My plant can beat up your plant

My meat-eating, homegrown family got me this for my birthday (along with sundry other awesome things, including a bottle of rum, a tub of frozen mojito mix and 27 spankings*):



























It's a spotted northwestern pitcher plant, and it is carnivorous.

It is beautiful, and I love this particular plant, which is why I figured they got it for me -- until this morning, when I realized it was possibly the smartest, most secretly ironic joke in the world.

They got a vegetarian a plant that eats meat.


*Spanking reference completely falsified. I grew out of those (by which I mean a single hand could no longer cover the surface of my ass) when I turned 11. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

Down slopes from here

At work yesterday, a colleague who is at least ten years older than me and is originally from an eastern European country (this will become relevant infomration in just a moment. Please hang in there.) bumped into me in the kitchenette conveniently located just across from my office.

We were making tea and chit-chatting when she realized it was my birthday.

(Perhaps the party hat, streamers and plate of cupcakes gave it away. Or the fact that I kept spontaneously yelling “GUESS WHAT? IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” every 7.5 minutes. Or maybe it was the two – TWO – new wrinkles.)

“It eez your birthday?” she said, lighting up like Robin Williams on a bender. No, really, just like that exactly, only harder to understand. “Eenjoy eet!” she continued, “…Because you are steeeel fresh!”

“Fresh?” I was confused. “What am I, a dairy product?”

Clearly, we were having language barrier issues. Or perhaps I was a tad bit defensive about my steadily climbing age. Either way, I wasn’t backing down.

“I didn’t realize there was an expiration date,” I quipped. At which she burst unconsolably into laughter. Ten minutes later, she recovered, and as she left she threw back over her shoulder one final, confused, heavily-accented blow:

“Oh, to be young and beeeeautivul. Eeet eees all down slopes from heeere.”

Say it aint so.

Presents, bitches!

...just a little friendly reminder.

My life doesn't fit in its parking spot.

I'm now approximately 36 hours away from my 26th year on the planet, and contrary to what you might've expected based on last year's birthday freakout/quarterlife crisis, I'm relieved to report that this year, no panicking. Maybe some pensiveness, but since I turned 22, that has come standard, like automatic windows and that "fasten seatbelts" ding, twice a year: after christmas and on my birthday.

Looking back on the past year, I'm struck by one thing most of all: the sheer volume of it.

How is it possible for so much to have fit so tidily into 365 days? Not to be overly dramatic, but in just that long, everything I knew about my life seemed to fall apart, come back together, and fall apart again, in so many ways. (Alright, that was totally dramatic, but I really believe it, so points for sincerity, right?)Even so, I can't think of a better, more important, year in all my nearly 26.

I'll avoid the gruesome, glorious details (you're welcome), but just a taste of it, to illustrate:

I reconnected with some of the most important people in my life this year, one of whom was me. I started taking what I knew could be mine, and stopped apologizing so much for everything. I think grace and I made some big strides.

My family literally disintegrated at its weakest points, roles reversed, flipped, and righted themselves again, and love and hate were so closely related I'm still not sure I have them straight. But somehow, though the ripping was horrifying, it was liberating, too.

I was freed of my sense of guilt about everything I always knew and felt but didn't say. I had surgery, twice, a cancer scare once, made a freaky career move and was hit by a bus. I paid attention. I let go.

I had a summer of dreams, rediscovered the gorgeousness of a few people really really knowing who you are and loving you in spite of you, and remembered -- three different times -- that I'm good all on my own, even if I'd secretly prefer having someone quietly, carefully care for me, in spite of my endless objections that I can do it all myself.

I remembered that I know exactly what love is, and that sometimes I need to turn down the volume on my brain enough to hear the persistant noise that comes from somewhere else, too.

Now at this juncture I can't really believe I am going to live forever, but I don't miss the naievete of that belief. I can't possibly mourn it, because it's been replaced by something else far more important. Suddenly I find I think more about living big enough that when I don't live forever, someone somewhere will have a reason to remember me, even if they don't know my name.

...

This weekend, in keeping with the oversized theme of the past year, was exactly what I hoped, only bigger. In fact, after far too many beers, some singing and plenty celebration, the bigness almost knocked me down. All these people, this noise, this laughter... It swirled around me and translated, in one tipsy moment, into a love so palpable I literally had to find a parked car in the parking lot to lean against, fighting to catch my breath (and two big, happy tears).

I am overwhelmed by my life. Afraid, thrilled, a little naseous. Empowered, uplifted, stifled by its hugeness. And I am so aware -- more now than ever -- that it's all out of my hands. I don't know who is driving, but whoever it is knows exactly what they're doing. I don't even want to see the map.

I'm a lucky girl. And so, so thankful.

Proposal, plans, present plea

From Jason's Notes: "Mammalian birth is sloppy and inefficient. I say we go back to hard-shelled eggs. As a side benefit, most problems of bad parents raising hooligans would be solved as maltreated eggs simply wouldn't hatch. Although, the sociological ramifications of having young that spend a few months being delicious with cheese are potentially terrifying."

Jason, if you're out there, not a psychopath, know how to cook, don't have fused toes or fingers, chew with your mouth closed, don't have a southern accent, like to hold hands, have never run repeatedly over anything (alive or dead, out of anger or irresponsibility) and--oh yeah, almost forgot--are single: marry me. No seriously. I'd be a kick-ass wife. Just saying.
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This weekend, this girl, K, (she was also involved in this drink-a-thon, which is begging to be topped) is coming home to spend the weekend. The occasion is a weekend of pre-birthday celebration.

K and I are both May babies, and we both love the simple things in life, namely dressing up for dinner, dressing down to party, and acting ridiculous around our best girlfriends in the world. The plan is as follows:

10 a.m.: Meet our two other best friends in the world at Hector's for drinks. Sorry, what I meant was breakfast and drinks.

12 Noon - 3 PM: Kick it on the deck at my apartment, in the sun, while imbibing and talking about the things girls talk about. We've been over this, but the list includes work, sex, people we hate, people we love, men, family, religion and music. Among other things.

4 PM: Get ready, using an entire hour and every hair product and/or toiletry item that exists between the four of us.

5 PM: Dinner on a lakeside deck at a restaraunt walking distance from my house. With about 10 other rad people we collectively love.

7 PM: Back to my place for CAKE! and MARTINIS! (I am keeping mindful of my martini-drinking alter-ego on this night. I have determined the magic number of martinis to keep her at bay is 2. The number where she takes over and I either get in trouble, hit on inanimate objects or take a knee in a bar is 4. Three I've never done. Because, well, no brakes.)

9 PM: Party. Preferably while dressed down at some dive bar in the middle of nowhere which just happens to have karaoke and where the bartenders may or may not know our names but definitely -- definitely -- flirt with us all, buy us drinks, play our songs, and don't kick us out for either too much hugging or too much drinking, even if we deserve it.

It's going to be a very good weekend.

Stories to come, I'm certain, as the cast of characters that will be involved in Saturday's festivities are almost unbelievable in their color:

One will be canooeing to the bar, from his house, certainly under the influence. One will almost definitely be wearing a Michael Bolton shirt, and no, he's not kidding. Three will want to sing EVERY song anyone sings -- with them, and uninvited. These microphone-snatchers will suck terribly, but be terribly amusing, all the same.

One of my friends is just this side of a midget, two are Jack-Mexicans (mexicans who speak no spanish, making them in fact more caucasian than me), one is a Jack-Mormon (Mormons who don't do Mormon -- and this one's name, to add to the fun, is Jack), and one chipped her tooth on a beer bottle the last time I hung out with her.

These are my friends. And god damn, do I love them. Stay tuned. And no, this does not mean I'm off hiatus. It just means it's my birthday week, almost, dammit, and I can break rules if I want to.

Have a good weekend!

(Also, you can send presents to me, no problem. Just shoot me an email, I'll get you my address -- or paypal account, if you just want to do cash -- and we'll set it up. I love presents, you guys. Chocolate covered gummi bears, too. Seriously. Bring it. It's the least you can do after I've entertained you for, like, going on three years. It's only right.)

Hiatus, self-imposed

We are going on a temporary hiatus. Having taken on far too many projects (each of which deserve our undivided attention at this time) it's only right to stop with the stringing on and just call it off for a bit.

If you would like to recieve an email when Legwarmers is back up and at 'em, please send an email to shesajar dot withaheavylid [at] gmail dot com -- and make sure the subject line is "legwarmers", or that shit will get filtered into the junk pile faster than you can say...

Well, you get where I'm going with this.

Be good. We'll talk soon.

Wheeling and dealing the Big Guy

This guy made a deal with God -- and kept it, repeatedly. (It's really an incredible video -- though you may want to save it for home unless shrieks of agony are acceptable in your workplace, in which case watch away, and I don't want to know what you do for a living.)

While my deals with the good Lord are significantly less painful (If you get me through this hangover, Lord, I promise not to swear/eat chocolate/binge drink for a whole week), I have to say I've also been significantly less faithful to them.

I'm going straight to church this Sunday morning.

...Most likely.