Friends don't let friend use stupid fonts

What Comic Sans says about you.

Comic Sans says that you might still be rocking a mid-90s Gateway running Windows 95 and taking your instructions from a dancing paperclip in the corner of the screen. Wait. I could be wrong. The sophisticated user knew that the paperclip could be changed into Albert Einstein with just a few clicks. And who wouldn't take guidance from him?

Comic Sans says your grandchild bought you your first computer and set you up with the GeeMail. 

Comic Sans says that all of your emails start with FWD: FWD: FWD.

Comic Sans says that you're 12 and you've learned that Comic Sans in 12-point font is, like, twice the size of Times New Roman of the same point value, and, thus, you only have to copy half as much information from Wikipedia for your term paper on manatees. 

Comic Sans says that you are a rowdy individual with a penchant for whimsy. 

No it doesn't.

Comic Sans in a business email says that you started work before computers were "a thing".

Comic Sans says that you still take the time to look at fonts. People haven't done that since before we were involved in 8 or 10 unpopular wars. 

Comic Sans says that you still refer to it as a mimeograph. 

Comic Sans says that you know the Biebs gets, like, a bazillion tweets, so you think sending a letter to his grandmother is, like, a way more effective way of getting to him. 

As a society, we are so far beyond Comic Sans. You can do better. You don't need fancy fonts. You just need someone to proofread your work. When all else fails, go Times New Roman. You really can't go wrong with Times New Roman. 

R.I.P. Paperclip

Even the Einstein would tell you that it's hip to be square, kids. 

Mirror

I feel like the only way to start this post is to out myself as the queen of the Comic Book Nerd Kingdom, so I'm treading lightly on my analogies here. I don't think I'm ready for the blogosphere to truly grasp my inner geekdom.

I shall start from a different angle. 

My mirror is different every day. I mean that figuratively of course. The actual piece of glass that reflects back at me is the same. It's so much the same, that it has really needed to be cleaned for months.

Newsflash: I don't do mirrors. 

But I digress...

I might as well be Mystique, shape shifting my way through life with a new persona whenever I feel like it. It's basically how I feel when I see myself anyway. (Please, someone go get a mop. My nerdiness is getting all over the floor.)

 For the record, I also don't do floors. 

I am, in the theory, the same person every day. I am a hard worker, a devoted daughter, a loving wife, a spazzy wanna-be-blogger. But everyday I see someone different. 

Some days, I look in the mirror and instinctively reach for the glitter eye liner and then my backpack so I can make sure I get to school on time. I see a child who isn't old enough for all of this responsibility. I see high school me who acted way older than she was. She is now hiding in the corner and wondering why I wanted all of this so badly when my only responsibility was to be so young. I see the girl who is terrified of breaking the rules and getting into trouble. 

From this child, I have learned that if you're make the rules, you can break them all you want. For the most part though, if you set them, you don't want to break them. You made them for a reason. This is why I run my own business.

Other days, I look in the mirror and see someone far beyond her years. I forget about my 20s and I head directly into middle age. I'm begging for a vacation and for employees who complete all of the tasks that I give them. I spend entirely too much time thinking that if I want it done right, I should do it myself. I lay in bed and go through my work day making sure that I didn't leave anything out. I stare in the mirror at bags under my eyes and feel guilty that time for my marriage seems to be few and far between. I wonder where my youth went without realizing that I am most certainly still living it. 

From this adult, I am have to sometimes just throw the F-word into the wind and go get some damn cheese fries. 

Some days I see a body that I hate, and others I see a body that others would be jealous to have. Note that there is often about 30 seconds between the transition from love to hate and vice versa. I know that none of this is shocking. 

I am in this strange in between where some mornings I worry that I'm going to miss the school bus, and others I worry that I'm far too close to dentures for my own liking. I usually love the sound of neighborhood kids playing in the lot across the street, but sometimes hedge dangerously close to yelling at those damn kids to get off my lawn. I shape shift through my day, acting like an adult with adults while transforming into someone much more childlike for my patients or my nephew. I speak The Queens English at work while my house might as well be a truck stop. I desperately miss the freedom and access to friends that came with college life. I miss having roommates, but not enough that I would ever again consider having a roommate. Bitches be crazy. 

I'm a different me everyday. I think I like that about myself. That might change, though.

As always, it's hip to be square kids (or adults, or seniors, or infants or whoever I think I am that day).

Survival

Dear World:

You'll be happy to know that I survived the 1st of the month after a huge corporate transition. All bills were paid, and no minions were killed. This is a good sign. I have a shiny new corporate card with my name on it that proclaims to the world either that I am an all-grown-up big kid or that someone was dumb enough to trust this 15-year-old with their money. 

Either way, free ice cream and Pixie Stix for all!

Even high on sugar, it's hip to be square, kids.

The Neighbors Won't Be Happy

My little brother is 23 today. 

You heard right, folks. The neighbors let him live. As did his teachers. And the local police force(s). And our parents. 

My baby brother is not a baby anymore. Much to his chagrin, he is an all-grown-up big kid with responsibilities and a job and a little family of his own. He is responsible for the well-being of his almost stepson, and he does an excellent job taking care of him. He has worked through some major life problems, and I see him finally getting to the point of actually learning from his mistakes. He is genuinely working on resolving conflict instead of just creating it. He is removing toxic influences. He isn't pushing my buttons quite as much anymore. And, on a bad day when I'm overwhelmed and exhausted and snap at him because I am, in fact, not perfect, he doesn't take it to heart and hold it inside for days.

He just drops it.

He's finally, like, all adult and shit. 

I mean, appearances would have you believe that. He takes a child to school and picks him up. He buys him school supplies and food. He goes to work and pays his bills. 

He is still, however, heavily invested in dick and fart jokes. That's probably environmental considering that we are all heavily invested in dick and fart jokes. It could also come from being a man and, you know, being a person. Every third thing out of his mouth is a line from Family Guy. Every fourth is a line from The West Wing. In this way, we speak entirely the same language. In other ways... yeah, we almost always speak the same language. Unless he's speaking Uber Dork. Nerd, geek and fanboy I can manage. Uber Dork is beyond me. 

So, yes, the neighbors let him live, and, please don't tell him I said this, but I'm kind of glad. He's a good kid, and he's, like, my friend. Like one of my best friends. Like we just talk about stuff. And he comes to me with his problems. And we make each other laugh hysterically. And we high five a lot. And we have a special high five for the two of us. And it's just kind of awesome.

Happy birthday, Little Bro. You make your big sister very, very proud.