Happy half birthday to me!

My name’s Jake, and I’m (mildly) dilated to meet you

The scheduling fates lined me up with back-to-back (hot) doctor appointments this morning. I’ve gone from getting my hot-dermatologist stitches out to getting a hot-ophthalmologist vision baseline as a follow-up to my (fully dilated) migraine visit a month ago. And while Hot Ophthalmologist an awesome band name, both hot doctors have wedding rings and photos of their wives and kids in their offices. Which means we won’t be scheduling any cake tastings for the wedding reception just yet. Plus being dilated has made it profoundly challenging to type this. So please excuse any lipos.

Flashback Saturday: College Graduation Edition

I guess I had a cute little habit of saying YAY! about situations that met my approval when I was in college. Unfortunately, Mom (who correctly thought YAY! would be fitting sentiment to express over a college graduation) and the cake decorator (who probably didn’t have an advanced degree in spelling) ended up producing a graduation cake that said YEAH in my honor. Which only underscores what the rest of this picture is saying about me. For instance: The glasses. Bigger than my face. Lower than my eyebrows. I’m just a home perm and a cameo brooch away from being Sophia Petrillo. And don’t get me started on the shirt. I’d thought it was one of the coolest shirts EVER when I first found it wadded up on the tumble table at the County Seat. It was red and white, see, but it had blue stuff sewn in to the collar and sleeves (and, inexplicably, that saggy pocket) to make it look like it was LAYERED. It was also probably a small, yet it hung on me like a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. And in any case, the whole look was in direct violation of the contract I signed when they gave me my English degree: no bright colors, no perky smiles, no Sally Jesse Raphaël glasses. And no misspelled pastries.

Things I found in my storage unit today PART I

• A friendly nisse
• Blue suede cake mix
• Prince Albert in a can
• Brett Somers
• Elton John

Welp. I’ve emptied the cat box and taken out the garbage for the last time as a 50-year-old.

So the bloom’s off THAT lily.

Facebook has reminded me that I’ve apparently begun commemorating the night before each birthday with a selfie next to the girls. So here we are again. Looking gay as a purse full of kittens.

What I want for my birthday, in no particular order:
• Less stuff
• Someone objective to help me have less stuff
• A hellfire-damning Mueller report
• A fresh start with a normal kitten
• One single little sentence in which autocorrect hasn’t Needlessly capitalized something
• Less stuff
• A bedroom that I’ve finally painted rich-people blue to cover its current state of urine-sample gold
• Someone to help me find the right shade of rich-people blue
• My old abs
• Lots of cake
• But without compromising my old abs
• A Broadway dance career
• Less stuff
• Abs

Two years ago I was a pretty big mess:

I was spiraling up and down from the ramp-up and withdrawal effects of a changing cocktail of bipolar meds, my face was lacerated and I was enduring the pain of a concussion from a blackout and a full-body crash to a tile floor caused by a med that thankfully would become my lifeline and savior, and my mom was blaming autocorrect for turning “row” into “rowboat” in a post about my having a relative six good days in a rowboat. (Damn. It just happened to me too.)

But I’m now up to two good years in a rowboat, and I’m so thankful that I’ve been exposing myself daily to hundreds of people. Plus I still call dibs on “Six Good Days in a Rowboat” for my memoirs.

Back, Biceps and

BOY I WISH THAT GUY WITH THE BALL CAP AND THE BEEFY QUADS WOULD LOOK UP SO WE COULD MAKE EYE CONTACT AND EXCHANGE SMILES AND SCHEDULE THE CAKE TASTING FOR THE WEDDING.

Also: BOY I NEED TO CLEAN MY GLASSES.

Happy half birthday to me

When you work in a fashion photography/copy/advertising studio and you’re gearing up for the holidays—yes, THOSE holidays ... because we advertising folks start celebrating Christmas in August—and the company wants to give you a little pre-holiday-rush boost AND OH MY GOD LOOK AT THIS INSANELY COOL, ON-TREND FASHIONABLE AND LITERALLY TASTEFUL (HA! LITERALLY TASTEFUL!) CAKE

Cake I like

1. I just left the 150th anniversary celebration/reunion of alumni of the University of Iowa’s Daily Iowan newspaper

2. Which has been and continues to be one of the country’s foremost influential and innovation-vanguard college newspapers
3. With AP accreditation and everything
4. As you might have inferred from my use of the word alumni in point 1, I worked there when I attended the University of Iowa
5. First as a copy editor
6. Which means proofreading and fact-checking nerd
7. Then as copy desk editor
8. Which means head proofreading and fact-checking nerd
9. I got paid to correct people’s grammar
10. And brutally curtail their garish use of excessive, showy punctuation
11. Grammar. Nerd. Power. Trip.
12. Though this probably explains why I’m single and living in my parents’ basement at the age of 50
13. And destined to die alone
14. I also wrote a weekly grammar column for the Daily Iowan
15. Seriously
16. It was called "That Grammar Guy"
17. The name was inspired by the TV show That Girl
18. I am not making this up
19. It used bizarre humor, recurring characters—including a cat named Xanthippe—and my own—hopefully funny—mnemonic devices to explain English grammar
20. Xanthippe was Socrates’ wife
21. But I used the name because I thought it was funny and not for its ties to any concept of learning
22. Mnemonic means "memory-aiding"
23. The m is silent
24. The first one, I mean
25. You’re welcome
26. Anyway ...
27. "That Grammar Guy" ran in the Daily Iowan every Monday for two years
28. I got fan mail
29. Mostly from foreign students who were struggling to learn our crazy-ass melting-pot language
30. I also reviewed theater, music and dance for the Daily Iowan
31. So my work there was both nerdy and gay
32. In my capacity as copy desk editor, I hired my brilliant and delightful friend Annette
33. I got to sit next to her at tonight’s dinner
34. Where it occurred to me that everyone in the room—and every career path we represented—was there based on an intricate genealogy of hiring decisions
35. Mind. Blown.
36. I also sat by my friend Tad, who is at least four years younger than I am
37. We didn’t work together at the DI, so I have no proof that he wasn’t at tonight’s dinner just for the pork and the really delicious ranch dressing
38. Speaking of, I didn’t notice until after I sat at our table that each seat had been pre-assigned a random dessert selection
39. I’m glad I accidentally sat in front of the chocolate cake, because it was insanely delicious
40. I noticed early on that Annette probably wasn’t going to finish hers, and I will go to my grave regretting that I did not ask her if I could have it if she was done ignoring its insane deliciousness
41. My running buddy Rob was also at our table but he left before the evening’s program was over so I barred him from being in our post-program group selfie
42. Long-lost friend Jamie wasn’t at our table but he came over to say hi after the program so he’s my new selfie buddy in place of Leavin’ Rob
43. The keynote speaker for the program was a man who hadn’t given me a job right after I’d graduated from college
44. EVEN THOUGH WE WERE BOTH IN THE ETERNAL BROTHERHOOD OF THE IOWAN THAT IS DAILY
45. But he told a story about marketing tampons to young Russian women tonight, so I guess it’s time I forgave and forgot
46. Tampons
47. Russian women
48. Yes, THAT old cliché
49. So there was this one guy who wrote editorials at the DI when I was there
50. Dark hair, lean, handsome, smart, old-money patrician air
51. Did I mention handsome?
52. This might surprise you given the dearth of hints I’ve provided leading up to this bombshell, but I had a huge crush on him
53. Especially on the days when he wore shorts
54. The crush was so eternal and all-consuming that I’ve completely forgotten his name by now
55. But obviously not his legs
56. This did not stop me, however, from hoping he’d be there tonight
57. And that we’d flirt awkwardly
58. Which is the only way I know how to
59. And then we’d totally make out
60. Oops. Did I just say that?
61. And then instead of sitting here typing this endless post, I’d be marrying him in the DI newsroom
62. With everyone at the reunion cheering for us
63. And fighting each other for exclusive coverage of our wedding
64. (We are all newspaper people, of course)
65. And, of course, in this scenario I’d also get Annette’s leftover cake
66. Plus everyone else’s
67. Because I’m one of the grooms and DON’T RUIN MY BIG DAY BY EATING ALL MY CAKE, PEOPLE
68. Sheesh
69. Journalism people, amirite?
70. Anyway, I didn’t see anyone there tonight who looked like him
71. But none of the guys had any legs out for inspection
72. So here I sit, writing this long-ass post instead
73. Which I’d kinda hoped would stretch to 150 points
74. Because it’s the 150th anniversary of the paper
75. But no

Cake I like

When your 50 and your a writer and you’re mom was an English teacher, she of course orders you a chalkboard birthday cake framed in homonyms and conjugations:

When your April birthday is in the middle of winter, your mom of course makes both tulip cookies and snowman cookies:

My mom—along with the rest of my family—totally gets me.

#HowToTurn50

Remember the hot hot hot medical resident with the distractingly sexy forearms who sat in on my psychiatrist appointment a month ago?

I SAW HIM AGAIN LAST NIGHT!

Unfortunately it was in the ER.

Unfortunately it was because my dad’s COPD complications that landed him in the hospital last week got alarmingly bad enough yesterday that we rushed him back gasping for air.

Unfortunately he also has pneumonia this time.

Unfortunately they also found evidence of staph.

Unfortunately my mom is home with fevery, shaky flu symptoms so she can’t even visit him.

Fortunately though, my sister is able to take the day off to stay in the hospital with Dad.

Fortunately also, I’m able to take the day off to stay home with Mom.

So fortunately things are as under control as we can make them.

But unfortunately—and I’m trying to maintain my emotional composure here—the hot hot hot medical resident with the distractingly sexy forearms who first attended to Dad in the ER last night didn’t look at me with a flicker of either recognition or interest. On any the times he stopped in Dad’s room. ANY. OF. THEM. So our marriage is clearly over before we even scheduled a cake tasting.

So to lighten the mood, I’m posting something that the Internet gave me when I googled “funny sick cat photos.”

Unhealthy. Unappetizing. Unnatural. Revolting to everyone with good judgment. Plus covered in mysterious swampy goo.

Chokingly dry office cafeteria dessert or trump administration metaphor?

FIND. HIM. FOR. ME. After my chin heals, of course.

When you’re late for work because you had to wait in the hallway for a bathroom with a shower at the gym — which is literally the first time that’s happened in the three years you’ve belonged there — and when a room finally opens up, out walks the impossibly handsome, impossibly-maybe-he'd-insist-on-being-boyfriends-if-he-knew-how-well-I-could-tap, impossibly-OH-MY-GOD mystery stranger who’d kept totally to himself all during his workout and since your gym is unfailingly Totally Mega HeterosexualTM you don’t make eye contact because you don’t want to seem clueless and creepy but he stares right at you with a huge smile and asks you how you’re doing and you squeakily say fine and ask him how he’s doing and his smile gets even bigger and he says — and you quote, even though you don’t know why you’re still clumsily talking in the second person at this point — “I’m having a great morning NOW ...” and then he disappears as magically as he’d appeared and you go to take your shower and because you’re totally distracted from scheduling your wedding cake tasting in your head you slice nine pounds of flesh off your chin while you’re shaving and then you post a picture of your massive chin scab and the inside of your nose on your blog but you don’t care because WHAT THE HELL DID HE MEAN BY THAT?

I just somehow managed to eat one of these

I still can't get the taste of corpse and regret out of my mouth.

That's a wrap on Billy Elliot

Nothing left but the fondant logo cookie.

10 things Andrew Jackson accomplished before he died in 1845

1. Got really angry about the Civil War that happened 16 years later
2. Invented Post-Its
3. Skipped the White House Correspondents Dinner to enjoy some beautiful chocolate cake with Frederick Douglass
4. Knew more about ISIS than the generals like a total badass
5. Carried the all-time record for the biggest crowd at his inauguration ... until you-know-who came along
6. Launched the man-bun
7. Figured out the difference between Syria and Iraq before bombing them
8. Was -- fun fact! -- the first president to tweet about fake news at 5:00 in the morning
9. Opened a state-of-the-art Holocaust center
10. Watched helplessly as Barack Obama started the 1861 Civil War

Check out my birthday haul!

Homemade cupcakes with pastel frosting and glittery sprinkles. Theatre Cedar Rapids gift certificates. Enough peanut butter to last me until noon on Thursday. 

It's been a good birthday.

Have your cake and fucking choke on it

I'm sorry but I'm not done being furious and appalled and repulsed by our man-boy president's "most beautiful piece of chocolate cake that you've ever seen" information-prioritization aberrancy last week.

Why on earth would he even think the aesthetic details of his dessert were newsworthy enough to bring up in a high-profile interview about a massive, deadly airstrike that could potentially precipitate a global war?

He seemed completely oblivious to the embarrassment he should have felt admitting that not only was he not in a lengthy, morally and sociopolitically anguishing situation briefing when it happened but also to the emasculating (for someone who's struggled his entire life and then through his unseemly campaign to build his personal brand on a foundation of masculine business ruthlessness and sexual infidelity and assault) embarrassment that he didn't even make the decision to authorize the airstrike before it happened and he learned about it only during a leisurely, diplomatically mortifying dinner after the fact.

He wasn't even embarrassed that he couldn't name the country he let his generals decide when and where to bomb.

Despite obvious conversation topics ranging from humanitarian concerns to hasty retaliation to arms proliferation to the escalation of aggression to minimizing civilian casualties to the reasons he wasn't directly involved in the strategies and the considerations and the very execution of the airstrike, he chose to tell the national news about ... what his cake looked like.

When I was new in advertising and didn't know enough to research and prepare for any possible question on any product- or industry-related topic a client might bring up during multimillion-dollar campaign or strategy pitches, I learned after only ONE mortifying and thankfully not account-destroying desperately-babbling-about-anything-I-could-think-of answer that I drooled out in front of two layers of my bosses and probably four layers of client hierarchy to a completely obvious and to-anyone-else-expected question that I ALWAYS NEED TO KNOW EVERYTHING THAT'S GOING ON WITH A PROJECT AND IN WHAT ORDER OF IMPORTANCE IT ALL FALLS when I talked to anyone outside my office. Man-boy clearly has neither the capacity for embarrassment over his intellectual and educational failings nor the interest in making any effort to overcome them. It's like the man playing our president has suddenly fallen ill and his handlers have desperately thrown a babbling toddler in the spotlight to take his place.

And the media and the public continue to focus on the contentless content of his babbling instead of the contentless lack of coherent thought that's driving it ... and possibly driving us into a devastating global war. All because we keep giving our babbling toddler a microphone and a national stage.

Even though he's not entirely sure what country we just bombed.

Vanilla crime roulade

Here's everyone I love the most gathered après-Outback for birthday dessert at my sister's house, minus by brother-in-law who wisely leans away every time he sees me reach for my phone to capture a meaningful selfie moment. It's zero-to-sixty self-preservation instincts like his that have time and again snatched him from the gaping, indiscriminate maw of my unquenchable Facebook narcissism, shielded him from the emasculating humiliation of being photographically recorded as one of my beloved family members, and kept him securely and anonymously ensconced in the federal witness protection program, where nobody knows his name is Steve. I mean Kellyanne.

The desserts my sister made -- thank you for asking -- are -- or at this point were -- a traditional Norwegian raspberry-meringue-vanilla cream (or crime, if you believe autocorrect) roulade that is so hyper-rich it doesn't pay any taxes but is so hyper-delicious it makes you erupt in spontaneous cascades of uncontainable yummy sounds with a beguiling Norwegian accent and a chocolate cake prepared curiously with a can of Coke stirred into the batter and frosted under a layer of icing curiously prepared with readily visible chunks of insufficiently melted butter in it. The Coke cake -- as we call it -- is an age-old family recipe that dates back to when I didn't really like it but didn't dare tell anyone and risk not getting any at all when I was a kid. The butter-chunk icing is a family tradition my sister started tonight.

But our day is complete, we have collectively eradicated every last crumb of mysteriously delicious brown bread from our friendly neighborhood Outback, Mom has safely and joyously made it to 76 with the help of loving good wishes from family and friends near and far, we've exhausted every possible trombone reference despite not knowing a single accurate phrase of the lyrics, and I am rolling carefully into bed so as not to exacerbate my brown bread bloat.

Next up on the family birthday calendar: Me! ME ME ME! And nobody will sleep that day until I get my fill of vanilla crime roulade.