Catching Up, and Birthdays

Catching Up, and Birthdays

Hello there. It's been a while.

Well, it's been a week. But that feels like long enough to go without blogging. (Not that I've been totally gone - catch me every Wednesday and each weekend on Herd of Blog: Textual Confessions of Delicious Ambiguity.)

I've had a pretty good last few weeks. I haven't had much homework, so I'm now all caught up on my TV and actually find myself bored often. Bored, imagine that! I think last summer was the last time I was actually bored, and had nothing that I HAD to do.* So that's been pretty great. Unfortunately now I have to get ready for finals.

I'm slightly suspicious that one of my good friends has forgotten about my birthday, which is kind of hurtful and confusing. She's planning a party for one of my other friends, whose birthday is a few days after mine, but she hasn't mentioned mine at all. There isn't really anything I can do about it, though - it's not like I can say, "hey, what about my birthday?" She either remembers or she doesn't; I can deal either way.**

Fortune cookie!
The best mirror is often a good friend.
So, good friends, do I sound like a complaining bitch, or am I justified in feeling sad about my friend possibly forgetting my birthday?

Hopefully something more interesting to come later in the week.
Au revoir.

* Okay, technically I do have to do driver's ed. But then technically I don't HAVE to do it - I just have to do it to get my license.
** Or, well, I can pretend to deal.

Open Letters

Open Letters

Inspired by Hank Green. :]
And inspired by my confirmation service.

Dear mascara,
I hate you. I hate that I always forget I'm wearing you and then I rub my eye and suddenly have black all over my face. I hate that you make me look like a porcelain doll. Actually, I hate the ancient societal rules that dictate how women are supposed to look, and I hate the new societal rules that make every woman feel inferior for not looking like Heidi Klum.

Dear robe makers,
Is it your goal to make me look like a giant, flapping ghost? If so, you've accomplished it. You can retire now, and leave the robes the gospel singers.

Dear Kelly Clarkson,
You are amazing. My life would suck without your music to dance around to when I'm up at 7:30 on a Saturday morning to blow dry my hair for confirmation. Because of you I don't always hate the songs that get stuck in my head. Never again will I laugh at your weird outfits or occasional strange hair.

Dear adorable purple Steve Madden flats,
You are adorable, as previously noted. So why do you insist on giving me blisters, forcing my to cringe in pain every time I take a step? Is this because I bought you on sale? Why do you hate me so much? I hope you realize that treating me this way will get you nothing but a life of exhile in the back of my closet, next to the adorable flower print mary-janes that share your hatred of my feet.

Hey, kid in my confirmation class that I can't stand,
What did you just say? Did you really just say "shit"? Dude, you're on the bimah, in the middle of the service. The Torah is six feet away from you. You can't cuss when the Torah is that close. It can hear you. Actually, while we're on the subject, we ALL can hear you. Yup, dude, we can hear you cracking your water bottle in the middle of the service, and we can hear you groaning when the Rabbi comes to give you a hug after the confirmand blessing. If you were five years old, some serious time outs would be in order.

Dear Herd of Blog,
You are fun. I like writing my Textual Confessions of Delicious Ambiguity every Wednesday and sometimes on the weekends. I like that the five of us all have blogging in coming but are different in lots of other ways. I'm sorry you have few readers; I'm sure you'll get more soon.
(Okay, that was obvious and tactless. But we'd love it if you'd follow us.)