Sunday, November 06, 2005

I was born 22 years ago today

Well, technically yesterday, since it is 12:18 am.

But it was a fine birthday. I got loads of calls, and cards, and emails, and even text messages from people who I haven't talked to in ages. The Boy called. Yay! He remembered. I was genuinely touched.

I had my family and my aunts and uncle and my cousins and their little spawnlings over for dinner. We had a truly great quiche and an even awesomer (fuckit) strawberry cheesecake that my mom made from scratch. I got some rad presents. Some cds: Le Tigre - Feminst Sweepstakes, Broken Social Scene - Bee Hives, Arcade Fire - Funeral, and Sheryl Crow - Wildflower (my dad's knowledge of my musical taste is about 3-4 years behind my musical taste...I still think Sheryl Crow basically made her last good album with The Globe Sessions, but I'm sure I can bop my head to Wildflower). My mom gave me a cool book about Alfred Kinsey (who is more or less my hero), and an animal encyclopedia that I saw in the store and loved. My parents were also tactful enough to wait until my super-conservative and ultra-Christian relatives (THEY WON'T EVEN LET THEIR KIDS DRESS UP FOR HALLOWEEN!) had left before presenting me with Season 1 of The L-Word on dvd. That was insanely cool of them.

I wonder if my brother and dad have been clever enough to connect the dots re: my waning heterosexuality. I dunno, and for the time being I don't much care. This closet is comfortable and dark, and as long as I let a few rays of sunlight in every now and then I should be fine.

Speaking of waning, I've started to wonder if I'm still attracted to guys, and so I have started devising silly little tests for myself, because I always did like doing stuff like that. Guys on television and in movies rather bore me, but then they basically always did. I was never very entranced by Orlando Bloom. Ugh, pretty boys and preppy boys are about as fun as a dry grad dinner dance. Gay guys have and always will be incredibly hot and pretty much off-limits, but the fact that I have to remind myself of that fact is probably a sign that there is more of the bi than the gay in me. Celebrities may be unattainable, but they're never as attractive as guys who think you're beautiful but won't sleep with you. Cute, smart, artsy guys, musicians, intellectuals, and anyone creative but not terribly egotistical remains totally attractive to me. I watched 20-something author of a cute series of kids books draw some cartoon rhinos for the kids last night in the store, and for some reason his easy-going charm, nice smile, fondness for the kids, and the fact that he reminded me just a little of the Boy gave me the almost instantaneous feeling that he was someone I could see myself dating. It doesn't take much for me to remember..."oh, yeah, nothing has changed. Guys were hot before, guys are hot now."

I think Kinsey would put me somewhere around 3.5 on his brilliant sexuality scale. If you want to learn more and for some reason didn't see Liam Neeson in Kinsey (fucking amazing film), this Wikipedia article is fairly good, although probably a bit more nit-picky than it needs to be.

Ah fuck it is so time for bed.

Before I go I will tell you that I'm reading an actual adult book, which I shouldn't do because I need to read for the store, but sometimes a girl just needs to feel like a grown-up for a few days. It's called Valencia, by Michelle Tea, and it's really rather good. The subject matter is fairly gritty and the writing is really blunt and to-the-point, but that's what I like about it. She tells it like it is, and it makes for a compelling read. If you can put up with the intense narcissism of a bunch of gay girls in their early 20s partying it up in San Francisco, I highly recommend it.

Double fuck I must to bed.

One more story before I go: the first thing that happened when I stumbled into the hall at 8:00 am this morning and shut the door to the bathroom was that Ver (aka 26-pound large orange cat without wings), managed to catch a bird from the balcony four stories up and drag it squawking down the hallway. I opened the door to a sea of feathers and boycotted the cleanup - my dad did the vacuuming. It wasn't until later that we understood the joke. Oliver was exuberantly wishing me a fine day in the best way he knew how: "HAPPY BIRDAY!"

Thanks, Ver. But for the record, I prefer my birdies fried. Then I know the chicken's died.

A bientot.


by Nome at 12:15 AM
11 mews

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