oopsie daisy

There was also a lecture about how boys "talk," but I'm certain that's totally unrelated...

Whenever I get new followers on Twitter, I'm curious as to where they came from... I was in a coma-inducing riveting meeting this week when I was alerted to a new follower, so I decided to channel my inner-Encyclopedia Brown and figure out where this guy came from and why he wanted my Twitter updates in his life.

Here is a list of who he was following:

• Ashton Kutcher
• Demi Moore
• Jack Welch
• A slew of "exotic" twitter-whores with userpics of their cleavage and names like "Diamond Foxx," "Naughty Entertainment," "Swingtastic" and "Dirty Lil Dawn"

 and...

Me.

Which made me remember a long-winded lecture my mother gave me when I was fifteen about how "you are known by the company you keep." Right before I sneaked out of the house to share a jug of Carlo Rossi in Golden Gate park with my skater-boy friends and a homeless man.

I'm almost tempted to tell her about my online presence just so she can finally have a reason to be proud of me. Self-obsessed celebrities, a hardcore Republican, and porn stars?

I've officially arrived. And it feels amazing.

If I'd only made them 9, instead of 6...

Right when baseball season started, my mom's best friend, J. invited a group of us to go to a game with her and sit in a luxury suite. I'm a total whore when it comes to stuff like that (and by "that," I think I just mean baseball games, but it's possible I also mean fancy restaurants, sold out concerts, and 12-packs of Miller Lite), so I immediately told her to sign me up, even though I knew it would be me and a bunch of older-than-me women with children (also known to some as "mothers").

A few innings into the game, we'd taken approximately 30 photos of J. for her online dating profile. After all, there's nothing like a photograph taken in the luxury suite at a Giants' game to say, "I enjoy a casual Sunday with friends, but you'd better have a second home in wine country." The problem was, all of the photos seemed forced and unnatural.

"Someone needs to tell me a joke to make me laugh," J. finally said after the 31st rejected photo.

"OK!" I chirped, the first word I'd uttered since we sat down. "What's the best thing about fucking twenty-six year olds?"

J. gave me a puzzled look. "What?"

"There are twenty of them!"

I write this story only to share with you the wisdom I gained that April afternoon... Mothers, you know, women with children, do NOT appreciate pedophile jokes the same way you and I do.

Which, let's be honest, is just one more reason I should never procreate.

I think there's a pussy joke in here somewhere...

My friend just sent me this IM:

"My roommate's out of town this week. So I could have loud screwaming sex. Instead, I am just putting the cats' litter box in her bathroom."

What I don't think she realizes is that putting the cats' litter box in her roommate's bathroom is likely the first step towards finding a dude who will have "loud screwaming sex" with her. I'd say getting RID of the cats is the next step, but I'm also a heartless bitch who should never give relationship advice.

Also: apparently "screwaming" was just a typo she made, but I kind of like it so I'm leaving it as is.

Finally: how misleading was that title?! You're kind of mad at me right now, aren't you? Just a little bit, admit it...

It's My Birthday... and I'll probably break down and cry at some point. Because that's what crazy chicks do.

In light of the fact that today's my birthday, I feel it is only fair that I share with you a few stories from the past couple of days that really elucidate what it's like to be an aging woman in today's society.

Let's first start at Mother's Day dinner. You can imagine what Mother's Day is like in my family. My mom orders the Broiled Idaho Trout and my brothers start yelling, "I da ho? No YOU da ho," and so on...

At one point, the subject of my birthday came up, and my oldest brother turned to me and asked, "How old are you going to be anyway? Thirty-four? Thirty-five? No, thirty-three, right?"

"No, dude. Thirty-two."

At which point my mother sighed loudly and moaned with pure defeat, "I'm NEVER going to be a grandmother."

Because the fact that I'm 32 with only a few remaining eggs clinging on for dear life is the reason she's never going to be a grandmother. Not the fact that I hate babies. And commitment.

Fast-forward to last night. I'm at a bar celebrating a friend's birthday, and one of my dear friend's tells her date that tomorrow is my birthday.

"Let me guess how old you're going to be," he says. As though THAT'S a fun game chicks like to play.

I declined, politely, but he insisted. (When girls say they like for guys to be aggressive, by the way, that's not what we're talking about.)

"Do you want me to lie or be honest?" he asked as he moved his entire head two inches from my face so as to better scrutinize my wrinkles.

"Oh, just be honest," I said. There are some guys I don't need to do me any favors. And he was quickly becoming a front-runner on that list.

"31," he guessed.

"Nope. 32," I said, happy this ridiculous game was finally over and that my personal space was going to be returned to me.

"Yeah," he added. "That's what I was actually going to say."

And what I was going to say was "FUCK YOU, you smug piece of shit."

But I didn't. Because I'm 32 and I think means I have to start behaving like a lady. Also: yelling causes wrinkles. So there's that.

I Just Hope She Doesn't Ask Me to Call ALL of Them "Daddy"

There are certain emails a daughter does not want to receive from her world-traveling mother. Like this one that popped up in my in-box this morning:

"I AM HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME.  LEAVE TODAY FOR DEVON.  HAVE SLEPT IN MANY DIFFERENT BEDS..."

Uncertain as to what an appropriate response would be, I decided to keep my reply short, sweet and honest:

"ME TOO!"

It's just nice to finally have something in common with her...