***Thanks to the efforts of brickhousechick from swimmingtomy50s (impressive enough to make my project manager heart swoon!), a band of bloggers has gathered together in support of our friend Susie Lindau, who is undergoing a double mastectomy today at 9:30am MDT. This post is for her.***
It’s Rachel’s Table‘s fault, really. At least, she’s the one who pointed it out. I never liked her.
Let me back up.
Last Friday, my good bloggy bud, Rache, and I (and our indulgent husbands) met up in Lambertville, New Jersey, under the guise of supporting a favorite local brewery, River Horse.
We had a blast, the true implications of the night yet to dawn on me. Two days later, Rache broke the news. I reacted accordingly.
That’s right. Rache accused me of being a… a… hipster.
I needed time to process this, starting with the above image from Friday night. Sepia, Instagram-esque photo filter. Eep. Then the setting: A no fuss, no muss local brewery with exposed brick and tacky fluorescent lighting. Double eep. Lastly, there was how we ended the night – in an old school bar. Eeps to infinity. As Rache put it, we weren’t even trying to be ironic. Yet it was all so… so… authentically inauthentic. Winking.
This was a grave matter indeed; I had to do some research. While the rest of you grilled animal flesh and donned red, white and blue in celebration of Memorial Day, I looked up over a dozen definitions of hipster, and read several articles (including this gem from the New York Times, How I Became a Hipster).
If I knew exactly what I was up against, maybe I could stop this tempeh and hemp-powered train from heading straight to Brooklyn. Or worse, Portland.
I read the articles closely.
It was bad. I, along with my hipster brethren, abbreviated words like ridiculous and totally. We watched HBO’s Girls. We drank sazeracs. We obsessed over indie music, local food and sustainable energy.
So why was being a hipster rocking my mustachioed world? For starters, I like plenty of mainstream crap. Oh no. I just called it crap. Well, never mind, forget that one. Also? I’m well scrubbed, don’t look good in plaid, and wool makes me break out.
Perhaps most telling, I’ve never said, “I was into ____ before they got big.” (I’ve thought it, though. A lot. And maybe said it ironically, once or twice. …Shoot.)
There is one catch to my seemingly inevitable slide into skinny jeans, rooftop gardening and fixed-gear bicycle riding: I awkwardly, laboriously and spectacularly try and fail to be cool. There is no pretending otherwise. I want to be cool. I want everyone to like me (even hipsters). I do care, and I don’t hide it.
So for now you’ll find me rocking my facial hair the only way I know how. Smugly.Hilariously. Genuinely.
What does being a hipster mean to you? (For some wildly funny breakdowns on hipsterdom, check out this page on Cracked.com. Toldja I did my research.)
You might recall I recently started a new position at my company (Big Pharma, Inc.), developing training. I’m pretty sure my dog, Uncle Jesse, got me the job – he was part of the Sudoku lesson I had to put together during the intense interview process.
My new group is creative, fun and hilarious. I’m finally among colleagues who appreciate my memes!
This team of 13 celebrates everything. On my first day in the new office, it was No Diet Monday, and my manager brought cheesecake for breakfast. She decorated my new cubicle, too. “I think I’m gonna like it here,” I thought.
For the past two weeks, they’ve been trying to plan a surprise birthday party for two of the women in the group. A difficult task, since people work from home a lot.
The first Monday, I made cookies. The birthday girls didn’t show. This Monday, I made tortilla roll-ups, and one woman didn’t show.
“Well, as long as Laura comes in, we’ll still have the party,” everyone kept saying.
Later that morning, I popped my head next door to say hi to my cool, spirited cubicle neighbor. We’d only spoken a couple of times, but had bonded right away.
“Hi! Have you ever seen Finding Nemo?” she had blurted when she’d first shook my hand.
I had blinked back my surprise and laughed, dying to know where this conversation would go. She had had a point, eventually.
That Monday morning, I repeated the refrain of the day, “As long as Laura shows up, we’re still having the birthday party!”
She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we started talking about wine. Because of course.
At noon, we all hid in a nearby conference room and set up the food. In walked my cubicle neighbor, and everyone clapped and sang “Happy Birthday.”
I sang along merrily.
“Do you know what you said to me this morning?” the birthday girl asked loudly. I was sure she was going to regale the group with some amusing tidbit I’d dropped, letting all of my new coworkers see how charming and funny I could be, even unawares.
“No,” I replied, grinning.
“You said, ‘As long as Laura shows up, we’ll still have the party’! I thought you didn’t know who I was!”
Yes. That’s right. I told Laura we’d still have the party as long as Laura showed up. Then I sang “Happy Birthday” to Laura, forgetting I’d talked to Laura at all.
I distracted my colleagues with stories of Uncle Jesse and the beautiful chickens down the road. Later that day, Laura sent a thank you e-mail to everyone. I replied with this:
Dear Whoever You Are:
Uncle Jesse’s caretaker
Any embarrassing work stories to share? Blonde moments?
I asked you to share a favorite ‘Mom quote’ – either something you’ve said as a mother that you never thought you would, or something your own mother said that you never forgot. Most of you chose the latter. They were all spectacular. Thank you!
Before I announce the winner, though, I thought I’d tell you about my favorite Mom bomb…
Growing up, my parents enjoyed their evening cocktails…
…but Babs always likened drugs and smoking to the worst kind of criminal act. I’d have been better off robbing a bank than sneaking a cigarette.
“I never did drugs,” she told us, time and time again, as we watched our favorite childhood stars get busted for their evil indulgences. “And smoking is the most foul, disgusting habit in the world. Your breath smells and your teeth rot and if you ever take up smoking, well…” She couldn’t even finish that sentence.
Years passed and her three children grew up. What went on behind Pearl Jam poster-covered dorm room doors was a mystery, as far as Babs was concerned.
In my early 20s, thinking maybe the playing field had leveled, I decided to probe.
“So you’re telling me you grew up in the 60s, and you NEVER smoked pot?”
I was sure I knew what was coming. Sweet, innocent Babs paused and then said,
Oh, Chipmunks. I can’t stuff a cheek without bumping into another compliment / award / congratulatory butt slap these days. So it goes when you have brains, charm and a disarming perma-grin honed from years of smiling and nodding.
This week I received not only a rad ‘stache-themed award from the lovely xdanigirl of The Life and Times of a Mom, but also my very first…
Third Hub claims he’s wildly jealous of a video blog I made some time ago. I’ll take his word for it, though he couldn’t even find said video, because I know he’s heartbreakingly envious of my amazing memes everything I do.
Normally I try to revel in others’ successes, but let’s get real. There are some bloggers out there who make me want to hurl myself down a set of stairs. I’m talking about bloggers who, in the spirit of the Jafees, make me rip out my hair and scream, “DANGNABBIT I wish I’d thought of that first!”
So here, in random order, are my first Jafee Award winners! Please accept this nod as a token of my seething resentment.
(Note: Anyone can pass along Jafee awards; winners are under no obligation to do so.)
I’m not kidding when I tell you I’m shamefully jealz of Becca from 25tofly. She’s young(er), pretty(ier), funny(ier), has killer dance moves, a great following, and she can put together a video blog like nobody’s business. When I saw this, and this, I kind of wanted to cry. What’s more, Becca recently quit her day job in order to pursue making videos, so no, no, I’m not jealous at all.
Nina is not only a social media guru who penned Twitter advice that’s garnered oodles of attention, but she writes for a bunch of other websites, a top source of my blinding jealousy. In addition to being a truly talented writer and all-around nice person, Nina’s got 4 kids and a rockin’ bod (hate her). She also just kicked her public speaking fear in the ass [by reading a piece on stage], which is something I so wish I had the nerve do.
If you’re not jealous of Rian from Truth and Cake, it’s only because you don’t know her. Her second ever blog post was Freshly Pressed (i.e., featured on the home page of WordPress.com). She came out guns blazing, with exceptionally sincere, thoughtful and well-written posts. Rian has one of those voices all writers strive for – you want to hear what she has to say, and feel confident taking her advice. What really gets my jealousy meter fired up, though, is the fact that she married a South African with an undoubtedly awesome accent her drool-worthy graphic design / photography skills and overall style.
When my dear friend Rache decided to go on video with her first ‘Peppermeister Roulette,’ I thought, “Well. This is it. Husband #1 is divorcing me.” Rachel took home some of my husband, Peppermeister’s, spiciest peppers with the warning, “Don’t tell me what any of these are.” Fearlessly, she ate one after the other, determined to conquer his hottest homegrowns. Don’t think someone can look amazing and offer cooking tips with their nose running, eyes watering and ears ringing? Guess again. The only thing hotter than the peppers was Rache.
I seem to be forgetting someone… Hmm… Nope. Can’t think of it. Happy Thursday!
OKAY FINE. The man behind the Jafees-which-I-totally-don’t-wish-I’d-thought-of-first…
Just to be nice. I’m really only jealous of his intelligence, stand-up comedy, acting skills, stick figures, photo captions, and uncanny ability to get into the minds of animals and share their points of viewhow good he looks in jeans.
Bloggers: Feel free to pass along your own Jafee awards! Non-bloggers / All: Who drives you loco with jealousy (in and outside of the blogosphere)?
One of my favorite moms, Leanne Shirtliffe of Ironic Mom.com, has a NEW BOOK out this month! An actual book! She’s living the bloggy dream! Even The Bloggess is touting it, unsurprisingly, as “awesome.”
Like any wise parent, Leanne knows the best reason for having kids is the writing material. Don’t Lick the Minivan (and Other Things I Never Thought I’d Say to My Kids) features uproarious tales from Leanne’s wild and wacky twin-filled world. I’m particularly excited to read about the birthday party where neighborhood kids took home skin rashes from the second-hand face paint she applied.
While Babs never gave me any skin rashes, she did subject all three of her children to the infamous bowl haircut. And in a stroke of cruel genius, this year, she decided to have a garage sale on Mother’s Day, thereby guaranteeing slave labor during one of the hottest, muggiest Mother’s Day weekends on record.
So while my brother, sister and I are haggling, sweating and hopefully drinking from cleverly disguised water bottle-flasks, I thought I’d reward you fine folks with a giveaway! At least one of us should have some fun today.
Simply leave a comment below describing a favorite ‘mom quote’ moment – either something your mother said (or loves to say…repeatedly…), or something you’ve said as a mom that you never thought you would. (For more great ‘mom quote’ moments, head over to Ironic Mom!)
I’ll ever-so-subjectively pick a winner based on humor and originality.
Sunday, May 19, 2013, 12pm NOON EST. Winner announced Monday, May 20, 2013, 7am EST.
Today things get ugly. As ugly as your babies. I kid, I kid.
Grab your boxing gloves, Chipmunks, because Don, of don of all trades, and I are going head-to-head over:
Dogs vs. Babies
We each get up to ten points to make our case. Don may be a father, lawyer and cop, but totally lets me boss him around little does this man-of-allegedly-every-occupation know, I have experience in blog debates. Many moons ago, Third Husband proposed we discuss the merits (or lack thereof) of Glee, and I think we can all agree that after taking a slushie to the face, I emerged the clear victor.
I’m a little scared to read Don’s opposing argument, though. Not because I’m worried about valid points, god no, but because he’s a shamelessly verbose, terrible person with zero filter; there’s no telling where he’ll take this. He’s already cursed and posted fake sonogram pictures on my Facebook wall, sending both my mother and mother-in-law into a frenzy:
So, Don. As much as I like to play dirty, get your mind out of the gutter and grab the leash (that one’s just killing you, isn’t it?). By the time you’re through reading this, you’ll be ready to trade your ten thousand sticky offspring for a downy-soft ‘doodle.
Why Dogs Doodles Are Better Than Babies
1. They sleep a lot.
2. They’re not smart enough for college (can you spell S-A-V-I-N-G-S?).
3. They don’t bug you when you’re hungover sick.
4. They understand Full House quotes at 10 weeks old.
5. You get to pick the cartoons / car music.
6. No back talk.
7. Chick / Hunk magnet.
8. As long as you feed them regularly, they don’t judge your alcohol dependency.
9. You get to pick their halloween costumes. Indefinitely.
10. You don’t have to deal with other dogs’ parents if you don’t want to.
Note how I kept this nice and short, for your reading pleasure. Because I care about you, and respect your time, Debate Decision-makers. Unlike some people.