this morning i woke up next to you.
“how did i get so lucky?” i asked.
and then you kissed me and said, “it was me who got lucky first.”
all my heart. all my love. all my life.
Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want.
First, big ups to everyone and anyone who responded to my Writer’s Block Dilemma. I’m better now, so thank you. I heard everything from exercise to torturing my bladder as methods for Beating the Block, all of which were worth their weight in gold. But now I have the opposite problem (God, I’m such a complainer) and I can’t seem to stream my thoughts into coherent sentences. Or remember them.
I lost hours of sleep last night turning some good shit over in my head. I was all like, “Oh man, this is so good stuff. I can’t wait to get up an write it There’s no way I’ll forget it. No way.” So instead of learning from past experiences that I never, ever remember the next day what I was thinking the night before (thus REACH FOR A PEN AND PAPER, IDIOT) I’m dealing with the consequences. Total balls.
Before I turn 30 I really hope to get this lesson nailed down.
(p.s. Don’t worry, this isn’t a real post. Just stuff I was thinking.)
(p.p.s See, I’m already learning to always write things down.)
I’ve officially been 29 for one whole week. Happy anniversary to me.
In honor of this special day, I’d like to impart a little wisdom because I’m nothing if not a little wiser at the ripe old age of 29 (gfaw). At this important crossroads, walking the fine line between 20something and 30ish, I feel I have something to give. And give I shall, dear Readers. Give I shall.
I’d like to think of myself as a woman of the world, not just as one who travels and loves to do so, but as one who can cross cultures and boundaries when it comes to speaking foreign and oft confusing and intricate languages like Douchebag. Yes, it is a language and yes, I understand it fluently. I remain firm, however, that it is a language I dare not speak.
And now you’re left wondering, “How does she understand Douchebag?” When you’ve been around it as often as I have, you just learn to pick it up. And I’ve had a lot of practice, especially this week.
What it sounds like
Using my own experience as an example (as I find this the most organic way to teach) common phrases in Douchebag include, “Turning 30 soon, huh… wow, how do you feel about that?” or “Next stop Cougarville!” or “It’s all downhill from here, eh?” or “Not a Spring Chicken anymore, are you? or my personal fave of the week, “I thought you were 30 already.” These are all excellent examples of Douchebag, as they represent the stupid shit people say when they’re not thinking about what they’re saying at all. You see, the number one criteria for speaking Douchebag is that your verbal ‘filter’ must be in the ‘off’ position at all times. It is the only way to fluently, successfully and seemlessly speak it.
How to spot them
You can usually spot someone who speaks Douchebag from a distance. They walk around with a shit-eating grin most of the time and can’t tolerate friendship, affection or bright open spaces very well either, so they are typically easy to pick out of a crowd. Sometimes those who speak Douchebag travel with a partner, but never in packs. They don’t socialize particularly well. The sidekick is typically just there to bounce Douchebag phrases off of and to laugh when something not paricularly clever or off-side is said, which happens a lot in the language of Douchebag.
So, how does one, like myself, learn Douchebag but not speak it? Ah, young Grasshoppers, you must learn to resist the Force. Speaking Douchebag is like drunk-dialing an ex-lover – it may be tempting, but that doesn’t mean you should do it.
The number one rule when learning to understand Douchebag is that you have to listen for it because it can sometimes elude you, like the Polkaroo or Waldo. Females are particularly excellent at speaking this particular dialect of Douchebag. They mask their accents amidst back-handed compliments like, “Nice dress, it hugs your curves” or “Hm, have you gained weight? Don’t worry, looks great on you” or “You’re gutsy…I could never show that much cleavage.” Beware of these Douchebag-speaking females, particularly the ones with sidekicks.
People who speak Douchebag are usually quite fluent in it and remain true to themselves by sticking to their viewpoints on hairstyles, trendy outfits, homeopathy, religion, marriage, sex, sexual orientation, skinny jeans and sensitive topics like cancer, AIDS or war. If you MUST endure an evening, boardroom meeting or family dinner with people who speak Douchebag then do yourself a favor and avoid these topics AT ALL COSTS. You don’t want to be left up shit’s creek without a paddle. It has one hell of an undertow.
The sad and true thing about those who speak Douchebag is that they actually have one admirable feature many of us lack: Consistency. People who speak Douchebag do so all the time and with a gusto so fierce that if they could only use their powers for good, not evil, they might actually amount to something meaningful, like solving world hunger or finding the cure for premature balding. Ah, but Douchebag is a tricky temptress. Even those who veer inevitably find their way back to the Mother Tongue. Like riding a bike, once you learn Douchebag you never forget it.
Unfortunately Douchebag is a language that’s growing rapidly in popularity. Some of its users mistaken it for being clever, witty or even “expressive” , which has led to an explosion in its use, particularly amongst displaced 20somethings, disgruntled 30somethings and within wedding speeches (although there is no proof Douchebag is relegated to just these two generations – Douchebag, apparently, is the language of Everyman.)
Don’t be alarmed if and when you hear Douchebag and certainly don’t attempt to respond– remember, you must resist the Force. Instead, remain calm, simply nod, smile and retort (whilst gently tilting your head) “Oh, sorry, I don’t speak Douchebag”, to which the offending Douchebag-speaker will say absolutely nothing. Why? Because it is a little known yet valuable fact that those who speak Douchebag don’t, and will never, understand the indelible language of Smartass.
So, do you speak and/or understand Douchebag or know someone who does?
I try to reserve bandwagon jumping for things like new shit on HBO, the return of leg-warmers and Twitter. Not the death of pop stars. So this post (a rendition of something I posted before – another time, another place) comes from a cute little spot deep down in my heart.
In the spirit of celebrating good things like life, birthdays and sequins (I love sequins) here is a little something for the man in the mirror. He would have been 51 tomorrow.
June 25, 2009
On my way to a fabulous facial, I heard the most bizarre thing cut right through a song I was jamming to on the radio: “Michael Jackson has just gone into cardiac arrest”. No way, I thought. Too random. This is some TMZ.com drama-shit. But it was true. And then MJ died.
I never met the MJ and I’m willing to bet all the shoes in my closet you never did either. But I care that he’s gone, I do. Because beyond the weirdness, the bad press, and the very bad decision to hang a baby over the railing when paparazzi are watching (wtf), there is a legendary career we’ve been touched by (or, hell, even been touched to. Here, here).
It was MJ’s face on my first-ever pop-culture t-shirt. I even had a button. Thriller was my first album and the first piece of vinyl I ever learned to put a needle to. It made me feel grown up to like Michael, like my cool aunt, who loved his music, too.
So when the question of “who cares?” is raised (and I bet my right tit it will be – I’m hanging on to the left one), just remember…
Remember who made the crotch-grab a dance move
Don’t forget who taught us that it was good to be ‘bad’
Keep close to your heart the man who first told you to “beat it”
Never forget “shamon” because even though you don’t know what it means, it’s understood…everywhere
Always remember where “owww!” came from. It was no accident.
Recall forever that Billy Jean was the first baby momma you ever heard of and that she is still not his lover
Keep a place in your heart for the first video that ever scared the shit out of you. Even before Freddy, there was “Thriller”
Remind yourself, especially on your down days, that you are in fact a PYT (pretty young thang)
And always, always keep a place in your heart for the first man who taught us all how to walk on the moon.