To discuss a Weekend Update: I'm wearing my birthday suit

When people say "birthday suit," they probably don't mean "zipup coveralls for snow shoveling." But there I was Saturday, shoveling the two feet of snow Jesus cried* onto the Pennsylvania landscape on my birthday.

* Snow is made of Jesus' frozen tears. Rain is made of Jesus' warm tears. Sleet is made of Jesus' drool. That's why no one likes sleet.

I appreciate all the birthday wishes you all gave me throughout the three day guest post series, including Children of the 90s, Jenners and Anna Lefler. I understand if you read their posts and decided to leave me for their greener pastures. I won't hold it against you.

Let's recap my birthday weekend, for the remaining stragglers:

• Snow began falling Friday night at such a fast rate that we had to keep shoveling a patch of grass for our dogs to pee on. It's at this point in dog ownership that you realize you are essentially a catheter.
  
• By Saturday morning, there was two feet of snow on the ground and the entire county was in emergency status, meaning you weren't allowed to go anywhere. Fortunately, Capricorn and I had stocked up on bread, milk and birthday ice cream cake. I had cake for dessert at 12:05 a.m. Saturday morning, then for breakfast, then for dessert again. I now am eligible for the next season of the "Biggest Loser."
  
• Since Capricorn and I were trapped, we resorted to cannibalism spent the day watching movies. Quick reviews:

1. The Invention of Lying: Lots of funny stuff, and you'll like it if you like Ricky Gervais. And if you like to lie.
2. Whip It: Doesn't quite know what time period it wants to be in, and is a little too awkward in places. Plus, you spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out which of the team members are lesbians, and which are just tomboyish. But the film is very watchable, and you get to spend the movie thinking, "That burglar from Home Alone makes a good dad."
3. Inglorious Basterds: Had no idea what to expect, and Capricorn figured she wouldn't like it. We both ended up loving it. Capricorn gave it an A+, while I contemplated how long it would take a horny Jersey Shore cast member to nickname his penis the "Jew Hunter" next season in the Hamptons.
   

• I bought a new laptop, which should arrive today. My current laptop had a booting error again this week, and although I got it repaired, this is becoming like keeping your grandmother on life support. Sometimes, you have to know when to gracefully pull the plug, before it drags on. That is, unless the grandma in this analogy is at Seattle Grace on "Grey's Anatomy." And then you'd need every doctor in the hospital, and all the interns, to stop by to give an opinion in the midst of their sexual tension and underlying resentment, before they bust out in tears and/or on-call room sex, and then second-guess your decision making while hovering near the window that is conveniently located where everyone in the hospital hangs out. And then your grandma has sex with an intern. Who is bisexual. And has brain cancer.
  
• Oh, yeah, sorry, computers. That's where we were. I'm getting a 13.3-inch, ultraportable HP dm3, after I had completed extensive research and collected my tax refund. And for all of you who are about to say, "Why didn't you get a Macbook?!?! Apple is the best!??! Jesus was probably a Mac guy!!! Apple cures AIDS and leprosy!!!!", I'd respond that yes, Macs are great and easy to use -- and they also cost 3x as much. Mercedes are great, but I don't need to go in great debt for them when I can get most of the same performance out of a Honda. High-class escorts are great, but I don't buy them when I can get the same ... sparkling conversation out of a $5 hooker. That, and Apple spent months researching and testing its new wundermachine, only to call it an iPad. That makes me concerned. And menstrual.
  
• I actually had a backup of my laptop's data before the rebooting problem, so that was a relief (external hard drives are God's second chance. Not unlike Plan B or, in Sandra Bullock's case, the "Blind Side" to her "All About Steve") But I lost all my Firefox favorites, including the list of blogs I read regularly. Forgive my short absence from stopping by while I repopulate my list. Similarly, apologies to you, sluttyequestrians.com.* (* Not an actual porn site - I checked to make sure my joke didn't lead to a NSFW fiasco. On that note, don't go to whitehouse.com. I made that mistake in a college class.)
  
• Now that I'm 27, I'm looking for advice on anything I should know about this year in life. So, please fill me in on anything that happened to you that year, such as your wedding, a crazy party, Prohibition, whatever.
  

To discuss a Jersey girl telling me about a wild night

Tomorrow, I'll have up my "What I Learned from Cosmo" post, to help out all those lost souls who have been looking for ultimate pleasure but don't know how to get it until Cosmo tells them... If you just started reading Wild ARS after jumping over from Pop Candy yesterday, welcome.
For now, let me offer you a special treat: A guest post from Finger Talks, who recently came out of semi-blog retirement after I gave her an award. Finger wrote this in honor of my birthday last Friday:

In honor of our WildArs’ 26th year of life… a story of confusion:

I will be turning 28 in three months. I realize this is not technically “old” in mine and other 20-somethings eyes, but I also understand (through the braying and throwing of small rocks) that since I am turning 28 and single (disclaimer: you must not look directly at this post or you may catch the singledom disease), in the eyes of some people, this makes me a shriveled up spinster who is either a royal ugly bitch oozing vomit from every orifice that can’t capture any male (ARS:you mean like Rosie O'Donnell?) to make her a real live girl, or a lesbian (which doesn’t help because then they just think I can’t get a woman ((you still mean like Rosie O'Donnell?)).

So, in light of turning an age with its toes bumped up so close to thirty, I have been slightly depressed about the prospect of having to “grow-up”. I don’t want to be one of those stuffy office workers, who walk around with rulers down there pants like a duck on stilts, living for the 5 o’clock whistle (I wish my office had a whistle) and talking about the amount of fiber in their diet versus the consistency of the bowel movement. (Ok, maybe I’m not there yet but it’s coming people.)

So, last weekend, when I was invited to a party at my friend Belinda’s house I happily said, yes, please! Maybe I could fight off the image of me in a plaid suit for a little longer with some good old fashioned rump shaking and jimmie poppin’. (Does jimmie poppin' involve things Cosmo writes about?)

My best friend, Kwizbee, and I got dolled up (his version of dolled up would I guess be G.I. Joe’d up) and headed out for the party around 7, just in time to be fashionably late. As we walked in, the lack of people in the living room confused us, but we followed the light hum of noise coming from the basement. Descending the stack of wooden stairs in my big girl sexy boots and living hell tight pants, accomplished successfully, we surveyed our surroundings.

Folded metal chairs lined the cinder block walls, two people were huddled over a small computer trying to make sense of the sound system and everyone else was separated down the middle: boys on one side, girls on the other (This is an episode of the Cosby Show, I think). I had successfully done it; I had turned back the clock. Unfortunately, I seemed to have turned it back a little too far and ended up at a 7^th grade sweetheart dance where everyone still has cooties and giggling while you run away is foreplay. (It still is. You can get herpes from it.)

I was eventually dragged away to be “paired off” with a young man (I use the term man loosely) and dance a little merengue. As he grasped my hands I saw a small smile escape from his nervous lips and he hunched over to watch our feet as he stepped to the rhythm. His thick black glasses slipped down with every down step and his hands slipped from mine during the attempted spins from the nervous sweat dripping down his palms. Was it possible? Was this the first time this 20something year old man had danced with a girl? Was I in the twilight zone and about to be eaten by a pack of albino monkeys with speech impediments? I smiled up at him and realized I was in for a long ass night, with very little ass involved.

My next and last male dance partner actually managed to get up enough nerve to ask me to dance. We started to dance and as he stepped squarely on my leather clad foot he hurried out, “I’m not very good, I just started learning.” I reassured him that whatever he did would be fine and continued out awkward, spastic, travel around the cement floor (why do I feel like you're going to get Roofied at some point?).

My reassurance that he should just keep it simple was drowned out by his unexpected, “OK, ready?” “Ready!?! Ready for friggin what?” I stammered just as he spun me around as fast as humanly possible, twisting my arm around his back over his head and daftly getting us stuck in a position I only want to be in if you’ve bought me dinner first. I tilt my head backwards and say let go of my hands. He looks down saying, “Wait, I think I can figure this out, I think you just turn… this way… and I… twist here…” Our limbs becoming ridiculously intertwined and my face growing less like a happy Barbie and more like a rabid Chihuahua, I shout, “Just let go!” Twinkle toes finally lets go and I stumble back towards the stairs into a heap of big hair and high heels (so, like Tina Turner after a performance with Beyonce). Blowing the hair out of my eyes, I smile up at him and pray for locusts or 10 o’clock, whichever comes first.(Please let it be locusts!)

The rest of the night the boys decided to dance among themselves. They seemed to have given up on nervously asking the females to join them and huddled together in a strange dance off with gyrating hips and pulsating hands flailing about (Did you turn them gay?). At one point I think there was even an imaginary box being rhythmically passed between them only to be crushed between their feet releasing an invisible lightning bolt of dance fury.

--------------

Thanks again, Finger Talks. Every time you go party, something magical happens. You're the best thing since Girl Scout Thin Mints-- and you know how I just love Girl Scouts.

To discuss post-birthday thoughts, including 911 and Chris Martin

I turned 26 on Friday (or, as my mom aptly put it, "Your second quarter-century has begun.") Thanks for all of the birthday wishes, including those of you who, upon hearing my age, have entered a midlife crisis.

Past birthday events:

• Around 9 or 10: I had just arrived home with my mom from Pizza Hut, where she had bought me a Personal Pan Pizza- quite possibly a perfect meal for that age. It was at that point that the phone rang. A 911 emergency official was on the line, asking if everything was OK at our house. Was this some new government courtesy? No. My younger brother had prank-called 911 and told them we had a rattlesnake in our garage. Might I remind you we grew up in Pennsylvania. Apparently, my brother confused our house with the set of "Hey Dude."... My parents spent the rest of my birthday reprimanding my brother and making him write an apology letter. I sat alone in my room and ate my pizza.
• Age 21: Legal drinking age had finally come. My friends had been excited to watch me consume my first alcoholic drink, as I had abstained from drinking thus far because of a dislike for the smell of beer, a sense of moral duty and a Very Special Episode of Blossom. So, I bought one: A Mike's Hard Lemonade. You got it- my first alcoholic beverage had less alcohol in it than cough syrup. This would be like me buying cocaine, except the bag contained powdered sugar.
  
• Age 25: At this point, in Connecticut, I had no girlfriend and no friends that lived nearby. I spent my birthday working, then going home alone. I spent the night working out at the gym. I believe I bought myself a cupcake. It was the equivalent of a girl taking herself to prom and standing by the punch bowl all night.
  
• Age 26: Capricorn knows how to treat a man. She got me ice cream cake-- it's my favorite, as it goes straight to my hips and my thighs. We went bowling, watched a movie (Hamlet 2, which includes the classic song, "Rock Me Sexy Jesus." I plan on asking my church's worship team to add it to their repertoire), and ate, ate ate. This included a stop at the mall, which requires its own bullet points...
• A sales clerk in a clothing store was walking by us when she stopped and stared at my face. Normally, this is because the person is confused that I have a Jewish nose but blue eyes, which would have given Hitler fits.... But she simply said, "You look exactly like (Coldplay's) Chris Martin. Did anyone ever tell you that?" "No, normally, it's Michael Phelps," I said with a certain degree of pot shame. Capricorn then realized if I'm Chris Martin, that makes her Gwyneth. I then became happy the clerk didn't compare me to Joel Madden.
  
• Capricorn discovered this wooden bracelet at a store. Evidently, the manufacturer gave up on the design and just carved a hole in a square.

What's your weirdest birthday experience?
--------------------
Coming up this week: Grammy coverage... What I Learned from Cosmo... a TV Play by Play of something or other (Making the Band?)... Valentine's Day thoughts.

To discuss a birthday gift from down under

I'm 26 today. For the record, I was 9 pounds, 11 ounces at birth, a fact my mother reminds me of with great frequency, as if I was chomping on Twinkies and HoHos in the womb. Mom, it was all water weight- I felt so bloated that day.

While I adjust to life in my late 20s, I decided I'd let Southern Belle takeover with one of her now infamous Aussie definition posts. For the occasion, she even busted out an entirely appropriate Wild ARS Chase word. Enjoy, and I'll check back with you all later, after several pieces of cake and the regrets of 25 years of wallowing in self-loathing. I'm sure there will be a post full of reflections soon.
So, thanks, Southern Belle. I knew I gave you an award for a reason.
----------------------------
Aussie Dictionary: Fart-ARSing around

[OK, normally we don't capitalize the ARS is the middle of fart-arsing, but since this is in your honor, WildARS, it had to be done.]

to fart-arse around: (verb)

1. to mess around with something, possibly even though you're not quite sure what you're doing.
As in "We had to call a plumber after my husband decided to fart-arse around with the pipes under the sink."

2. to generally waste time in various meaningless activities. Similar to pottering around.
As in "There wasn't much to do at work today; I spent most of the afternoon fart-arsing around on the internet."

Also to piss-fart around.

[Happy Birthday, Andy WildARS!]