Tag Archives: daria

What one word describes you?

A few nights ago, my husband and I were in bed having a grand ol’ time. The baby was finally asleep, the house was clean(ish), all work emails had been returned and all deadlines met(ish). We had a whole luxurious evening all to ourselves devoid of any responsibility.

Which is why, as I’m assuming you’ve already guessed, we were lying side by side in bed taking dumb pop culture quizzes on our phones.

“Hey, in the ‘Which ‘Star Wars’ character are you?’ quiz, I got Han,” I proudly announced.

“I got C-3PO. That can’t be right. I’m taking it again,” he replied.

This, naturally, soon spiraled out of control as these things tend to do and we found ourselves down the Internet Quiz Rabbit Hole. We found out I’m a Picard and he’s a Kirk. He’s a Jane and I’m a Daria. I’m a Hermione and he’s a Snape. And we are both, in fact, Jim from “The Office” (although one of us may have had to take it four times because she kept getting Dwight).

Eventually we both landed on the “Which ‘Supernatural’ character are you?” quiz. And suddenly, things turned serious. Sure, all those other quizzes were just fun and games. But this was “Supernatural” we were talking about. Our joint all-time favorite show. The show we make sure never to miss. I mean, we own the “Supernatural” version of the board game Clue. I own multiple shirts with the characters’ faces splashed across my bosom. We even have an ongoing joke about how my husband goes on Supernatural forums to discuss the show with other geeks under the handle “MishaLover43” (although I’m 93 percent sure this actually happens despite his protestations to the contrary).

Of course, we both wanted to get Dean. Everyone wants to be Dean. And if you don’t want to be Dean, you’re lying to yourself. Stop it.

Considering what was at stake here and the immense pressure I was under, I got stuck on the question “What one word describes you?” The choices they gave were endless: Dependable. Confident. Lovable. Clever. Etc…

“Hey, what one word describes me? I can’t decide since neither ‘sarcastic’ nor ‘goddess-esque’ is a choice,” I asked Ryan.

“Here, let me see the choices,” he said, taking my phone and scanning it. “Hmm…want me to pick what I think?”

“Yes, please. I’m assuming it’s not cheating since we’ve been together 10 years and you’ve seen me puke naked.”

When he handed me back my phone, there it was, a bright green checkmark beside the one word the person I was closest to in the world thought described me.


“You think I’m strong?” I asked, taken back.

“Yeah, I do,” he casually answered before going back to his own quiz.

Strong. It had never even crossed my mind to choose that adjective. Tears actually started brimming my eyes before I sucked them back in less I be caught crying over a stupid Internet quiz.

He thought I was strong.

Correction: He knows I’m strong.

It can be easy as a woman to lose your identity, to only see yourself in relation to others. This is especially true once you become a mother but happens at all of life’s stages.

Nurturing, patient, loving. These were the things I strived to be with my son. As a wife, I strive to be passionate and compassionate. As a friend, I try to be loyal. As a daughter, caring and understanding.

All good traits to have and reach for, even if you fall short of the mark sometimes (and we all do). But too often we only think of ourselves in these sweet, nice categories. Sugar and spice and all that. Because too often society tells us that these are the only categories that matter when you are woman (besides the MOST important category of all: Is she pretty?).

And not often enough do we think of ourselves, of who we really are, outside our relationship to others.

Who am I? Just me? Not as a mom, wife, daughter, sister, employee, neighbor. But as Aprill.

Just Aprill.

I honestly didn’t know that night. Because the bathroom mirror I look into everyday often told me that I was tired. That I was getting fine lines and sprouting random gray hairs. That I shouldn’t have lost my temper when Riker threw his juice at me. That I forgot to call my cousin back AGAIN. That my husband would never want to be intimate with me again if I kept wearing my old pregnancy underwear every time I forgot to do laundry. That my writing had gone stale. That my career was flailing. That I was failing on all fronts.

And so, I want to thank my husband for being my mirror that night and showing me what I had trouble seeing.

I am strong.

And also, apparently, I am Crowley, the King of Hell, according to that dumb quiz.

But that’s a topic for a different blog.

Will Paul Ryan be the first Gen-Xer in the White House?

So earlier today I tweeted this:

“Paul Ryan is a member of Gen X. All my flannel shirts now feel tainted.”

Now, depending on your political views, this is either SUPER funny or vaguely offensive (but still kinda a little bit funny *fingers crossed*).

But regardless of whether you think Ryan is the answer America has been waiting for or is, in fact, the anti-Christ (if you, like, believed in that kind of stuff, which you DON’T, but if you did…), the one thing I think we can all agree on is that Paul Ryan is not the kind of dude we associate with that apathetic flannel-and-grunge drenched era in time.

Now, that’s not to say Gen-Xers can’t be Republicans or super conservative. But Ryan just seems…hmm…how to put this…like someone who has never, EVER watched MTV. Or even knows what it is. And who was possibly born already wearing a suit and tie.

Now, technically, I’m not ACTUALLY a member of Gen X if you go by this definition from a Time magazine article:

“Sandwiched between 80 million baby boomers and 78 million millennials, Generation X — roughly defined as anyone born between 1965 and 1980 — has just 46 million members…”

I was born one year too late, which means I’m Generation Y (although I’m still trying to figure out if that makes me a Millennial or not). But since I was around at the tail end of the era AND I married a legit Gen Xer who resembles Kurt Cobain in certain lights and whenever he doesn’t shower, I feel qualified to speak out, apathetically of course, on this issue.

So, if there is a chance the first Gen-Xer will be voted into the White House as VP this fall, I’d like to take some time to offer some alternative, much better suited candidates:

Winona Ryder: Who better to sit around and do nothing unless the president dies than the It Girl from the 90’s herself? Not to mention the star of THE iconic slacker Gen X movie, “Reality Bites.” In addition to giving our country some much needed “cool” points, she could also easily solve the national debt problem via a scam involving her daddy’s gas card.

Blossom: Yes, I know she has an actual real, human person name. But I can’t spell it and even when I try to Google it, I butcher it so badly that there are literally no “did you mean this?” suggestions. And let’s face it, we all still refer to her as Blossom. She is a beloved Gen X icon, so much so that we don’t even blame her for all those horrific photos our parents have of us wearing those stupid flower hats with the upturned rim. Plus, she has like a wicked smart person degree from a wicked smart person university or something.

Kevin Smith: This would be awesome for two reasons:

1. May 4 would FINALLY become a federal holiday (Star Wars Day…look it up, dweebs)

2. People besides your grandparents would actually start watching CSPAN in the hopes he’d do one of those epic Q&A sessions he’s become legendary for.

Dave Grohl: He was in Nirvana AND Foo Fighters. If you think he needs any other qualifications besides that, GET. OFF. MY. WEBSITE.

Jared Leto: He could end wars just by leaning on a locker during foreign policy meetings.

John Cusack: And if he’s not available, Joan Cusack…I guess.

Ice Cube: Anything to stop him from making any more crappy kid-friendly movies. You were in “Boyz N the Hood” and “Friday,” man. Have some self-respect.

Daria: Because if corporations are now people, then cartoons can now be vice president.

Wil Wheaton: The Republicans would securely capture the Nerd vote and judging by his work on “Star Trek: The Next Generation” and “Eureka,” he could totes solve the energy crisis problem within a week.

Molly Ringwald: She could entertain foreign dignitaries with that whole lipstick/boob move.

Marilyn Manson: Why the hell not? He’s known for his creepy-ass eyes too.

Feeling hot, hot, hot…and semi-homicidal

Full disclosure: I have never actually been to Vietnam nor fought in a war over there. So therefore, I can’t “technically” have a flashback to ‘Nam. But I’m pretty sure that during last week’s heat wave, I had the closest approximation a civilian can get to having that experience.

As the temps continued to climb into the 100’s here in New England, suddenly I was thrust back to the five years I spent living in South Texas. While I may have actually been walking down Newbury Street in Boston, in my mind’s eye I was back in that steamy (non)jungle, whimpering and rocking in the fetal position as my sobs mixed with my sweat.

For those of you who have never been to Texas, or anywhere in the South during the height of summer, there are a lot of ways you could describe the “seasons” down there:

Hot, Hotter, Really Hot and December.

Hot, Hotter, DAAAAAMN! and Satan’s Asshole.

Hot and Humid, Hot and Humid-er, Drought and Mosquito.

But personally, I think the best way to sum up the seasons down there in regards to my personality is: Homicidal and Slightly Less Homicidal.

(Of course, over time I got a little bit more used to the Texas heat. For instance, while my first summer was spent mostly lying down on the floor spread eagle by a fan in nothing but my skivvies, my last summer there was spent lying down on the floor spread eagle by a fan in my skivvies and a tank top).

Now, you may be thinking, “If Texas is so unbearably hot, how come so many people live there?” And the answer to that is very simple.

I am 100 percent a super-mega-ultra-wussy when it comes to heat. And the rest of the world is, in fact, not.

See, while normally I look like this:

…when I got hot, I turn into this:

To most people, being hot is a natural occurrence that happens from time to time and is no big deal. To me, however, being hot is akin to the end of the world and makes me want to stab little baby bunnies in the throat.

And the thing is, I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is about my chemical makeup that makes me turn into the Hulk (APRILL STAB BUNNY!) when it gets above 80 degrees. I see other people out and about, enjoying their days during the summer and not frothing at the mouth with one eye bulging out of its socket a’ la Mr. DeMartino from “Daria.” And I wish more than anything I could just deal with the sweating and the heat index and the steaminess rising from the concrete and the SWEATING AND THE STICKINESS AND THE SUNSHINE AND DID I MENTION THE SWEATING AND AHHHHHHH!!! DIE, BUNNY, DIE!


Anyhoo, the good news is the heat wave is finally over and Boston is back to seasonal temperatures…meaning I’m back to my old, non-bunny murdering, self. And I gotta tell you, it’s good to be back.

That is, until this weekend, when temps are supposed to climb back up into the 90’s…

Here bunny, bunny, bunny…

*No bunnies were harmed in the making of this blog post…too bad I can’t say the same for that raccoon.