You Have to Watch This

Will Ferrell. Need I say more? Click here. This is courtsey of Tracy.

Being Thirty is ... Strange

I swear, I think I have been to more bars in the last month than I did during my entire undergrad career.

Then again, we only went to the same two bars in town, and now I DO live in Reno, where there isn't anything else to do but drink.

(*see previous post about 30th birthday party and note the copious amounts of alcohol.)

Two weeks later:

My scrapbooking friends and I had what we call "Spring Fling." We get together and scrapbook, eat, and drink, and hopefully in that order. Not so this year. On Saturday, we started drinking at about 1:30 pm (champagne, who can resist? Not I!). I eventually had to take a nap and regenerate because I was going to see Randy's band play at 1:00 am. (One in the morning?, you ask. You must be mad, you declare. You are right on both counts. What AM I thinking? Oh! that he's cute.)

Seriously, dear readers, what possessed me to think that my old and decrepit body could handle this kind of partying? This is the type of thing I did when I was 20. Certainly not 30!!

The next day, it literally took me 1 1/2 hours to load up my car because I was moving so slowly. I only got 5 pages done! I usually get at least 20 done. Five is seriously pathetic.

The moral of the story: do not think that 30 does not affect your body. It most certainly does. And champagne at 1:30 in the afternoon might NOT be such a good idea. But then again, if the other ladies can do it, then so can I! I've never been one to say no to a drink. Or food. One or the other will eventually kill me.

My Own Little Cigarette Smoking Man

As Randy & I headed out to a "secret" concert on Tuesday, we had to make a stop to pick up the tickets from Randy's friends. We show up as said friend's house. We walk in. Introductions are made. Friend heads over to kitchen to get said tickets. And as we are being handed the tickets, I notice that there is an old man sitting at the dining room table, silently smoking a cigarette. You literally could hear the tobacco catching fire as he inhaled. I said nothing, as these are not my friends, but Randy's friends, and perhaps this is a common occurrence in these parts.

I notice that they are watching Arrested Development, one of the best shows that ever had a season on television. I chat up Randy's friends in regards to this, and we depart.

I say nothing of the Cigarette Smoking Man.

As we drive away, stealthily into the night to the "secret" concert, Randy asks: "Who do you think that old man was?" I laugh, nervously, because I don't know if maybe we've been bugged by some secret conspiratorial government who hired a Cigarette Smoking Man.

Then Randy answers his own question: "I guess everyone needs an old man to sit, smoke and hang out."

I agree: everyone needs their own personal Cigarette Smoking Man. I think they make great wedding presents.

It's All Paris Hilton's Fault

After the awful rampage at Virginia Tech, I feel the need to
at least say a little something about it.  I actually am sick
and tired of all the media talking about it.  It was awful,
horrible, and unfortunate.  Do we have to harp at it like an
open wound? Do we have to go over it, blow by literal blow every
second of the day on CNN?  Do we have to really blame everyone
this kid knew from the time he was born?  No, it was his fault,
he planned it, and he should pay the consequences.  But he was
too chicken shit to do that. Own up for your own actions and
show some responsibility for your actions? Why?  But isn't that
what he was arguing against?  That was his beef, right: Rich
white kid's entitlement and how they have no responsibility?
Oh, I see. Everyone else is wrong, but you can do it.

But I digress.

The shooting did come up in conversation between Randy and I,
and an interesting note was made by Randy:  he thinks it is
all Paris Hilton's fault.

Can't all the horrible defects of our society be attributed to
the boring and shameless flaunting of Paris and her "buddies"?
Why should America, a once beautiful and prosperous country,
be now summed up as a bunch of right-wing conservative
Christians who adore PARIS HILTON?  I mean, really. Paris?
Paris Hilton? This is who we choose?  At least Ireland has
Bono.

Late, my sister and I had an email conversation about it this
morning, in which she told me a story where a co-worker said
that "it was no surprise that this kid went ballistic because
he is from South Korea, and that is where all the nuclear bomb
problems are." People like this should move to an island
somewhere, perhaps near North or South Korea, and learn some
FREAKING GEOGRAPHY! South Korea?  Ignorance is NOT bliss.
Ignorance is ignorance, and there is no cure.

Then of course, I was watching Survivor tonight, relaxing,
not thinking about anything important, as I am want to do
on Thursday nights, and there was breaking news of how UNR
is being evacuated as I type because there was a man running
around mentioning Virginia Tech and being threatening and
suspicious.  Now we have copy-cats. Seriously.  Is everyone
in this country this fucked up?  It's called therapy.  Since
when has it been OK that if we're pissed at our parents (or
society,or our girl/boyfriend, or our lover, or out cat/dog/
bird/fish/pig, or our kids) that we think it is OK to "make
a point" by KILLING OTHER PEOPLE?

Maybe it isn't Paris Hilton's fault.  Maybe it is George W.
Bush's fault for making it OK in the American play-book to
seek retribution for something we have no proof of.  Maybe
it is his fault because stupidity seems to be rewarded in
our society.

I Got Distracted

At my party, Tracy asked me, "How do you REALLY feel about turning thirty? Tell me the truth!" And I stopped to think, and I said, "Well, if Randy wasn't around, it would be totally depressing, but ..."

And it is true, although certainly pathetic. Why do I always do that? But if I were alone on my 30th birthday, I most certainly would have been feeling sorry for myself: "Oh, I can't believe I'm 30 and alone; I'm the only one alone on her 30th birthday, everyone else has someone, blah blah blah." I know myself pretty well, don't I? You can totally hear me saying that, huh?

But I didn't have to worry about that this year. And there were no dog-fights. Thank goodness!

But in the words of the great Ani herself, "I got distracted." I haven't cleaned my bathroom in three weeks! (As my past roommates know, this is most certainly a sign that Micaela isn't right in the head at the moment. If I'm not cleaning, something is certainly wrong.) I just balanced my checkbook! I haven't posted on the blog. I barely check my email. I haven't had time to realize that I am 30. Years young of course.

So, if some of you have been wondering where the hell I've been, I've been distracted to no possible end. Wasting time away. Eventually I'll actually have some stories to write about and I will post them on the blog.

But for now, just be content in the thought that Micaela is happy and distracted enough not to realize being 30 totally sucks.

My 30th Birthday Party

Ok, here are some pictures from my birthday party last night. I am still recovering, as you can well imagine.








Lighting the many candles.

I really don't remember what was so funny.

The smoke from the candles almost started a house fire.

Who is that cute couple?

You can't turn 30 without champagne.

Now you can tell I am drunk.

So, all in all, we had a great time. My birthdays are always good times, and I hope to kep having them as good as this one!

My Last Day as a Twentysomething; or The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Ah, Twenties, it is a bittersweet parting between us. It's been real, and it's been fun, but I am not sure it's been real fun.

There was drinking liters of wine (liters and liters of wine). There were break-ups (none of which were pretty, I must admit). There were scads of friends (thanks for putting up with me!). There were trips and travels, and trials and tribulations. OK, no trials, thank God, but tribulations in mass quantities for certain. And scores of pictures taken, most of which decorate my scrapbooks for me to peruse later. (Hence, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.)

Remember the road trip to go see The H.O.R.D.E. Fest? Remember the Spring Break trips to San Diego? ("Pull over. Pull OVER!" And then Becky Young barfing all over her own car. And poor Etta driving it around town the next day.) Emily reminded me of Jack peeing in her hallway (what IS it with men and peeing?) Remember the weekend where we partied for five days straight in Swanny's dorm room?

Oh, God, the cabin. My favorite place of my Twenties. The cabin. May you live forever in my memory, dear, sweet cabin, full of beer and wine. And may one of us always remember how I screamed and screamed when the beam fell onto my bed and everyone thought I had jumped, and Israel ran outside, au naturel. And then we all shrugged it off, and went inside to make coffee and we drank while admiring the sunrise over the Sawtooths. And horseshoes at the cabin.

Alas, I am off to another decade. And I hope with the knowledge I gained from my first two decades, I can actually not do too much damage to my soft psyche and actually accomplish a thing or two. Or three. One being learning how to drink that many liters of wine without being sicker than a dog the next day.

And so I say goodbye to Twentysomething and say HELLO! to Thritysomething. May my days always be bright and my glass of wine always half full.