Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

Tonight at dinner, I spent the entire time listening to my parents argue and looking out the window at couples getting into their cars in the parking lot, wondering where they were going, where they'd been and if they still love each other. I ordered a baked potato instead of fries because I figured it would make my dad happy. He doesn't like to see me eat fatty foods. But my baked potato was old and wrinkled. Meanwhile my mom ordered a fully-loaded Coney dog and fries. I found out when I got home that I was not picked to be an extra in the Drew Barrymore movie they're shooting in and around Saline this summer. Well that's just great! I read that they needed thousands of people, so I figured, sure, they'll call me. I guess I'm not pretty enough or cool enough or special enough or quirky enough to even stand in the background while Drew Barrymore walks down the street. And I just wanted to see famous people. Still, I know there is a lot to be thankful for. Diet Coke tastes delicious, Big Brother is on tonight, and my mom bought these new flip-side crackers (one side is pretzel, the other side is cheddar!) upon my request. I can't eat the crackers in front of my dad, though. So what I'll probably do is put some in a Ziploc bag and hide it at the back of my closet or under my pillow and then munch away quietly while watching a documentary about people who attempt to ride Great White sharks. This past Monday was my birthday. I got a lot of well-wishes from friends and family, so I'm thankful for that too. I'm 26 now. I guess that means I'm...well, I don't really know what that means. There's no set thing that you're supposed to know or be able to do by age 26. Or maybe there is and I'm just too dumb to know it. Maybe that's why Drew Barrymore hates me. I'm 26. I'm living with my parents. I miss Sean and Catie. I miss Kate. And sometimes I even miss Josh, though I probably shouldn't allow myself to. Every year on my birthday, I buy a gift for myself. It's kind of like a safety net, so that if no one gets me what I really want, I know I'll just go and get it for myself. Birthdays and holidays aren't supposed to be about presents, but let's be honest, they're a little bit about presents. They're also a little bit about seeing which people really know you, who's really in your corner, who cares. One year for my birthday, Josh got me an ankle bracelet. It was nice and all, but most anyone who knows me knows I'm not much of a jewelry girl, and definitely not much of a foot-jewelry girl. It's the thought that counts, though--I know. I wore that ankle bracelet to my sister's wedding. Eventually I grew to like what it represented, or what I thought it represented--that Josh saw me as someone graceful enough or feminine enough to wear something like a pretty silver ankle chain. Since a lot of times I think of myself as someone who looks thick and solid and man-ish, or as my dad and other gentler sorts would describe my body type: "strong," it felt good to think of myself as girly for once. But, I remember showing Josh that I was wearing the ankle bracelet, and he didn't even remember giving it to me. When I reminded him that it had been his birthday gift to me just a month before, he told me he must've forgotten since he sent his sister to pick it out. His sister, whom I'd never even met. This year, I couldn't think of a gift to get myself. What do you get for a 26-year-old who's got pretty much everything, including a fantasmo TV on which to watch everything from Jaws to Gilmore Girls? Nothing, I guess.