Hip To Be Square?

I got new glasses a few days ago. Big, over-sized, Woody Allen glasses. They are my new favorite things. Except when I wear them around, I can't decide if I'm the hottest thing ever or if I'm absolute hipster scum.

I asked one of my neighbors for her opinion on the new glasses. "They make you look really smart," she replied. "After all, you're not one of those lazy kids that drinks nothing but Pabst Blue Ribbon."

Shortly after that, I walked into the pub with some friends and the bartender popped open a can of Pabst the minute he saw me walk in. "The usual, I assume?" he asked, sliding the beer towards me.

"By the way, nice glasses," he added as I fished around in my purse for two dollars.

I mumbled a "thank you," paid for my crappy beer, and proceeded to run into Mr. Syracuse. He was drinking alone at the end of the bar and immediately noticed my new glasses.

"Are those prescription?" he asked, smirking just a little bit.

"Yes," I said, wondering how many people would dare to ask me that question. "Yes, I actually need glasses to see things."

Over the past few days, several people have felt the need to ask me whether or not my new glasses have prescription lenses in them.

I doubt Woody Allen ever had to put up with that.

I'm Having A Hard Time Coming Up With A Coherent Title For This One...

There's a moment in 30 Rock when Liz Lemon mentions she went to see an obscure art film on the weekend.  It then cuts to a shot of her buying her ticket at the movie theater, lowering her voice and saying "One for 'Hot Tub Time Machine,' please." 

I totally felt like Liz Lemon last night.  I was in a bit of a slump for several stupid reasons, including (but not limited to) the following:

-  The water in the building was turned off for repairs yet again.  I think there was a memo about that somewhere but I missed out on it.  I discovered this issue when I unsuccessfully attempted to take a shower.

-  The reality of being twenty-three.  Cliche?  Yes, completely.  But birthdays always bring along this realization of how quickly time passes and how unknown the future is.  Allow me to stop before I become too depressing.

-  My ongoing failure to write a decent song from start to finish.  Just call me Roger from "RENT."  Sometimes, I'm really prolific when it comes to writing songs.  But right now, I'm stuck in the mud.  I want my one song glory and I want it now! 

-  Frustration with the general male population.  Between awkward guys from high school resurfacing five years later to suggest we "grab lunch or coffee sometime," hipster boys disappearing into the night after promising they'll return when they've smoked a cigarette, and Facebook constantly reminding me that my ex-boyfriend is having a jolly good time on his own planet, I think I'm ready to become a nun for a little bit.  Except I'm not Catholic.  At all.  So there goes that plan. 

Anyway, those are all fairly silly things, but they can be the cause of a slump when thrown together as a combo pack and left to simmer in my brain for awhile.  Fortunately, I live only a few blocks away from the fabulous Academy Theater.  And last night, they were playing the movie that both of my husbands are in.

Naturally, I am referring to "Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World."  I got married to Michael Cera AND Jason Schwartzman when nobody was looking.  Don't feel bad if you didn't know.  I don't bring it up a lot because Michael likes his privacy and is a little embarrassed about being involved in a polygamous marriage. 

Hi, this post is taking a turn for the weird.  Let's return to real life, shall we?

I'm not going to geek out about "Scott Pilgrim" today (mostly because I've already done that).  Instead, I'd like to note that going to the movies alone can sometimes be a very satisfying experience.  Some people might think it's kind of sad, but I think it's the ultimate independent woman thing to do. 

I even treated myself to pizza and root beer from the snack bar.  I was about to order PBR (to go with my new-found hipster persona, of course), but then I remembered that I was by myself and therefore could shamelessly indulge in root beer.  Root beer > PBR (that's a "greater than" sign, for those of you who failed seventh grade alegebra).  Don't tell the hipster police I said that. 

Having a cheap theater within walking distance of me is probably a bad idea.  I could see myself turning into a character from a Woody Allen film and spending too much time at the movies during the day. 

Heh, now that I think about it, I'm probably already a character in a Woody Allen film.  I've got red hair.  I own a typewriter.  I can play the clarinet.  I'm awkward, anxious, and neurotic.  I think rabbi-related humor is funny and always appropriate.  The list could go on and on. 

Crap.  I am a character in a Woody Allen film.  Does that mean Woody Allen is God of the world I live in?  If so, I'm doomed.  But at least that would explain why I often have the uncontrollable urge to be obnoxiously witty. 

This post is weirder than most.  Congrats if you made it this far.  You are a blog-reading warrior.  Gold star for you. 

That's all I've got.  Peace out, amigos. 

The Universe Is Expanding

I hate endings. I'm bad with goodbyes - even when it makes sense, even when seasons are changing and people are changing and things aren't what they should be. I can barely handle all the bittersweet sentiments that such endings bring along. I get caught up in some stupid wave of nostalgia. I become hesitant to ever move forward. I become unsure of everything.

And then I think too much in general and end up feeling like young Woody Allen in the first five minutes of "Annie Hall."

Universe expansion aside, I feel like I'm moving in slow motion towards the inevitable end of something that's difficult to let go of. And that's why I'm not writing about zombies or dance parties or indie rock tonight. Tonight, I am a bit of a sad panda.

But enough melodrama. I should sleep. I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning. And if I don't, I'll pull up my Ice MC station on Pandora and blast ridiculously upbeat 90s eurodance until my mood improves.

Goodnight, friends.