YOM KIPPUR

I mean here's the thing. I appreciate taking the time to "atone," and reflect on the previous year and what you did and how you would change.

I'm all about reflection.

And sure, it's cool that the Jewish faith gives you this week where you can get your apologies in quick so that your bad deeds won't get marked against you. And yea, the clause for the apology is that it must be done in sincerity.

But, like, isn't that a little messed up?

Because what if I don't want to forgive you? What if I have spent this whole year in misery, but because you decide last minute to apologize, I have to forgive you for your HORRIBLE actions?

BECAUSE THAT'S THE DEAL ... If someone comes to you and apologizes you have to forgive them. Or else, let's face it, that will be your bad deed going in the book.

So instead this year.

Don't even bother apologizing.

BECAUSE APPARENTLY I NEED TO FORGIVE YOU ANYWAYS.

SO...

Happy Yom Kippur.

Don't f*&* up next year like you did this one ;)

Who am I?

For a very long time people have called me Mim.

Most likely I have introduced myself to you as "Mim."

And then went into a long awkward explanation that went something like

"Not Ma'am, Mim. It's short for Miriam. Like Mad Madam Mim. From 'The Sword and the Stone?' No. Like, MIMS. Music Is My Savior. But instead MIM."

Usually by now, my face is so red, my armpits so sweaty, and the other person so disinterested that I don't continue on; and I just hope that my nickname made me look cooler than my real name.

Not that my real name is so terrible. Miriam. It's nice actually. Not so common in this generation. Because it makes you sound like a grandmother. Who likes to knit. And is sometimes grouchy. But always has candy.

It's just in middle school my friend Sara and I started replacing our r's with w's and Miwiam sounds stupid. So she called me Mim.

As it turns out, it is a pretty common nickname for people named Miriam. I thought I was unique.

As a child I was told by my father that nicknames were not allowed. Your name is your name. I would not be called "Mimi" and my sister would not be called "Tammy." Because these were in actuality names. Other people's names. Nicknames from our names, but in actuality "real names." (ya' follow?). But, Mim, for some reason was allowed to pass.

For years now that is what people have called me. They have variations on it: Mim, Mimzer, Mimtastic, Mimsical, Mimalicious, Mims, and Mimjob (which my old manager called me, out of the utmost love, but rhymes with something that need not be mentioned in my blog).

But now I am coming to a crossroads in my life. I am trying to become an adult. Or rather take myself seriously. Or rather. Be Something. Or rather. Be Someone.

And I don't know who I want to be.

Miriam or Mim?

And I know you are saying, "Hey Mimiriam, you are both. They are one in the same." But that's not true. It can't be true. Because you are different when you are Richard and Dick. And Liz and Elizabeth. And Miriam and Mim.

I remember as a child thinking that I wanted to give my own kids names that had the most potential for fun nicknames. They would have so many great options of what people could call them. Options are annoying. It means there is an element of choice and freedom. Gross.

Mim or Miriam. Miriam or Mim. Or I could just go as Chana, my middle name and call it a day. Except that only 1.2% of the population could properly pronounce the CH and I would be constantly explaining how to make that noise and would probably develop a very severe throat disorder.

You tell me.

Mim or Miriam?

Things that I will never understand...

I was born a complainer. I'm Jewish. And I'm a woman. So it's natural for me to have something to whine about. To dwell on what isn't working and what I would want to change. I try to limit myself in the way that I express these emotions, because I don't want to alienate people, or have them think that I am a downer.

And sure, sometimes I feel the need to let people know what is bringing me down. Whether it be a bad day, someone hurt my feelings, or an issue with my job.

But I will never, ever, ever understand airing your super private issues on facebook.

Perhaps I learned this, or rather didn't learn this at an early age. When I used to cry a lot people would feel bad and try to comfort me. But eventually it just got awkward. I wouldn't stop crying, and the people around me wouldn't know what to do with me. So instead of coming to comfort me, they would stare pityingly and then turn away hoping that I would regain control.

So when someone posts something that makes them look bad I want to know "WHY?" What are you hoping for in return from this post? An onslaught of support from friends, family, and strangers? Someone to make a "Group" that helps find ways of getting you out of the slump? Why do you want people to know your boyfriend broke up with you, you lost your job, or you are in a fight with a friend?

Because "Facebook" doesn't care. "Facebook" is not a person, and it is not a diary.

And you know why I want to know even more?

Because I do it too.

On Facebook.

Why does Facebook make me want to share my personal failures? Why do I feel safe confessing these downfalls that I would generally only tell a select few in person, but online feel the need to show the world?

I know I can't trust you Facebook ... But why do I want to tell you everything?

THE RULEZ!

Look, let's face it.

I'm not the worlds greatest dater...

I mean it's not that I'm bad at it...

I just don't know the rules.

So I made up a few of my own.

F#*($ the RULEZ!

1. I will text you when I am thinking of you.

2. I will email you when I see a cool article.

3. I will g-chat you the instant I see your name on my g-chat.

4. I will stop by places I know you like to hang out because that is where I will find you.

5. I want you to buy me presents when you are just thinking of me, and I will assume that if I don't get any presents it means you weren't thinking of me.

6. If I don't hear from you three days after we went on a date I will assume you are over me, and then I will spend the next week facebook/internet stalking you.

7. If I do hear from you within three days I know that you will want a serious relationship with me, and I will proceed to tell my friends and family about you.

I am looking forward to meeting anyone who will meet and understand my criteria for dating :)

Facebook is DANGEROUS!!!

Why does Facebook constantly show me what I DO NOT HAVE.

- Positions that I can't and will not have in the theater industry...

- Cool parties I didn't go to, because a) I wasn't invited and b) because I was sleeping c) parties that I have attended but people have chosen not to take pictures of me at...

- Boys that I can not date because a) they have a girlfriend b) because I am really awkward and will never let people know I would want that and c) because they would never like a girl with glasses hence the title of my blog...

It is the witching hour, when Facebook is most offensive to the weak hearted.

I have to ask my sister for...

1. Directions.
2. Dating Advice
3. Cooking Advice
4. Clothing Advice
5. Makeup Suggestions
6. Interesting Blogs
7. Internet Dating Advice (different from dating advice)
8. Job Advice
9. Exercise Technique
10. Permission

Things that happen in the 'burbs...

1. When you go for a run people say hi to you.

Which is always awkward, because you have to put on a forced smile. And it's forced not because you don't mean it, but because you are running and you don't want to acknowledge that people can actually see you. Because then you know that they can see your sweaty discolored face and the shorts that have rode up causing what my sister has lovingly coined "chub rub."

2. When you go grocery shopping people are wearing the same shirt as you.

In my case it was a green top I had just purchased at the Banana Republic Outlet in Hilton Head, South Carolina. The woman who was wearing it was a good 30 my elder. A very versatile shirt, I suppose. I tried avoiding her, but the shirt was bright green and Trader Joe's aisles are so gloriously wide open...So every time I saw her I would quietly chant "twinsie, twinsie, twinsie."

3. You fix things around the house.

My mom asked me to help fix our garbage disposal. Me! I am Ms. Fix-It. First I took off my beautiful, bright, One-Of-A-Kind shirt, replaced it with a Tom Clancy black t-shirt that could fit a small gorilla (very hip) and then placed a dish rag down for my head to rest on under the sink. My mom said "look for a red or black button on the garbage disposal." I found a red one. Then my mom said "Push it." So I did. I asked her how long I should push it. She said "Let go." I did. And thus the garbage disposal was fixed.

4. You bring in the mail. And the garbage cans. And recycling bins.

There is always mail. Every day. There is usually a can or bin to bring in. If there isn't one to bring in, there is one to bring out.

5. People drive you places, drop you off, and then pick you up...ALL THE TIME.

Today Becky's mom dropped her off at my place. Then my mom dropped us off at the Grosvner Metro station. Then we took the Metro into DC, to Dupont. Then we took the Metro to New Carrolton train station. Where my mom met us with her car to deliver Becky's baggage, and then Becky took the Amtrak train and I got in my mom's car and went home with her. TO AND FRO. TO AND FRO.

6. You deal with with wild animals.

YES! WILD ANIMALS!

This morning as my friend, Becky, was being dropped off at my house by her mother, I noticed a new statue in my front yard amidst the shrubbery and flowers. "Mom!" I called, "When did you get a snake statue?" It was a snake who was biting onto a rock, a snake that looked long and it was spotted with gold and black and was thick like the kind you see at the zoo. I walked in. Becky stayed outside. We were getting ready to be dropped off at the metro.

"The snake statue moved. It just moved!" Becky shrieked. She came in.

I went out, she followed me.

"GAHHHHHHHHHHHH." We screamed in unison. "Oh, my god. That snake is eating a mouse." I yelled, jumping up and down and waving my hands like someone who has lost complete control of their limbs, or like they have something icky on them.

"It is eating something, RIGHT NOW!" Becky ran into the house. I ran into the house. "THE SNAKE IS EATING SOMETHING RIGHT NOW OUT THERE." My mom, more annoyed than nervous goes out. And comes running back in, jumping up and down "Oh, OH, Oh, Snake!"

That's what I had said. Snake. No one ever believes me.

We try to call for help. And by call for help. I mean run inside and use the telephone. Calling for help is useless in the suburbs. It is like hailing a cab by whistling in New York. (Don't do it, it looks stupid and doesn't work.)

The humane society tells us to call the animal shelter who tells us to call the cops. The cops tell us to call the exterminator.

My mom told me to watch my step.

SUBURBS ARE INTENSE