Happy half way to 50 day to me

As some of you know, today is my 25th birthday. Last year I forgot all about my birthday because BLING BLING BITCHES! And this year, I've been so busy worrying over houses and towns and the miles in between states that when I woke up this morning, I didn't even know what day of the week it was, let alone the date. And then Mojo sent me a text that was all "HAPPY HALF WAY TO 50 DAY" because, obviously, Mojo is a heinous bitch.

In other news, everyone has been asking how house hunting was this weekend. As you know, we looked at far too many houses for me to even keep track of, but they all had one thing in common: they were terrifying. I'm talking, oh-this-is-cute-they've-decorated-the-inside-of-their-house-for-Halloween-too-oh-no-wait-I-don't-think-that-these-are-decorations-and-that-might-be-a-real-dead-body-decomposing-in-the-basement terrifying.

So I will say that the trip was educational. I've been educated that I don't want to live in those towns. See here's the thing: B's home town, Scituate, is a bit of a trip from the city. A 40 minute trip. And in my mind, that might as well be 40 hours, because I don't play that way. I need to have my action immediately. I like to be surrounded by stimulation. And also I don't do well in cars. Something about ADD. And everyone in B's town was all "It's not that bad, we go into the city all the time, just take the train blah blah blah." But no. I insisted on looking at all houses in all the towns that lie directly outside the city. And I admit, everyone I had ever talked to from the Boston area had told me that I wouldn't want to live in those towns. So I lifted my nose, called them all snobs, and shuttled myself right on over to the Bates Motel while B's parents wrung their hands in the back seat.

Classic example: We went inside one house that pretty much had every square inch of flooring covered in rank ass carpet. And it smelled. Like death. But carpeting can always be ripped up right? So we made our way up the rickety staircase, past the crumbling walls, and into the master bedroom. And then we entered the jungle. The Vietnamese woman who lived there had papered the walls from floor to ceiling with jungle scenes. There were dusty, life-sized stuffed monkeys, panthers, lions, and birds perched on shelving all over the walls and above the bed. Have you ever seen a grown woman playing with stuffed animals in her bedroom? Well, now I can put that on my list of things I have seen that I hope to never see again.

And I think by now we know how that day ended. Me. In a bar. Drunk. And suddenly, 40 minutes doesn't seem so bad. And that house that has been waiting for us to buy it in Scituate looks like the nicest house I've ever seen in my life. And I'm feeling pretty good. Which might have something to do with all those beers I just drank, but I'm just gonna go with it.

Which, now that I think of it, might have been B's parents' master plan all along. Because if there's one way to get me to agree to pretty much anything, it's by filling my belly with beer and making me giggle. First, this lady took us to the Boston College football game, where we sat in her box, drank all of her beer, and ate all of her New England clam chowdah. This lady is Joan. Hi, Joan! Joan loves B.C. Joan also loves Scituate. And we love Joan. And those are two of Joan's kids. Hi, Joan's kids!

I had never been to a college football game before (they're awesome) because at Loyola, we didn't have a football team (say wha?). Instead, we had a little thing called a piss-poor lacrosse team. And I'd certainly never been in a box before, unless you count that time my brother and I were playing hide and seek and I fell asleep in a refrigerator box in the garage. So naturally, I felt about as pimpin' as Kanye.

And then to prove that Scituate can be just as stimulating for little girls with supposed drinking problems like me, we all went bar hopping in Scituate, if by bar hopping you mean we went to two bars. But you know what? I had a great time. And I even met some fellow 20-somethings, which proved that Scituate isn't only filled with drunk old fishermen and beach bums. And you know what else? I totally have the soul of a beach bum anyway. Or, at least, I could, once I get over all of this anxiety and borderline manic depressive behavior that I seemed to have picked up while mentally preparing myself to leave all of my family and friends that until recently had left me writhing around our apartment and eating chocolate chips right out of the bag while I writhe around some more on the couch and paint my nails dark colors.

So ya. Maybe it was the booze. But I can honestly say that as my birthday present from myself to myself, I'm feeling pretty good about the whole thing. And when I need my mommy, she'll just hop on up and we'll spend a day at the beach. I'm not saying there won't be more writhing. Because there will definitely be more writhing. But I know that we're making the best decision B and I can make, and that makes me happy and excited for our new life together. AND WHERE ELSE WOULD I GET TO RIDE MY PIMPIN' NEW BEACH CRUISER THAT B JUST BOUGHT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY? SHAZAM! I'm about to be ridin' dirty, ya'll.

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