concrete sense, I’m afraid my diaries will illustrate all the ways I haven’t matured.

These days, I don’t tempt boys into dancing by stealing their hats and running into bathrooms while shrieking, but I sometimes still feel that sense of unwarranted embarrassment when talking to a guy I find attractive. I’m picturing the shrieking now. I’m writing this on Wednesday night and in about an hour, I’ll be meeting the academic (yes, from the comedy club) for wine and live jazz. What would that be like? He’d put his arm around me and in two seconds I’d turn bright red, squealing when his fingers brush my shoulder blade. When the bill came I would try to pay my portion with exact change using crumpled bills and 37 pennies, completely unaware of the tipping concept. Thank god we pretend to be normal humans. Restaurants would be the most chaotic places on earth if we all acted like eleven year old kids. 

I’ve found that dating in my twenties is more refined than my obsessive crushes that seemed appropriate as a child. I memorized facts about my crushes the same way I did with celebrities. If it had been possible, I probably would have had posters of not just James Van der Beek and Leonardo Dicaprio, but also Joey, Andy, and Tyler –  obviously not Sam or Todd though. I’m not sure what my goal was by memorizing his locker number and bus route. Maybe I thought my diligence to remember digits pertaining to him would translate to devotion he would find endearing.

Reading this entry took some time. For those interested in the legibility of their writing, I would not recommend metallic Jelly Rolls.

Reading this entry took some time. For those interested in the legibility of their writing, I would not recommend metallic Jelly Rolls.

Clearly, this was when I used metallic gel pens and before I developed a sense of empathy. I don’t think I realized these boys were complete people. They were flat characters – ones easily learned by keeping in mind simple facts. Not that I would have been able to articulate it, but I knew that I was an emotional being, capable of containing contradictions and parts of myself I was unwilling to share or acknowledge. Everyone around me was just another character in my life. I had no desire to truly learn about another person. And anyway, how could I have kept them all straight? I had five crushes at one point – a girl can barely memorize five locker numbers, much less learn about five different boys.

I miss the innocence of the days when 11:35 was extraordinarily late and I was excited by the presence of boys at a party. I didn’t have the capability for discerning between boys I liked and didn’t like – they were all  just boys! Boys I could flirt with! Boys whose very presence gave me butterflies. I think the inability to discern emotions is so characteristic of adolescence. Everything I felt was so strong. Every joke a boy told me made me laugh. Every note passed to me made me feel adored. Every exchanged smile meant the potential for my first kiss.

Because it was all new, everything was a gut feeling until I was able to place them in a hierarchy. Even after I did this, I would ignore the distinctions because a boy was giving me attention. I still squealed (in my head) whenever a guy made the slightest effort to show me he was interested. It wasn’t till about 22 that I realized I didn’t have to spend time with complicated assholes if I didn’t want to.

Ahhh, growing up. You offer such good lessons. For my younger readers – WHY ARE YOU READING THIS, DID YOUR MOM GIVE YOU PERMISSION?! DOES SHE KNOW THAT I OCCASIONALLY SWEAR?! – I’d like to tell you to keep your psychotic behavior to a minimum and keep your standards high. If you’re wondering, yes you are a dork, but so is everyone else, so don’t be too hard on yourself. Also, read good books.

Aww shucks. I got nominated.

/ Ashley / 15 Comments

Earlier today, my cousin tweeted me telling me she was thinking about starting a blog. I told her to start with either WordPress or Blogger and to let me know if she had further questions. I said that like it’s the most important part of blogging, but really it’s not. What makes blogging fun and rewarding is the community. I’m happy to be part of the community here on WordPress and I love interacting with other bloggers. One especially cool thing are the reader-nominated awards, like this one, the Liebster.

liebsterblogaward

Melly, a self-described “30something Sydneysider” nominated me for this award. She requested that I answer the following questions.

1. What would you spend your last $50 on?

Honestly? Probably something silly like a bunch of Amazon mp3 albums. A week later when I’m eating the last of my canned soup, I’ll be kicking myself for buying a Nina Simone album – even if Wild is the Wind is an amazing song. At least my hunger will have an amazing soundtrack.

2. Favorite fashion accessory?

In the past, I had three weaknesses while shopping: cute coats, classy handbags, and superfluous shoes. For the most part, I’ve calmed down. I bought a very practical parka on sale last winter and have passed by many clearance pea coats this winter. I’ve purchased only two purses and one clutch this year. And I’ve stuck to clearance shoes – flats under $5, and a pair of $8 leopard print heels. My favorite accessory would probably be my cubic zirconia studs. When they’re clean, the 2-karat cheats could blind someone. I’ll stick with the cubic zirconia until I’m rich enough for actual diamonds.

3. If you were a character on The Simpsons, who would you be? 

I don’t watch The Simpsons, really, but I vaguely remember Lisa being a musician who read a lot. So that’s sort of a no-brainer.

4. What’s your go-to comfort food?

Bread. Hands down. Give me a loaf of warm, crusty french bread and I’ll be happy. I don’t even need butter or jam – just give me plain bread and I will be completely content. Until it’s gone.

5. If you could vacation anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Someplace that is not Wisconsin. Honestly, this winter is terrible. I’m not used to getting 3-5 inches of snow every week – we haven’t had winters like this since I was a kid. I don’t need to see a beach. I don’t need a sunburn. I don’t need rum-heavy drinks. Actually, I was lying about the rum drinks. I’ll take some of those. Anyway, what I need is some soft grass and a reason to wear sunglasses other than the snow reflecting and blinding me.

6. Do you prefer to work out in the gym, at home, or outdoors; what do you love about it? 

Bouncing around in my living room makes me feel like an ogre. When i workout outside, I sometimes get over ambitious and run or bike a ridiculous distance away from home, instead of staying within a reasonable radius. I prefer the gym because if I lose all ambition or energy, I can do a quick cool-down and drive home. Gyms can get boring, but that’s why it’s great to have Netflix on cell phones and tablets.

7. If you could pick 4 people (living or dead) to have a dinner party with, who would they be and why? 

Kanye West because it’s Kanye West. He would provide the comic relief without realizing he was providing comic relief. Lena Dunham so I could pick her brain and become her new best friend and she would want to pilot an HBO series based on my blog. Ira Glass so he could be the token jew-athiest who would provide all of the interesting and topical stories we’d discuss while Kanye said things like, “Why don’t you have any fur-covered pillows?” And to humble everyone at the party, I would invite Vladimir Nabokov. He would remind us that none of us are as smart or as talented as we think we are. Dude wrote Lolita – that trumps Kanye’s obnoxious tweets, the honesty of Girls, and Ira’s most heart-wrenching story about underprivileged children diagnosed with cancer who go on to be Nobel Laureates, or something.

8. What’s your signature cooking dish?

Something smothered in peanut sauce, most likely. Or dutch babies.

9. Favorite TV show?

This is so difficult! Arrested Development for its endearing portrayal of narcissists? 30 Rock for Tina Fey’s ability to mix the meta with the obnoxious? Breaking Bad for its shocking dissection of a man’s descent into evil with a super hot sidekick (Jesse Pinkman ftw!)? Community for its constant breaking of the fourth wall and disregard for comedy norms? I LOVE ALL MY CHILDREN EQUALLY.

10. Where did you go to high school? 

Good ol’ Menasha High School, home of the Bluejays. I spent a good deal of time hanging out at a coffee shop in Neenah (Menasha’s neighbor and rival) and made quite a few friends who gave me the adorable nickname “Metrashley.” They were clever. I told somebody this anecdote once, and he reacted with horror and pity. Maybe I got it wrong, but I think they called me Metrashley ironically. Dressed constantly in flats and pastel cardigans, I was the opposite of trashy. Aside from simply residing in a town sometimes called “Metrasha” (pronounced “Meh-trash-ah” for those of you confused), there is literally no way I could have earned this nickname.

11. What are you currently obsessed with? 

Gosh, where to start? Jazz, comedy, books about religion, zero-calorie Powerade, guacamole, the promise of spring, and rereading old diaries.

Since I accepted the Liebster Blog Award, here are the rules:

Rules for the Liebster Blog Award (if you choose to accept)
1. Add the award icon to your post.
2. Link in your nominator to say thank you.
3. Answer the questions the nominator has set for you, and create eleven questions for your own nominees to answer.
4. Choose eleven bloggers to nominate for the award, and let them know.

I’m going to nominate the following bloggers for the award:

  1.  Marcus, The Entertaining. [Voices in Heads]
  2.  Rachel, The Healthy. [her name is rachel]
  3.  Kristen, The Resourceful. [Five in Tow]
  4.  Katie, The Sassy. [Sass and Balderdash]
  5.  Jess, The Bold. [Mitten’s Kittens]
  6.  I Don’t Know Your Name, The Clever. [Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants]
  7. Amy, The Self-Aware. [It’s a Conundrum]
  8.  Anouchka, The Colorful. [Life of Bun]
  9.  Mindy, The Poetic. [Becoming Mindy]
  10.  Mer, The Adventurous. [loveplusthely]
  11.  I Don’t Know Your Name Either, The Determined. [A Girl Who Writes]

My questions for my nominees (if you choose to accept) are as follows:

  1. Are you a dog or cat person? Why?
  2. Growing up, what was your favorite cartoon?
  3. If you could meet one fictional character, who would it be?
  4. What is one of your guilty pleasures?
  5. You’re forced to relocate immediately; Where would you choose to live?
  6. Marry, Boff, Kill: Your first, second, and third romantic partners.
  7. What was your first car?
  8. What’s your homepage?
  9. Name two things other than your phone or computer you couldn’t live without.
  10. What is your favorite dessert?
  11. What are you currently obsessed with?

Thanks again for the nomination, Melly! To my friends who I’ve nominated: I listed you because I truly enjoy your posts and look forward to reading more – even if I don’t know your first names.

Food + beer + jazz = friendship

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

A few nights ago, I went over to my friend Matt’s house for dinner. Matt is a relatively new friend. We met this winter during the Nutcracker in the Castle, where he made me laugh at the most inappropriate times: during performances (by doing an improv session consisting of either glissando-like scales or half note scales), at the clumsiness of children (one fell over for no apparent reason), epic pigtails (on 70 year old women), and terms whose definition I’d expect to find only on Urban Dictionary.

I had been over a few weeks earlier when he invited my brother and I over for a few drinks. He told me to wear the girl equivalent of a suit. I toyed with the idea of wearing a pantsuit just to be snarky (I don’t actually have a pantsuit, but I do own black pants and a black blazer), but I decided to go with a dress and red lips instead. We spent the night drinking beers (one was so dark it looked like motor oil), wine, and whiskey over his homemade bar. At one point, the group migrated to his bedroom where he had his collection of instruments.  If I’m remembering correctly, he has several guitars, a banjo, a bass, violin, viola, cello, and an accordion, which was stashed under his bed. I played Twinkle Twinkle on the cello before realizing I had no idea how to hold the bow and my fingers tend to press down in increments made for a violin rather than a cello. After I grabbed the violin, we started playing from his Real Book.

My ex is a drummer whose passion lies mostly in jazz, so I had seen a Real Book before, but I had never really looked through it. It was one of those things that I let exist in his realm. He was so passionate about it, it was a bit intimidating even trying to learn about it. Though I’m a musician, performances rarely amaze me. (Clearly this is different if we’re talking about literature. Give me a good Nabokov story and there’s a good chance I’ll tear up at the ending.) It’s not that I’m unimpressed and think I could do better. Believe me, I can’t, and I know it. It may be a jealousy I’m not willing to articulate, or it could be a decided apathy; I’ll never be as good as Joshua Bell or Mark O’Connor, so I won’t waste energy thinking about it. I could be alone in this, but I think that somewhere in admiration of art or music, there is at least some amount of drive to emulate. This could be why I don’t play violin as much as I could. It’s a completely unveiled self-fulfilling prophecy: I’ll never be a master violinist, so I don’t practice often. I play enough to keep my basic skills up, but I’d be embarrassed for any of my music professors to hear me play Bach.

We played a few tunes that night. Though I had a stout-cloudy mind and screwed up plenty of simple rhythms (a few times, Matt started singing what I was supposed to be playing), I think I started to understand why small ensemble musicians keep performing. It’s not the free drinks at bar gigs, it’s that feeling of creating a moment that is utterly unique. I’ve always loved that feeling of combined singularity (ignore that nonsense term and just go with what I’m saying) that comes a good performance, but this was different. Classical music has always made me feel like I was interacting with the music in front of me, but this was more like interacting with the music around me. I’m sure my musician readers will say you’re supposed to do both, but I’m usually just too aware of the fact that those around me are way better.

After the last Nutcracker gig, the quartet went out for a drink and Matt told me there were levels to his friendships – you could tell where you stood in terms of his acceptance. “If I give you a hug, I probably like you,” he told me, sipping a beer. “If I let you drink my beer, I consider you a friend. And if I cook for you, we’re probably gonna be in each other’s lives for a while.” That night, he gave me a hug. A few weeks later, he shared a favorite stout (the motor oil one), and on Tuesday he cooked for me. So I guess that’s it. We’re gonna be friends for a while.

Matt

Thinking about hiring him to be my personal chef. Let’s hope he accepts payment in blog posts.

I’m always a bit envious of good cooks. I can usually follow a recipe, but I’m disproportionately proud of myself when I throw a bunch of things in peanut sauce and call it a stir fry. It won’t surprise you to hear I was impressed by his ability to make a mostly vegan meal without a recipe in sight.

Cooking

I know. Coolest spatula ever, right?

Sitting down to a meal completely void of leftovers and preservative-soaked “food” was an excellent treat. We had portabella sandwiches on homemade sandwich rolls with homemade hummus, onions, pepper, and burnt garlic; spinach salad with tomato, avocado and a balsamic dressing; red bananas, and an imperial porter (Flying Dog’s Gonzo Imperial Porter, whose label was an ode to Hunter S. Thompson).

Holy yum.

To quote the genius Liz Lemon: “I want to go to there.”

It was one of the best meals I’ve had in a while, and it was extremely nice to sit and talk with Matt in a non-Nutcracker setting. He’s full of entertaining stories like early college days spent drinking and cooking on roofs, dealing with students’ masturbation while teaching at music camps for handicapable children, and being chased by stripper dungeon basement guards at 3am in Budapest. I left his house that night with rolls, hummus, a full stomach, and a new friendship.

Dishwasher

Who doesn’t love passive-aggressive notes on a dishwasher?

I told him I’d invite him over for a meal sometime, but not to expect anything more than a frozen pizza and a randomly-chosen pick-six from Festival. I figure that way he’ll be blown away when I make my signature peanut sauce stir fry, consisting of ramen noodles (sans season packet) and whatever happens to be in my cupboard and freezer.

Also, this is the second time this week I’ve used the word ‘masturbation’. I’m sorry, Mom.