Talks with My Twenties: March 15, 2005 - Age 24

The Ides of March

Well well well....it has offically [sic] been three years since my friend Chester Copperpot [name changed to protect the not-so innocent] and I got into some Spring Break trouble in good ol' Bedford, Indiana. 

Yes, a road trip, alcohol, male dancers, a strip club, a DUI and jail...luckily I was spared the humiliation of the latter two elements. 

But hey, you only live once right? Besides, the ONE WAY sign wasn't posted, otherwise we'd have made it back to the hotel with at least half of our dignity in tact. 

Ah, to be 21 and carefree again. Anyhow, I was just reminiscing. Now, three years later, I look back on this and am proud to have a story like this to tell. Not that I'd wanna live through it again, but hey, hindsight is 20/20. 

This week I'm on Spring Break from school and have vacation from work. I figure, if I stay away from the male dancers and away from small towns like Bedford, it'll be aiight.

-Tiff 

Dear 24-year-old Tiff,

Um...

WHAT. THE. FUCK?!

How am I still alive right now?

First of all, the balls you had to so very casually PUT OUT TO THE ENTIRE WORLD that time you and Copperpot got drunk, went to see some male dancers, followed by joining them at a regular strip club next door.

And, oh...you know…then your friend got a DUI and SPENT THE NIGHT IN JAIL…hahaha…no big deal.

Second: "Ah to be 21 and carefree again."

Ah yes, to be completely irresponsible. And then to spend the 5-hour, shame-filled drive home,  terrified, exhausted, and crying with your friend while stress-eating Cheetos and rubbing cheese dust onto the seat of the car. 

Dear, sweet, Tiff...you were only 24. I PROMISE you, you are still carefree at this point. And you'll be carefree until about 32. 

After that you start getting a little...ugh...more responsible when it comes to things like getting a restful night's sleep, sticking to your budget, and taking vitamins.

(Okay…so you will very drunkenly (and loudly) suggest going camping at 2am at your 33rd birthday party. Your friends laugh and take you to karaoke instead. You have fun for 5 minutes, but then you wine-cry and go home---because in your 30's, too much wine makes you emotional…no matter what. And basically any amount of wine gives you a hangover migraine the next day. But I digress…)

You will not, however, do anything like you did over Spring Break 2001 ever again. 

Thank god. 

Don't worry. There's still a lot of fun on the horizon. You don't even KNOW, girl. You don't. even. know. 



But  you're right. I still love having that story. 

Although, you did forget to mention that you pissed off some female strippers because you ended up on their stage, just laying there, laughing like a drunk hyena -- and one of the male dancers gave you a dollar. And then you fell out of your bar stool. 

Well, slid out in slow motion, really. The picture of elegance and grace. 

Oh and that you had to use the Dial-a-Ride half-bus, filled with locals who were going to the laundromat, in order to pick your car up from the impound lot. 

And then there was that preacher at the jail who saw you and thought you could REALLY use a bible right then and there.




That reminds me, you should know: you become a lot more honest about things as you get older...

Love,
33-year-old Tiff 

Talks With My Twenties: January 4, 2005 - Age 24

Blog....eh..... 

Okay, so I'm new to this MySpace thing...I think my profile sucks *lol* Anyhow, just got finished running...need water...be back later...Love, -Tiff

"New to this MySpace thing"

HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA

Love,
33-year-old Tiff

Talks with My Twenties: December 26, 2004 - Age: 24

It's been a while

So I signed up for this thing a looooooooong time ago and never really used it. But then I got bored and remembered it was here, so here I am. I really have nothing to write. My holidays were as dysfunctional as ever. Yippee. I dunno. Maybe I'll think of something more interesting to write about later. Let's hope, eh?

Not much to this post. What a rousing start, right?

Here's what I can tell you: I had just turned 24 this October. My boyfriend at the time was out of town celebrating the holidays in California with his family.

I'm sure what I meant by "dysfunctional" was "Boo hoo. My boyfriend is away AND IT'S CHRISTMAS."

Little did I know the relationship would be ending about a month later, just after our 2-year anniversary, because he would be getting a job in LA.

And I would think my life was over.

I think in this post I was hoping to draw some attention because I was bored and also thinking that perhaps the "something more interesting to write about later" would be an engagement ring.

Oh...dear, sweet, cloud-headed, 24-year-old Tiff...an engagement ring? Really?  At this point, your divorce was JUST finalized, dude. Trust me, I thank my lucky stars every day that you did not marry this guy.  Believe me...you have a ton of things coming up that you would have missed if that were the case.

Something more interesting to write about later? Um..yeah. You definitely will. And it's all better than an engagement ring.

Love,
33-year old Tiff

P.S. There was no engagement ring. Instead, he came back with lingerie that was 2 sizes too small (this was a regular occurrence with him. The guy bought me pleather lingerie FOR MOTHER'S DAY 2003), and a weird jean jacket coat lined with fake beaver fur.

P.P.S. I know this post was lackluster. Give it time. In the summer of 2005, I'm a little out of control. And I date a lot. And I talk about that dating a lot a lot. And I have no idea what I'm doing. 

Talks with My Twenties: A New Blog Project

So, it's no surprise that it's been quite a while since I've posted in FLAD - which initially was created in order for me to deal with a shiny, new breakup.

Well folks, it's been 8 months...which is about half as long as the relationship lasted and so, according to my mom's very sound theory, it's exactly the amount of time it takes to recover from heartbreak.

That's right, take the amount of time you spent with Mr. or Ms. wrong, divide it in half, and then you'll be able to successfully calculate how much time you have to gorge yourself on pints of ice cream and cry into your pillow with the excuse, "BUT I AM DEALING WITH HEARTBREAK! Feelings...are only made...to be EATEN. And the only pants that I want in my life ARE MADE OF FLANNEL AND FOR SLEEPING. My face is covered in mascara and I'm fucking LEAVING IT!"

Truth be told, I've been feeling fine since about September, when the shock of the whole thing diminished greatly and I found myself two months into living in my cozy, new apartment, making new friends and reconnecting with old ones, and celebrating the awesomeness of life in general.

This is how I celebrate.
This is also how I start my mornings.

So at this point it's safe to say, I'm not only over it but I'm really into living life to the fullest in general.

So if there's no post-breakup healing to be done anymore,  what does that mean for FLAD?

Well...sometimes life gives you lemons...and you made lemonade...

...and THEN you happened to find a bottle of vodka in your cabinet.

What I'm saying is, I found a collection of ALL OF MY MYSPACE BLOGS FROM 2005 - 2008.

!!!

Glory!

That's right. My mid-twenties laid out in my own words and experiences. And it is glorious. And embarrassing. And also kind of heartbreaking. But mostly glorious.

So I've decided to dedicate my postings on FLAD to a new project: Talks with My Twenties.

 I'll be posting an old blog excerpt of mine from those MySpace gems, and then provide commentary based on what's happened since.

 It's like a time machine. It's a moment for me to go back and see myself at 24, 25, 26, and 27 and not only understand that version of myself in a new way, but understand who I am today in a new light as well.

It's also a moment for you to laugh at whatever this experiment may bring. 

It's going to be about acceptance, and hilarity, and the false thinking that we obviously know everything there is to know about life, and honesty. Brutal, hilarious, honesty.

And guys? I'm RULL excited about it.

Bookmark this blog, bitches. It's gonna be a rollercoaster of sidesplitting nonsense that you DO NOT want to miss.

And also some terrible poetry.

Love,
Tiff

Remember that time I spent my Christmas Eve playing a drinking game?

No?

Okay then, here's a reminder:

Ukulele Jam #1 - "Your Love" by The Outfield (cover)

I once heard a slowed down version of this song and found it sort of haunting. Decided to take a stab at slowing it down myself.

Also, I absolutely love to fingerpick whenever possible. Enjoy.

Random musings

No Words

There really needs to be a word to describe that feeling you get when you order a foodstuff with cheese on it (like a cheese dog, or a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel), and when it arrives in your eager little hands you pull back the parchment wrapping only to discover:

MOST OF THE FUCKING CHEESE 

STUCK TO THE FUCKING PAPER.

And you want to cry a little because you had so many plans for that cheese.

Plans that had that cheese dirty dancing with scrambled eggs over your tongue and down into the depths of your gutparts.

Plans that included the sweet, sweet combination of salty, beef frank goodness doing love somersaults with melted cheddar straight through your stomach until it reached your large intestine, where they'd continue their journey, tangled up in one another and the deep, deep love they've created until leaping out, fearlessly, hand in hand into a shallow reservoir...to embark on a new journey through the dark tunnel of love that is the Chicago sewer system.


Plans that involved that cheese STAYING ON THE GD SANDWICH.

There needs to be a word for that feeling---that moment---that discovery. Because it is one of the most heartbreaking experiences ever.

Not only that, but you have to remind yourself to be okay with the fact that you are going ram that paper with your whole face while you try to lick off that cheese.

Because you know you totally will.

A New Realization

I've realized that I have no idea how to spell onomatopoeia.

First, as a human with a history of being a pretty strong speller, I found it incredibly frustrating that nowhere in my brain had I ever stored the spelling of that word.

Even though in a spectacularly ridiculous attempt to wow a college professor my senior year, I wrote a poem ENTIRELY IN ONOMATOPOEIA.

Second, I was even more pissed when I thought, "Well, I can certainly count on autocorrect to figure this out for me."

Because I THOUGHT WRONG.

I tried every phonetic spelling I could think of (and I was close) and all I ever got was "No suggestions."

NO SUGGESTIONS?

How can you suggest "chokeberries" when I type in "choc..." as I'm typing the word chocolate?

But I write "otomanapoeia" (I switched the "t" and the "n" folks...not too shabby) and Autocorrect has NO SUGGESTIONS.

Nothing?

Really?

Really.