The birthday came and went. I don't feel much different, I have to say. Although it is sort of strange to be 25. You wouldn't think so, but it feels much closer to thirty than 24 did. Clearly, it is technically closer, but I just mean mentally. I feel like any day now I'm going to be issued a cane and a subscription to the AARP magazine.

No, no. I exaggerate. But 25 appears to be a big birthday for many women. I've been told by at least 3 women that they had mild nervous breakdowns on that birthday and all of these women are over the age of 30, which I find interesting. You would think that 30 would freak you out. But I guess not. I will discover this for myself one day.

It actually turned out really well. Some of the ladies I work with gave me gifts and brought in lunch, and my nephew brought me not only a Happy Birthday balloon but slippers as well. He apparently thought this up on his own. Adorable.

Side note-- there is a conspiracy to keep me addicted to sweet carbohydrates. There was, of course, the mandatory birthday cake, and lady at work made me gigantic cookies (which I still have yet to finish), my sister-in-law sent me some cookies in the mail (delicious), and the kicker--the security officer at work bought me a German chocolate cake from a heaven sent bakery that is probably made directly out of lard. Delicious lard, though.

To combat all these triglycerides, another lady at work gave me gardening supplies. I have been told that when done right, gardening is actually a pretty good workout. Never mind that I don't have a yard. I have a balcony. I could probably plant things on it.

So I bring all this home to show to Brian. He is perusing the gifts while I'm making dinner when I hear, "Well, we're throwing this away."

I wonder to myself, what could he possibly want to throw away? Is he looking out for my health? Trying to rid me of some of these delicious, yet artery clogging, treats? No. He is holding the gardening hand rake thingy and shovel.

On the back of these tools there is a warning: California Health Warning--this product contains chemicals known to California to cause cancer, birth defects, and to cause reproductive problems.

Excuse me?

So we threw them away. I don't know why California is in the know and the rest of the 49 states are left in the dark, but we listened to them anyway.

We kept the cookies.

Happy Birthday to Me...eventually

Soon, I will enter the land of mid to late twenties. I suppose you could say that I'm already there, but why would you? It's such a weird thing to realize you are getting older. Of course everyone knows they are getting older, otherwise the world would be populated by really weird babies and toddlers as we reverse aged. Let's not think about that.

I can tell I'm getting older, as I frequently talk about things like mortgages and potential spawning. Only but a few years ago, I would have run screaming in the other direction had I met the current incarnation of myself. Now though, it just seems like the right thing to do. I pass "For Sale" signs on houses with my neck craned for a better look, and my uterus pretty much tries to accost every child it sees. It is all very disturbing.

How did this happen? Parents never really warn you of this stuff. Sure, sure. They say stuff like, "You have to learn responsibility," or "You will have to clean your own house one day so you better get off your rump and clean mine right now so you know how to do it." Like we didn't get the basic concept of washing dishes. Yeah, I get it. I don't need to do it a million times to learn. This whole "clean your own house" thing is crap--just have kids and they will apparently do it all.

So you see, my concept of growing up was a little warped. I figured you got a dog for responsibility, and maybe eventually got one of those kids when you were tired of doing your own dishes.

I was very disappointed.

But only for a short while. Now I'm married and happy and discussing mortgage options. Scary. I will never cease to amaze at the wonder of human biology. It surely has to be involved somehow. How else did I learn all this? And, how did I get so far in life without purchasing a ill-advised dog? And, most importantly, what lies about adulthood will I eventually pass on to my own children, no matter how accidentally?

Maybe I'll just start off with the dog, commit to paper plates, and hope they turn out a little more normal then myself.

A time for writing

Well boys and girls, welcome to my blog. Some of you may be wondering, "What is the topic of this blog," or "What words of wisdom might you impart to the world, considering you spend most of your time indoors, amongst the strange and bookish?" To these people I say, "Absolutely nothing." I might also add a "Geez, harsh."

But no, no topic to speak of. I'm just really, really, really bad at communicating. So, naturally, like all people who are bad at conversation with actual human beings, I enjoy writing. It's like having a conversation, only more sad, lonely and without anyone getting in the way of my genius. Or something along those lines.

Also, on a more realistic note, there is absolutely no way this blog will repeatedly go to voicemail, allowing the concerns and questions of good hearted people to go unheeded week after week. At least this way, people will know I'm alive. Inconsiderate, but alive.

So there you go. My vast thoughts on the universe. Well, the universe of writing, or blogs, or whatever noun you so choose.

Now, a tale.

In recent days, I was conversing with a teenager who is nearing voting age (no, it is not weird to be talking to a teenager. Everyone needs a role model. You weirdo.) He is smart, well-spoken, and in the top of his class. A real go-getter. I took a shine to him when I realized he was going places, and maybe someday he'd thank me in the dedication of a book.

Things got around to politics. Being a fledgling in the political arena myself, I felt the two of us were an even match for debate. He is pro-Clinton and, for the purposes of the debate and as devil's advocate, I took the stance for Obama. The teenager was really defending his candidate. I countered, and all was good. I was never so proud. I was contributing to the youth of America! Here I was, helping to mold the cognitive mind of young people, when he hit me with the full brunt of the social experiment gone wrong: public schooling and moronic adult behavior.

The trump card. The teenager said,

"But his middle name is Hussein. Come on. You gotta admit, that is a really good point."

Well. Clearly, I was defeated.

Never was I so sure my own children would be educated by nuns. Sister Mary Hussein, no less.