The Cocoon

A friend of mine were talking yesterday about quarter life crises and becoming a better person and digging yourself out of a whole and stuff. Which is ironic because in comparison to last year, when I was falling asleep in wine bottles and treating my job like it was my own personal daycare, my life right now is considerably agreeable. But this sage, wise friend of mine brought up an idea that I find pretty insightful. She called it the cocoon. Basically you reserve a month for yourself - meaning you isolate yourself from certain vices - to flourish into a BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY. You know. Like Mariah! In my case experiments like this always come out half-assed and I end up looking like a moth that listens to Mariah Carey (by that I mean I wiggle to this song on repeat). However, I'm determined to make this go round work. I have several goals, all of which involve embracing things that would make me more presentable to a co-op board and less of a candidate for the Maury Povich Suze Orman show. Here are my goals for Yoo-lie:

1. Blog at least four times a week. I am an astute woman with an articulate voice and I will project it upon my community.
2. Do one crossword per day, preferably something that is released by Highlights-for-Adults.
3. Lose ten pounds - sans celebrating each pound lost with nine drinks and a trip to Crif Dogs.
4. Pay my bills. For real this time. I've learned I can't get by on life anymore by smiling and pretending to think store credit cards are the same as gift cards.
5. Go to yoga twice a week.
6. Finish each Jeopardy episode on my DVR queue at some point over the weekend.
7. Join a book club.
8. Stop eating every bit of my $100 grocery purchases in two days.
9. Strengthen my professional social networks. Yes, Twitter, that means I'll probably pay more attention to you, also.
10. In an effort to excel at Item Three, stop tucking myself into bed with a Diet Coke and putting myself to sleep with Paula Deen videos. The woman is deep-fried molasses Southern crack, y'all. WATCH HER SHE IS CLOGGING MY ARTERIES I LOVE IT MORE PLEASE.

Twenty-three

Hello interwebz. It's been a while. Last you saw me, I was a poor, unassuming, and ignorant child of 22. Since then I have blossomed into a mature, well-versed, 23-year-old woman of the world, my sage brain swimming with poetic musings and grand ideas. No longer do I wallow in the darkness of adolescent shenanigans, friends.

I meant to write a "birthday post," and I know I'm like five days late on it, but better late than never! I guess that'll be the mantra this year. Work? Better late than never! The rent? Better late than never! Taxes? Better late than never! My period? ....

My friend Aviva gave an update on her blog about things she lost and gained betwixt her very lamentable absence from the world wide web, so in the form of both a good friend and a noble blogger, I'm going to copy her.

WHAT I LOST THIS YEAR:

1. A job

2. An apartment

3. My iPod

4. My patience

5. Two roommates

6. Really cute platform sandles

7. A game of drunk Scattergories (never forget...)

WHAT I GAINED THIS YEAR:

1. A better job

2. A better apartment

3. A new iPod

4. The iPod I thought I lost

5. 15 pounds

6. A puppy, sort of

7. My voice

8. Aviva's watch

I guess I'll revisit the lists as I think of things, but that's the gist of it all, I suppose.

And since this is a birthday post, I'd like to wish the following "birthday buddies" a very blessed belated: Andre Agassi, Master P, Uma Thurman, Michelle Pfiefer, Jerry Seinfeld, Duke Ellington, William Randolph Hearst, and my personal favorite, Bernard Madoff.  Also, happy anniversary to Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun, and also to the LA Riots of 1992.  Great date, that April 29th.

Somebody gon get pregnant.

Gawker predicted the Tracy Morgan/Jordan mash-up that happened on 30 Rock last night, but they were unsure about the last frame.  Well fools, I found it, and it's awesome:

"Just a blonde bitch in bunch of bubbles"

I must admit that I'm starting to have a love/hate relationship with Lady GaGa, as should be expected, I suppose, when you see a great artist who cockteases you with two years of obscurity before he or she blows up in a very boisterous and uncomfortable way.

Something about her Madonna-esque British twang is revolting to me, and I'm repeatedly annoyed by the no-pants thing (trust me, when you get heat about leg exposure from BABYLEGS, you know som'n has gone horribly awry in your wardrobe conscience).  The way she hides behind retro glasses, a blonde wig, and random members of the glitterati makes me feel betrayed by the cute, bubbly brunette girl I met back on the LES in the summer of 2007.  However, I must give her points for consistency, delivery, and style.

Watching this video that I found on FourFour was the total straw on my camel's back, but even in the face of all this show boating, I still can't deny that the girl's got chops.  Her songs are catchy, she's indelibly unique, and this lady can sing.  I'm a little afraid that she'll go similarly AWOL at the show I'm planning to attend on the 2nd (weekend of my birthday, yall!), but if it's anything like this, I guess it can't be SO bad.

Parvin told me to do it

Parvin told me to try LIVEBLOGGING this episode of RHONY, so I'm going to try, and then go back and edit (I know, that's breaking the rules) and post.  Too bad I forgot until 5 minutes in!  Yall missed Jill's second event meeting and a graphic design brainstorm between Bethenny and Alex.  Nothing happened - let's go.

Aaaaand here we go.  LuAnn talking about self esteem and why she likes herself to young girls to put in her service hours at Countesses 'R Us.   I cannot wait for Richard's recap on this.

Now she's trying to explain her torrid past.  Look at the blank stares.  Richard, you know what to do with this.

Oh dear lord sweet Jesus.  She called out a girl who wanted to be a model, saying that losing weight is easy.  Great contribution to a SELF ESTEEM WORKSHOP, you horrid C U Next Tuesday.

I'm not crazy about Jill's new apartment.  Places that look too much like a model home and or hotel lobby and or weird jewelry boutique on Spring Street don't look lived in.  And the coffee table says "pop."  WTF.

Bethenny, I love you for directing national attention to Alex's hilarious website and Simon's Fan Club.

Bethenny, I love you for shining light on the truth of Jill's apartment that will only look good for 5 months.

The partner is Simon.  I went to watch videos on BravoTV.com and they totally spoiled it.

Told you so.

This is the best plan EVER.

Oh look, Kelly segment!  Which to me is the same as a commercial so I'm getting up for a glass of water.

"Everyone wants to go out with Max," you know, like everyone with a dick.  Right Kelly?  Or like, everyone who's Simon van Kempen.

Speaking of Simon, looks like those two weeks of the tennis unit in phys ed Down Under did a wold of good.

Now Simon's panting and sweating.  Now he's picking up balls.  A little censorship please, FCC.

Why on God's great earth does Alex need sexy reference photos for a LOGO?  Isn't it her job to make a design?  She must be watching lots of Logo.

They cut back shortly to show an out-of-sequence moment of Jill having a Jew sob in her kitchen.  So, there's that.

Oooh!  Real Housewives of NJ preview comin up!

Kelly, there's a diaper popping out of your navel.

Shut up Ramona.  You can choke on my Team Jill shirt.  Nothing is gauche except your husband's rapey eye stare that he flashes anyone with a set of boobies.

Look everyone!  Alex came!  And she's wearing the upholstery from that leather couch we had in the basement and threw out last year!

Ramona's stretches look like a really poor audition for Debbie does the Tennis Courts at Chelsea Piers.

Also, tears in her eyes and pursed lips is a great way to look unfazed.  She's got a great poker face.

Alex, shut the hell up.  It wasn't fair to subject Simon to tennis that because he was sick that day in Socialite Class when they went over WASPy sports.

And Ramona and Mario win against their "disrespectful" partners.  Yawn.

One more thought:  "JERSEY GIRLS ARE LIKE THE REAL DEAL."  (Straight from the horse's mouth.)  This looks so. Ridiculously. Scrumptious.  Evidence:

"I wanted to get new bubbies, but my husband, he's an aaass maaaan...  My husband's delicious.  He's gawt the big muscles, the big tan, the big everything... My little girls aaw divas like theh mama."  ~Thank you Theresa.  Good luck on your impeccably tasteful French Chateau vision for the house.

NSFWacebook

Hey guys.  Just a PSA.  Because about five minutes ago I fell into this trap for about the thousandth time in two months.  When you plan to visit Facebook, make sure you type it into the address bar correctly.  Because when you type in "facbeook," you'll get a bunch of newsfeeds I'm sure you'll wish you never had to be fed.

You're welcome.

Good mom?

Now that I'll be working from home, I have been very seriously (and very stupidly, I guess) considering the prospect of adopting a pooch.  Even though pets are contraband in my building, I know for a fact that at least ONE long-haired chihuahua is living there without a green card.  My mom is readying her [rental]nest for a little cockabichon named Olive; my dad owns a little fat dachshund named Boone; all this goggie business just makes me ache for one.  I have been trying to think of small breeds that are dynamic and easy to maintain, but still look idiotic.  I'm leaning toward a Scottish terrier - the one good thing that lived in the White House between 2001 and 2008.

I mean, really.  I dare you to watch ten seconds of these chubby little fluffy sacks of coal and not want to sell your soul.  Eye-melting preciousness particularly sets in around 1:40.  You've been warned.