Can I Hitch a Ride?

I was planning on going home tomorrow, flying standby, to Colorado. Now, thanks to the snow (which I had been raving about, way to repay the favor, Mr. Snow Maker), I can't go home until after Christmas. Do you realize what this has done to my Christmas spirit? Completely ruined it. I'm crushed. No--melted, into the little raindrops I so despise.

The only way I see out of this is to hitch a ride with Santa on his sleigh on Christmas Eve. Then I would be home in time for brunch with Grandma. But since my Christmas spirit is gone--there is no Santa to hitch a ride with, because he's not real (if you are five and you're reading this, sorry I ruined it, but you are five and reading, so you should probably be curing cancer or something).

My mom told me to make cookies. Yeah, like cookies can give me hugs and presents. It's not the same. Bah Humbug!

Will people stop trying to break into my car? It's getting very expensive. I'm shelling out another $191 because of your antics. What do you think I am, made of money? You made me cry. I don't like giving the mechanic my Christmas bonus. And I don't like you stealing my things. Please stop.

Encouraged

I took my car into the shop this morning, and while waiting for the shuttle to take me to work, I met a therapist who asked me what the heck I was doing out here in ol' CA. And so we got on the topic of my novel. He asked what it was about. I gave him a summary, and he was really interested. He liked the idea, and his imagination started twirling. He even remembered an old movie he liked as a child called Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid, which I will add to my NetFlicks queue shortly.

The most encouraging part was his genuine interest. He even offered to give me his wife's card, who works in publishing. I shyly declined. I'm not ready for that, I told him. I wonder when I will be? Maybe sooner if I keep getting positive feedback like this.

BBBBRRRRRrrrrrrrrr

It's cold outside--for the Bay Area anyway. There was a frost advisory until 10 am this morning. I walked Oscar in the cold, but bundled up against the cold and kept up a quick pace to jump start my inner furnace.

I was prepared for the cold outside (except for the frost on my window, don't know where we put the ice scrapers--never thought we'd need them here!), but I wasn't prepared for the cold inside. Yesterday, I came into work and my desk area was just as cold as the parking garage had been. Today, the coworker across from me said the air conditioning was on when he came in.

I expect to be warm inside when it's cold outside. But right now my fingers are so cold they are moving notably slower. I have to stop periodically and sit on them, or warm them in my armpits. I've been wearing a scarf for two days. In the year and a half since I've been out here, this is the first time I've felt the need to wear a scarf. AND I'M INDOORS!!!

Please, send me a space heater for Christmas.

I Had a Lovely Time

This weekend was a perfect combination of productive and lazy. It started off with an introduction to another sure favorite: the Very Dirty Martini. Thanks Brooke, for calling this drink to my attention. I've always liked pickly things, and now I have a drink in which I can embrace this.

The next day, all hungover and filled with my favorite hangover cure (tomato juice, tasty!), I embarked on the many errands that have been awaiting my attention. I found wedding shoes, and undergarments. I went to IKEA and stocked up on candles for wedding decorations, and even did some Christmas shopping for my nephews. Everywhere I went seemed to be the place to be if you wanted to avoid Christmas shoppers. My day flew by with ease, until I headed back to the city and did battle with traffic. I searched for wedding jewelry with my friend Tony, discovering that my dream look would cost me as much as the budget for the entire wedding. I'll be looking for cheap knockoffs online.

As the sun set, and I was bumper to bumper with fellow Bay Areanites (?), my Christmas miracle happened. I looked to the sky and saw flurries. I approached what I saw scientifically, not quite believing what I was seeing. Were the flurries bugs, or ash? Then one fell on my window and melted. SNOW! I was so happy! Just days after remarking the length of time since I had seen snow fall, a few showered my car. Whooo Hooo! Of course, not enough fell to even stick to the road, but I was happy all the same.

It was a wonderful day.

In a Rut

I feel like all I have been blogging about is the wedding and Christmas and drinking. It's really wearing on me, to the point that I'm starting to believe all the hype. I have an alcoholic Christmas wedding problem, or is it that I'm a Christmas alcoholic bride? In any case, the doctors say it's not serious, and that come February 4th, all the symptoms will go away. Strange, though, that the Christmas part will stick that long. Maybe I can get some ointment to clear that up by the end of the month.

Great, now I'm all self-conscious about what I'm writing. I'm not going to get it right. I gotta go ______(Sing Frosty the Snowman/do a seating arrangment/spike the eggnog).

Where's the Snow?

I grew up in Colorado. I lived there for twenty four years straight. I saw snow every winter. A year and a half ago, I moved away from Colorado, and I haven't seen snow since.

I get confused. I feel like I should wake up and see snow, but it never happens. It's cold here in the bay area, but all that comes out of the sky is a veil of mist. Either that or fat blobby rain drops (no, they're not that cute), that soak up the bottoms of my pants, and find thier way in my shoes, get my socks soaked and make me miserable in general.

What season is it? They say it's winter. I see the lawn decorations for Christmas on the lawns. But, if you ask me, having a Santa sleigh pulled by reindeer just doesn't make sense without the snow. I used to go sledding every winter, and I know that when you hit a patch of mud, the sled won't go. I guess Santa is more magic than I can imagine. But magic or no, don't you think he would adjust his outfit for the weather? He's always wearing that heavy coat.

Here is my

Ode to Snow

Falling from the sky,
so slow I can catch you
on my tongue.

You whisper past
my ear.
Patter in the pile

collecting on the ground.
A blanket of individuals.
Rain is all the same;

each drop
stabs
me in the heart.

Ok, so I just made that up, and you definitely won't see that in any anthologies. Now you know why I switched to fiction.

Pray for snow in Oakland.

Nightmare on Wedding Street


Last night I had my first dream about the wedding, and I got upstaged.

Since dreams can come off as boring, I'll try to make this quick. It was the weekend of the wedding, and apparently we had some big group activity planned, which was to attend a football game. After the game, there was a big announcement about a wedding that weekend. I immediately thought they were talking about mine, but up on the stage (I know there's no stage in football), these older women in incredibly ornate wedding dresses made entrance after entrance, and lined up, and sat on chairs and smiled. Turns out those were just the women attending the wedding. Then the bride came out, wearing a copper gown with a gorgeous ivory wrap, and she was truly queen of the moment.

I was sitting in the stands in jeans and a hoodie. No so beautiful, not so queen-like.

Well, at least the worst has already happened. Unless I dream up something more horrific, because let's face it, this wasn't even that bad.

Countdown to Forever

I suddenly realized yesterday that my wedding (David's wedding, THE wedding) is six weeks away. It has very quickly come to a point where I can keep track of just how much time I have left to turn into Bridezilla. I still don't think that will happen (ok, it might, and I'll be sure to keep an electronic diary of that moment).

Getting married shouldn't feel any different than what we have now. We've been living with each other since the day we met (we move fast, eh?, actually he was subletting a room in my apartment), we've communicated every feeling we've ever felt since that time. So on February 4th, we are going to wake up and say "Hello husband," "Hello wife," and that's the only thing that will change, but not really, because we already lovingly refer to each other as Mr. and Mrs., so we won't even have that moment, but then maybe there will be a spark behind his eyes, and I will feel something different, and that will be new, and...and...and -- what? Forever. There will be the next day, and the day after that. Morning after morning of "Hello husband," "Hello wife," and there will be stuff in between, and that will be life.

Is it good? The outlook is positive. But the thought of forever is a little terrifying. And it's only six weeks away.

Ahhh...Just Sit Back And Rel--

It's my first weekend without homework in 15 weeks. At first, I made a list of all the things I need to do. Then I forgot them all.

I took a nap. And then I decided the house was so dirty I couldn't take it any more. And since no one likes to read about housecleaning, let's give it a code word --"drinking," to trick you into thinking you are reading something interesting.

I "drank" in the bathroom, I "drank" in the living room. I did a lot of "drinking" and I'm finding there are a lot of benefits to "drinking." The house looks better, I feel better, and I think I should "drink" more often. David "drinks" in the kitchen pretty often, so luckily I didn't have to "drink" in there as much. We've been letting things go around the house so much that we've got a "drinking" problem. Having a dog requires that you "drink" more than usual, and I just haven't been able to keep up. But now that I have more time off, I will try to "drink" every day.

I'd like to say that I'm sufficiently drunk, after all the "drinking" I've done tonight, but there's still a lot to be "drank" (?), and I'm getting tired. After all, "drinking" on your hands and knees would wear anyone out. There are still some other places I need to "drink," like in my bedroom. I also might take a shot at "drinking" and driving next time I'm in my car.

Great Tip for Wasting Time

If you're going to be the best time waster you can be, you first need to commit yourself to as many activities as possible. That's what I did yesterday. Even though it was the last day of the semester for me, I still went ahead and scheduled a chapter due date for December 22nd. The phrase "take a break" apparently means nothing to me. In addition, I've also been adding wedding chores, as I like to call them, to my schedule. And of course, these chores must be done next week, but they won't get done until I start panicking over them. Oh yeah, and I still go to work every day on top of that. I'm not as busy as before, but it's enough to keep me going.

So, last night, as I was enjoying a glass of wine and flipping through the channels, I discovered the most ridiculous channel ever. It's called the Reality Channel, run by Fox, so you know everything on it is going to be either inappropriate or unnecessary, but at least mildly entertaining. I saw a commercial for a show about porn stars going to London to put on a Shakespearean play. That's right -- Shakespeare + Porn Stars = Valuable Programming. It brings whole new meaning to this quote from As You Like It: "All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts"

Finger Lickin' Weird

We really take fingers for granted. I've been thinking about mine alot, wondering if anyone has ever had the bottom segments of their fingers fused to the middle section, so all they can bend is the top section. You might as well have not bothered growing opposable thumbs at that point, they wouldn't help.

And now I'm having two problems with my fingers: one is my own fault, and the other is the weather's. My fingernails are hideously long. Okay, not so long that I have to sheath them in a special leather casing, but any minute now I'm going to gouge myself with them, and it won't be pretty. It's like I'm walking around with dull knives on the ends of my fingers, and I've always been told dull knives are more dangerous than sharp ones, which technically means I have way more to worry about than Edward Scissorhands.

The second concern of mine is that my fingers are perpetually cold. Well, it's cold outside. I've pulled out the gloves, which is sort of ridiculous considering our low temperatures have been in the 40s, while other parts of the country are forming little ice crystals around their nostrils every time they step outside. But listen here, my fingers are cold inside too. Combined with my dull knives, that makes for some very clumsy and very risky moves. I hope all my apendages survive until I can dig out the clippers.

Monday, Wha-?

This day is pummelling me. I want my weekend back.

On a brighter note, my nephew was born this morning. 5 lbs 14 oz., a little guy. His name is Nathan, with a middle name on its way any day now. My vote is for Christopher; it makes me think of the Hundred Acre Wood.

Welcome Nathan! Sorry to bring you into a world where, unfortunately, Mondays exist. But hey, you'll get used to it. And who knows, maybe you'll become the Monday Master, a guru for those of us who cannot, under our own power, get out of bed and make it to work sooner than fifteen-minutes-late to save our lives (and probably our jobs).

And so far, I see you've got it right Nathan. Babies sleep. A lot. This blogger is jealous.

Love ya kiddo!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year


I don't know how many times I've heard it in the past few weeks, but it seems to be a hot topic every year: How can those sales clerks stand to listen to Christmas music for hours at a time, day in and day out?

Well, as your resident expert (I spent over five years in the retail world), let me tell you. At first, it's great! Mostly because it's a welcome change from the previous cd the store has been making you listen to for the past six months. I have a theory that this is why Black Friday is such a success year in and year out: the sales people are so happy to have new music on that it puts a bounce in their step and a twinkle in their eye. Who wouldn't want to buy from them?

Fast forward a week: this is when you start memorizing the tunes you hear. This is not the worst stage, as you will see, but it is the point where the Christmas music goes bad. You don't know how many more times you can rock around the Christmas tree, or deck the halls. You rush to your car after work and turn on the radio -- only to hear more Christmas music! Ack! It's an attack. You turn off the radio and sing all the songs from Grease 1 and 2.

Another week goes by, and your brain is working overtime. By now you know all the words to all the Christmas songs, including Jessica Simpson's rendition of Santa Cutie (let's just pretend), AND the order the songs are played in. So when you go to your car for escape, there's something about the end of that Alanis Morissette song (you've exhausted your repertoire by now) that makes you want to segue into Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

Another week goes by. You want to run around the store and scream because you know the next song is sung by Kid Rock (ugh, really, who would want him to spread the Christmas cheer? Bad choice). On top of it all, you are beginning to wish that there really were just 12 days of Christmas.

Another week goes by. By now you would have tuned out the music because it is so ingrained in your brain that you practically sing it in your sleep, but your manager finally pushes the shuffle button. This is particularly torturous because you expect to hear Up on the Rooftop, but instead you get White Christmas. It really messes with you. Many sales people develop ticks.

Alas, it all ends Christmas Eve. You turn off the lights to the store. You go to the cd player and remove Christmas Mix 2006. You leave the store. You start a small fire in the parking lot. You roast chestnuts on the open fire, and the cd (crackling and sizzling in the flames) finally provides just the right background music.

Happy Holidays!

Coincidentally...

I went back home to Colorado for my Thanksgiving adventures. Well, truthfully it wasn't at all very adventurous, but you might say there were moments of melodrama.

As many of you know, I am getting married in February. The planning is in full gear, meaning the invitations have been sent, the dress has been bought, and the florist has been contacted. The RSVP deadline is on Friday. But guess who's not coming -- my grandmother, who I've become very close to since my parents divorced several years ago. First, my dad told me she wasn't coming. Then my brother told me she wasn't coming. I still thought my powers of pursuasion would prevail, and that I could guilt her into coming, or somehow convince her that a trip to the mountains in the middle of winter is nothing but routine. But alas, my powers were too weak. She still said no.

My grandmother has not spoken to me face to face about her not coming, or even over the phone. Our main exchange was over email, because I knew I would never get two words in if I tried to talk over the phone, and supposedly she starts crying any time she thinks about it. It's very difficult to convey the entire situation (my grandma's fear of travelling anywhere, the usual old-person health issues, and her downright stubborness, for starters), but suffice it to say that I was expecting from her a heart-felt, possibly emotional, decline of invitation. It never came. It seemed she never intended to speak to me of the wedding.

Enter the bride, headed to Colorado for the Thanksgiving holiday. Bride had not spoken to grandmother in a month, still waiting for some word of regret. Nothing. Bride calls grandmother on Thanksgiving holiday. Grandmother makes no mention of wedding. Bride visits grandmother the day after Thanksgiving. As grandmother continues making no mention of wedding (she is sorting through her collection of newspaper clippings, trying to find something she had just quoted), over the radio plays the grand wedding march. The song everyone associates with the wedding. Bride opens her eyes wide, not believing what she is hearing. Grandmother pauses in her paper clipping search and says, "Well, listen to what they are playing," and hastily returns to her precious task.

I had never seen an 800-pound gorilla in the room. It's more terrible than seeing one at the zoo. I wondered if it was a sign? No, I decided, not for me. For her. And she didn't take it.

If there are psychologists who study the workings of the elderly brain, I completely admire them, yet wonder how they get anywhere. I just don't get it. I can't understand my grandmother's reasons. I'm sure she has many. I'm trying to accept that, but I think it's going to take me a long time.

Oh My Head, My Aching Head

What a great week to come to work with a hangover. Let the holidays begin!

In honor of my nausea and head crunch, let's look at famous alcoholics. I was able to find several lists of these people. However, I don't know what qualifies someone as a famous alcoholic. First, you must be famous, that is obvious. But was the alcoholism famous too? Here's what I found:

Katherine Hepburn was on the list, but when I searched her profile on Wikipedia, I couldn't find anything about a drinking problem. True, there was so much going on about this woman that maybe the alcoholism just wasn't as interesting. All I can think of is the Philadelphia Story, which was written for her, and contains a fantastic drunken scene the night before her wedding.
Hangover cure: two aspirins and a cool cloth for your forehead

Dylan Thomas is a man who was known for his drinking. I've heard stories about him at readings, so drunk his breat smelled up the room (actually, I made that up). But he did like his drink, and ended up dying as a result at the age of 39. Apparently, he once returned from a night of drinking and announced his 18 straight whiskies must be a record. Why bother with the glass at that point? Just pour it straight down the hatch, that's what I say.
Hangover cure: a bottle of aspirin, and set up a cot by the toilet, you're going to need it

Reading about real people is getting depressing. The body can only take so much. I read about Billy Holiday (no wonder her voice sounds so sad), and Babe Ruth (although evidence of his drinking is hard to pull out through all the batting stats). Here are some people who never have to worry about their livers, but I suspect are heavy drinkers:

Santa Claus has a jolly red nose, and it's not from living at the North Pole. I suspect that Mrs. Claus keeps quite a liquor cabinet and that the couple raids it often. And what do they do with all those cookies the children leave out for Santa? He takes them home and dips them in spiked egg nog.
Hangover cure: more booze and eight aspirin for the reindeer (remember, Rudolf also has a red nose)

Bigfoot must be smarter than all of us to avoid being caught all the time. Even so, we have all seen the footage of the big man running through the woods. If we were to revisit that short movie, we would see the way Bigfoot holds his arms out for balance. He's clearly innebriated. And where does he get his booze? No, stealing from campers is too easy. He makes his own from tree bark.
Hangover cure: a nice long mud bath

Mickey Mouse is a closeted alcoholic. His problem is tough to pick out because he seems like the All-American mouse. But look at his friends. Don't tell me Daffy Duck slurs becauses he has a speech impediment. Goofy has that laugh that only comes out after you've downed a few stiff drinks. And don't even get me started on Minnie. Drunkeness is the only explanation for wearing so many polka dots.
Hangover cure: cartoons can bounce back from anything; just move to the next scene

Addicted to Shopping

I recently went shopping. Before any of this blog can make sense, you must know that I spent all $17K that I was able to earn in high school on clothing, gas for my car, and the occasional movie or restaurant meal. I can't believe I used to live like that. Now times have changed. Currently, about 2/3 of my budget goes to tuition, with precious little left over for gas, credit card payments, insurance, and my long lost buddy--shopping.

I don't go shopping very often because it adds up. But do you know what else adds up? The urge to go shopping. After a couple of months my skin starts to tingle and all I can think about is how I have nothing to wear at home (even though I have enough clothing to wear something different every day for at least four months, doesn't mean I actually want to wear every thing I have). If you repeat something to yourself often enough, you'll eventually believe it, and that is how I end up at the mall three times a year.

At first I set a strict budget. "No more than $100," I tell myself. But then I see many items with great prices, and I can't help myself. "I guess I can put it on my card," is my inevitable white-flag of surrender, waving limply in the air.

I was curious to see if the signs of substance abuse align with the signs of :


* Smell of substance on breath, body or clothes.
Sweat, from the labors of shopping? Or maybe it's the yummy spiced chai I was drinking...
* Extreme hyperactivity; excessive talkativeness.
There is no way this one describes a shopper!
* Needle marks or bruises on lower arm, legs or bottom of feet.
I don't know about needle marks, but maybe pen marks, from signing too many sales slips.
* Changes in friends: new hang-outs, avoidance of old crowd, new friends are drug users.
I do like to shop with a new person every now and then. And who knows, they may be drug users...
* Change in activities; loss of interest in things that were important before.
What's more important than shopping?
* Defensiveness, temper tantrums, resentful behavior (everything's a hassle).
Yeah, everything is a hassle when you realize all your pants flare out at the bottom when everyone else is wearing the skinny leg pant.
* Unexplained silliness or giddiness.
This may be due to increased caffeine consumption while shopping. Or, seeing the pretty red shoe on my foot and trying to think of all the things I could wear with it. Ahh, like floating on a cloud!
* Paranoia -- suspiciousness.
What if the sale ends before I get there?
* Excessive need for privacy; keeps door locked or closed, won't let people in.
No, I will not show you how fat I look in this dress. And don't come in while I'm changing, I need to do laundry and I'm wearing granny underwear.
* Chronic dishonesty.
I didn't spend that much...
* Unexplained need for money; can't explain where money goes; stealing.
The need for money I can see, but I've never stolen a thing. Finally, a sign that my problem isn't as serious as it could be.
* Unusual effort to cover arms, legs.
Duh!
* Change in personal grooming habits.
I would hope that buying new clothing would encourage snazzier style.
* Possession of drug paraphernalia.
The only drug paraphernalia I can think of are crisp $100 bills.

Procrasty Nation

I'm at a point where I can see many Tasks lined up in front of me, waiting to be selected and completed. I could work on my Virginia Woolf Paper. I could work on My Novel, or My Thesis. I could finish my Homework for Monday (or start it). I could settle up with the Florists for the wedding. I could Clean my House. But that is not my reality. I sit here, on my throne of procrastination and rule over these Tasks without force or undue action. I have no expectations of them, except that they remain near to me, fill my court, and worship the possibility that I could master them in a few hours if I wish.

And how do my subjects repay me? They move closer to my arch-nemisis, the Due Date. I have no idea what that horrendous villain could possibly do for them. Due Date calls first to my Monday Homework: "Come nearer, I can make you more significant. I can give you power; move toward my light and you will influence your former master in torturous ways." Because Due Date knows that if one of my subjects moves to his side for good, and passes by, that he will have won.

I cannot let that happen. Yet I always wait for Due Date to call upon my Tasks at hand. Why doesn't he just leave them alone? I've never been given the chance to see if the Tasks of my kingdom will interract in such a way that Virginia Woolf Paper will Clean the House, or if the Florist knows anything about My Thesis. No, the Tasks do not rely on each other this way. Due Date knows this, and he calls them, every time.

Battle of the Sick

I last posted about my use of sick days. And wouldn't you know it? The sick day won.

I called in sick yesterday. And I was sick. My head hurt, I woke up unrested (and we all know rest is the key to getting over anything), and the thought of dragging my unhealthy body to a work place that only provides a course two-ply tissue for repeated rubbing of my runny nose just wasn't doing it for me. So, I sent the email to work announcing they would not be graced with my presence, and I went back to bed for three more hours.

I had hopes of making the most of my sick day. I thought David and I could go look at suits for the wedding. I thought we might take Oscar for a nice walk. I thought we might replenish the supplies in our fridge. But instead I watched Emma (for the second time in two days), took a nap, registered for wedding gifts, and watched Ghost Hunters. I feel better today, but I would have stayed home again...if I had any more sick time left.

Achoo! I'm back at work today, and I've brought my own box of lotioned, vitamin E-ed, and aloed kleenex with me. Just another month and a half until I get more sick days.

Careful With Those Sick Days

I used a sick day last week after staying up all night to finish my novel submission for class. Was I sick? No. Did I feel well? No. Yet I feel justified in taking the sick day, and don't regret it.

But here I am four days later with the beginnings of a sore throat. My lower back is aching, even though I've already popped two ibuprofen. And have I considered throwing in the towel for the day and going home sick? Yes. Will I follow through? No.

I'm not the first person to recognize this problem--that some of us store up those sick days for when we really need them--which is definitely not at the sign of a sniffle or a tummy rumble. I suppose we are lucky, because when we really are sick it's never enough to keep us under the covers. Even if we did stay away from work, we'd still find ourselves out shopping or finishing up a few errands. I pity those who rely on the sick time to actually get well.

So I'll sit here for the rest of the day, convincing myself that my aches and pains are nothing that won't go away on their own, and plan how I'm going to use my remaining 12 hours of sick time before the year is up.

Be well.

Special: Sleep 30% Off

I'm sleep deprived, folks. So if none of the following entry makes sense, or there are major errors in grammer or spelling (as if there was a standard for blogging), you know why. In the past three days, I have slept twelve hours.

Which is why I have this brilliant idea. It could never work, because there is no way to change the effects of sleep, but suppose we lived in a world where you were only rationed 7 hours of sleep a night. Some people would not use all of their sleep, and some people would use theirs up at the beginning of the week, and some people would become very regular 7-hours-a-night-sleepers. At first I was thinking it would be nice for the people who use less than their 7 hours to be able to sell their hours to the unrested. But that's not really fair. I'm thinking this system would be more of a use-it-or-lose-it kind of thing. However, for those who need more sleep, why not allow them to take a potion that makes their sleep 25% more effective. So if they only sleep for four hours, they wake up feeling like they slept for five. If seven isn't enough, they take the potion and feel like they slept for over eight.

Maybe when I wake up I'll realize how silly this sounds. But think about it...we take drugs to make our awake time more effective (caffeine, atterol, speed...), why not find something that makes sleep more effective, something better than just a sleeping pill.

Signing off....Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z

It's a Day

I'm having one of those days where you feel like everyone can see your underwear, but no one is nice enough to tell you about it.

What does this mean? Am I feeling extra vulnerable this morning?

Or can people really see my undies?

I gotta go look in the mirror...

Sounds Like a Big Bruise

I've got two things to talk about, Orange and Blue, and Orange and Black. Sounds like a big bruise.

Orange and Blue. It is time that I declare my allegiance to the Denver Broncos on this blog. This will not turn into some orange-blooded rant, but I would like to state my concern. I could not watch the game yesterday because the bay area does not believe Bronco fans can exist among so much black, silver, gold, and red. But yes, it is so, I and a few others do support Denver, and to my knowledge, we are all still alive.
Ok, maybe a little rant. What is up with our team? In the past few years, I've felt more passionate against the Colts than the Raiders (mostly because they are a better opponent). It's been a while since we've seen the Broncos get all rearin' to beat the living snot out of another team. We even held back against the Raiders and are damn lucky we didn't lose that one. Ok, I'm finished, but I would like to summarize: 2006 Broncos need more bite in their buck.

Orange and Black. Tomorrow is Halloween! I'm excited, even though I've never watched this holiday approach with less enthusiasm. I don't have a costume, I didn't attend a single party, and I haven't bought any candy for the stray trick-or-treater that may or may not come to my door. I'm excited because it means the live ghost hunting shows are on! Yesterday I watched the British Most Haunted crew sort through the underground tunnels of Edinburgh. There were rocks flying through the air and people possessed by angry spirits. Great fun. They'll be on again tonight and tomorrow night. Also tomorrow night, my favorite ghost hunting crew TAPS will be revisiting the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. Their season finale last year was all about this place, and I'm hoping they find a good reason for me to stay up until 3:00 am watching them.

So now that I've revealed two of my passions, football and ghosts, I'm possibly setting myself up for disappointment. If the Broncos continue to lose (ouch) and the ghost shows aren't able to catch anything parnormal (ouch), I'll be all bruised up.

Best in Show


Ok, so it was only graduation from the beginner dog obedience class, and there were only two other dogs, but my dog kicked ass! There was a relay/scavenger hunt where the owners had to take their dogs around the store finding items and performing dog tricks along the way. Oscar came cruising in ahead of all the other dogs.

I had said before that a certain other dog belonged in the intermediate class (she already knew everything we were learning), and I was worried that Oscar wouldn't have a fair chance. But lo and behold, that dog came in third place. I don't know what happened. Owner difficulties?

Anyway, Oscar's prize was a pull toy that says #1 Dog. But, not surprisingly, he seemed more interested in the thrid place prize, which was a little pumpkin that squeeks.

Good job Oscar!

Recycle a Bicycle

I have two trash cans under my desk. One is blue. It's where the happy trash goes. The trash that will find new life. The trash that will see the sun again one day soon. If you don't believe in reincarnation, look in the recycle bin. It would be interesting to know if a napkin can come back as a newspaper, which comes back as a book, until it comes back as--what? A diploma? Can recycled goods acheive unconditional love for all trash items recyclable and nonrecyclable alike?

The other trash can is black. The black hole. It eats whatever I put into it, and then where does it go? We are conditioned not to ask such questions. It's a mystery, and perhaps some physicists are working on unraveling it's hidden secrets. Or perhaps if you get too curious, two men in black trench coats will come to your house and go to open up their coats, spilling empty packs of cigarettes, banana peels and a used condoms on the floor. Some things are better kept as secrets.

I just finished drinking a Starbucks. Here's my question. Does the empty container belong in the blue or the black can? The plastic lid must go in the black, even though it has a recycle sign. The blue can is for paper only, and I abide by the rule "if it tears, it goes in" (not a good rule for recepticles of any other kind). Am I supposed to put the cup in the blue can? Do I rinse it out first? I am faced with similar dilemmas all day long. Every time I reach for the cans, I wonder, what fate am I choosing for this article of waste? Will I create new life, or add to the problem? I happen to know that neither of my parents recycle. Can I possibly make up for theirs and millions of other people's recycling handicap by making the right choice?

I put it in the black hole. Let me know if it travels through a time warp to your home.

Go Ahead, Call Me A Child

A message has been coming through to me lately. It says "It's ok for you to keep your childlike tendencies. It's a sign of your strong creativity." So next time I throw a temper tantrum, remember I'm harboring my creativity.

It makes sense. Children have the best imaginations. I've read it is because they are living in the moment. If they didn't sit there an observe the current situation, they will learn more. They see colors and hear sounds without distraction. The environment stimulates their minds and it produces scenarios and pretends all sorts of things adults are not capable of.

I have been trying to live in the moment.

With so many things going on in my life (to fill you in--full time job, full time graduate school, full time puppy, planning a wedding, and oh yeah--my relationship) my mind is jumping all over the place. How can I possibly expect myself to sit down and work on my novel if Im mentally veering off track all the time?

Heres my experiment so far: Try to remind myself I'm in a moment whenever possible. This morning I'm sitting at the front desk putting a mailing together for the publicity department. I note how heavy the paper is in my fingers. I feel the increased pressure it takes to fold the pages. And I breathe, knowing that this is the only place I could possibly be at the moment. Hopefully, by not worrying about all the other things I could possibly be doing or thinking about, some creative thought will seep in.

Its also calming to think of myself carefree as a kindergartner. Im content with what Im doing, because its not possible to be doing anything else.

Send me some building blocks, Im ready to construct something grand!

Back to the Mundane

It is ok for you to uncover your eyes now, unless the dentist makes you squeemish. I would like to recount my dental experience from yesterday for you all now. It was bizarre.

Usually, the dentist doesn't ask you many questions. That's the hygenist's job, and she asked me plenty of questions last Friday like "How's your novel coming along?" "What should I write my novel about?" Please, lady, it's hard enough for me to focus on writing without a bunch of plaque catapulting off my teeth from the end of your scrapey tool. But by the end of the cleaning she had the most brilliant, un-thought-of idea for a book ever. She said, "Maybe I'll write a novel about a dentist who falls in love with the hygenist, and they can make steamy eye contact over their patients." Right.

Now to my dentist. We see a Korean dentist because it's David's way of giving back to his culture. I go along with it, because Asians are smart people, and I can support David in this way. Our dentist has a thick accent, and luckily I have practice with David's parents so I can understand him. But now I'm not so sure my listening skills are so good. These are the four things my dentist said to me yesterday:


This job is better for a man, not a woman. There's too much physical exertion involved.

One of my patients made me very happy this morning. I did surgery on his gums a few days ago. I told him I would use a new proceedure and it wouldn't hurt at all. This morning he came in and he said "You were right. I went home, and it didn't hurt at all."

If life has a speed limit, I'm going about 40 miles an hour.

I feel like it's the 4th of July!

And all this while he was drilling into my tooth, without numbing my gum (my decision, but it was a tad painful). At least my dentist feels comfortable enough to say what's on his mind. Maybe he thinks of it as therapy. After all, aren't dentists supposed to have the highest suicide rate out of any profession?

Confessions of a Bachelorette part five

It's a sad day in bachelorette-dom. Invitees are dropping of the list like flies. I don't think I came on too strong, so hopefully these girls have something better to do than spend a refined, intellectual night out with a young lady who is about to lose her freedom to household chores and marital spats. Don't feel guilty.

The fun will go on! It's easier to keep track of a smaller group of women anyway. Perhaps the girl who was going to make out with a different guy at every bar has just declined her chance to smooch the night away. Perhaps the girls who are going out of town will miss out on the most incredible night imaginable. We'll never know.

Or will we? After the big night, look for a detailed account of the bachelorette events, complete with pictures and embarassing tales. Then we'll know. But really, don't feel bad. More shots for me.

Confession #5
I felt a little rejected at first, but I'm still determined to have a good time!

Confessions of a Bachelorette part four

What to wear?
Something that screams "I'm taken!" or "Take me now!"


The costume option. I don't have many costumes at home, but the ones I do have are cheerleader, Marilyn Monroe, and boxer. Hmmm, Halloween is just too close.











This is a fine example of the "I'm not interested" look. I could wear my glasses for the ultimate studious nerd signal, some frumpy shirt buttoned all the way up to the top removing any hope of a sneak peek, and to top it all off--running shoes.



And finally, the underwear and hair look.












Cast your votes. I'll wear the winner on Saturday (HA!)


Confession #4
I prefer the "Take me now!" look

Confessions of a Bachelorette part three

Here are some of the shots I would like to try this weekend, and a short note about what I think of their names:

Purple Hooter
Vodka, Triple Sec, Chambord, Ice
Ice first - 4 oz Vodka
1.5 oz Triple Sec
2 oz Chambord
Shake and strain into four glasses
I don't even want to know what the creator was sitting in when they named this beverage.


Pink Panty Pulldown Punch
1 750ml bottle of vodka (a fifth)
3 oz Lemon juice or 1 can of lemonade concentrate
9 oz jar of maraschino cherries
2 L Sprite
Pour it all, including the juice from the cherry jar into a punch bowl and serve. Wear a belt.
Apparently, this drink was invented so that the bachelorette's friends could pull down her pants and get a look at her famous pink undies.



Pucker up Foreplay
8 oz Absolut Vodka
4 oz Pucker (melon is good but others work)
12 oz Pineapple juice
12 oz Cranberry juice
Ice
Fill all ingredients in a pitcher and serve.
Maybe it all feels better with a little pucker, sucker!

Confession #3
I intend to take full advantage of those who will buy me drinks.

Confessions of a Bachelorette part two

The only time I will don a veil (since I've chosen not to wear one at the wedding), could possibly be at the bachelorette party. For some reason, these awful bachelorette brand of veils are designed to make the wearer look as cheap and white trash as possible. Decked with ribbon rosettes and fake pearls, these stiff toule veils wouldn't flap in the breeze if they were in a hurricane. They look itchy, dirty, and always make me think they are second hand.

A history lesson on the veil reveals that it was meant to keep the groom from seeing the bride until it was too late to back out. Or that the veil protected the bride from evil spirits that would be lured in by her beauty on her wedding day. Or maybe it was a way to tantalize the groom--thinking he'd want what he couldn't have (flawed logic, since he was getting what he couldn't see!).

Let's think about the veil. It's symbolic, representing the release into womanhood. Removing her guise of innocence. Opening her eyes to--to what? Sex? It's ridiculous. Think of a father walking his daughter down the isle, and when they get there, he lifts the veil and says "Your mother and I should have warned you. About tonight..." No it doesn't happen. Now women wear the veil because they think that's what they are supposed to do. It doesn't mean a thing anymore. It's part of the costume. Which is why no one protested when it encroached on the bachelorette party.

Clearly, the veil has become nothing more than an advertisement: I'm getting married. Buy me a drink, dammit!

Confession #2
I think veils are dumb

Tomorrow I'll spice things up a bit by providing my thoughts on binge drinking.

Confessions of a Bachelorette part one

The big event to look forward to this week is my bachelorette party. I have to admit, I'm pretty excited to let loose. Although, I still have a few months to go until the wedding, so should I hold back a little? Nah!

My friend Kiki was so gracious to put together a girls night out, while David and his friends are celebrating the rights of the bachelor in Vegas (thank god for those commercials--what's happens in Vegas stays in Vegas--I don't even want to know!). So far, I know we are meeting at my friend Brooke's house for dinner and drinks, and after that, it's anyone's guess.

So, what exactly is a bachelorette supposed to do these last few precious days of singlehood? I associate these parties with heavy drinking, incriminating photos, and flirting with men who will never be attainable again. Who says this has to end once you get married? (just kidding David, I love you).

Thankfully, according to one source, less than 20% of bachelorette parties involve a stripper. That is the last thing I want to see, some banana hammock wagging around in front of my face. Gross!

So here it is folks:
Confession #1
I am a boring bachelorette.

More to come this week.

Hot Dog Eating Contests Explained

It's still an enigma to us: how competitve eaters keep it all down. I went behind the scenes with the rising star of the eating industry and got answers to all the questions. He's a man of few words, but it's evident he knows how to eat. Here is its, a Q&A session with Mr. Chuck Upster:


1) What food contest do you prefer to perform in: pie eating, hot dogs, or something else?
Well now little missy, I's a be liking all kinds of food. Don't really mind too much just as long as the food be good. Can't be eating nothing which aint cooked like. Got me a bad gut ache once cause I's be eating a hot dog which gone bad by 'bout two months. I was sick as a dog for days, you just ask Isabelle and she tell ya 'bout it.

2) You had a brilliant performance in this year's Nate's Hot Dog eating contest at Coney Island. Although you didn't beat Kobayashi, you were just 6 hot dogs behind. Was this your personal best?
Sure, might as well of been, don't really recall too much 'bout that now. I's just be focusing on getting 'em down before tha other feller.

3) Do you prefer to vomit between rounds? What are your feelings about vomiting?
Ain't really got ta say much 'bout vomit. If a man's gotta vomit, a man's gotta vomit. I's a just think it be the same as peeing in a drinking competition.

4) How do you train? Walk us through a typical morning before a competition.
Well that's a good question now young lady. Isabelle usually makes me a fried breakfast which usually contains eggs, bacon, beans, corndogs, fired toast, sausage, ham, cheese and a couple cups of coffee. I usually focus my mind on the day's event. She says I'd be like an athelete or something, all tensed up waiting for the storm. You know, just like the Rocky feller in those films.

5) How did you get started in eating competitions? How long does a typical eating career last? Have you gained weight since you started?
Down at Cotton Eye Joe's burger joing, they had this here big 40 oz. prime steak. Old Joe himself said "you eat that and you get you and your woman a free meal." I said "Shit, I could eat me four of those steaks, Joe," and so I did and we got the meal. Joe then said "how's about I be your manager and we enter you into the competitions where you eat food." I said "sure, so long as it ain't on Thursday when Smallville be on."

6) Are you a purist--a picnic style eater (eat the hotdog with the bun), or do you prefer to eat them separately? Do you use anything to make it go down easier (like water or condiments?)
I just eat 'em.

7) Any advice for blossoming young hot dog eaters?
Just remember the stomach is expandable. That's all.

8) I'm curious what the after effects of a competition are. Do you get bloated, feel sick, have to spend an entire night on the toilet? Or is your body used to it by now?
Nah, just wash the food down with a coupla 40s.

9) What is Mrs. Upster like? Does she have any good hot dog recipes for our readers?
Isabelle don't really cook. We get meals for free down at Joe's, him being my manager and all.

10) There are rumors spreading that you take muscle relaxants to help you stuff your face. This is clearly a violation of International Federation of Competitive Eating rules. What do you have to say about these allegations?
Huh?

Thank you for your time Chuck. I don't think I've ever seen someone answer questions in hot dog color before. Good luck in this year's competitive eating season.

Special thanks to KS for putting words into Chuck's mouth!

Stand Up For the Little Blogger

I've discovered my new favorite hobby. That is, blogging. It makes sense. I say I'm a writer, and what better way to show it than to flaunt it? (Hey, I can hear you snickering, and I don't like it)

This job isn't as easy as it might seem. You have to get over a strange brand of stage fright. You have to think of something interesting to say. And you have to write in all in a way that is provacative and plain makes sense. I've already received constructive criticism as to how I could make my blog more appealing. And don't you know that I stay up late almost every night sweating over what the next blog topic will be?

Here is a ground rule set by some self-proclaimed guru of bloggers:
Celebrities and other well-known personalities -- actors and entertainers, politicians, corporate CEOs -- are the only people who can get away with "themeless" blogs, because readers will tune in to find out what they have to say about pretty much anything. For example, millions of people will flock to a Brad Pitt or Charlize Theron "what I did this weekend" blog; but no one, besides family and friends, will really care what you or I did this weekend. So, unless you have a very unique writing style or an oddly interesting life, your blog must have a theme -- general or specific.

I object! I do I do I do! It's like this guy thinks he is King Kong, and he wants to run around squashing all the little blog uprisings.

I'll admit it: My blog is THEMELESS! Does that make me boring? Perhaps, and if so, move on to the next one. I happen to think that every now and then I will have something good to say. Sure, this guy is talking about the people who think they can blog every day and make money off of it. But simultaneously, he is crushing the inner writer in all of us.

You see, there has been a problem devoloping alongside this fancy internet world. While we focus on faster, easier ways to communicate, we are losing the art of communication itself. When was the last time you sat down and wrote a letter? And who has time for Christmas cards any more? That's right, only little ol' granny sitting at home (cause she's afraid her computer will take over the world).

The solution? Certainly not emails. Oh no no NO! Emails are one of major problems leading to our communicative downfall, along with it's evil little brother, text messaging. What will set us straight again are little things like blogs. Sure, half of them are terrible. But they'll get better over time. And every now and then, a Blogging Star will emerge over the horizon. Who knows, in fifty years there might be an English course called History of the Blog. I even think this blogging generation could spawn the next Charles Dickens. Imagine, a complex blog interwoven with every blog entry before and after it; a serial of electronic life!

The Cell Phone Sagas


Sounds like it might be a good movie, right? Yet when we see them going on right in front of us, we cringe, we get angry, we demand to know what is wrong with society!

I'm pretty easy going about cell phone use. I take mine everywhere, and I use it just about everywhere. This afternoon, I've taken time to find out why the world thinks cell phone use can be a problem. These are the ones I completely agree with:

Safety: Driving with one hand on the wheel while complaining about the idiots on the road would be an example.
Content: I'm not sure what has desensitized people to talking loudly about their bodily (mal)functions. In addition, I would like to point out that background noise counts as content, to the person you are talking to. To that end, do the women who talk on their cell phones in the bathroom while they are tinkling and flushing really think their friend on the other end really wants to hear that?
Timing: DO NOT answer your phone while we are having dinner without asking if it is ok. I think it's rude to assume that your companion wants to hear your one-sided half of a conversation. There are other obvious situations: movie theaters, job interviews, funerals...
Tone: You don't want to reveal your true colors to the public if you don't have to (especially if you are really really nasty)

Speaking of nasty, the following is also a big no no...



Now for the things I think we could be more lenient about:

Multi-Tasking: I do not have a land line at home, so I rely on my cell phone for all communication to my family in Colorado, and to my fiance who is often away on trips. These people call me on their schedule, not neccessarily on mine. Sometimes I happen to be grocery shopping. As long as I'm not broadcasting my personal life, why should anyone care? As long as I'm paying attention to my surroundings, why should anyone get upset? There are times when multi-tasking is not appropriate (like driving, as discussed above). But we should recognize that the more technologically advanced we become, the more multitasking is going to become a part of our lifestyles.

Proximity: Why is anyone complaining about this? I've heard that the proper etiquette is to stand with a 10 foot radius around you while speaking on the cell phone. Sure, this is easy enough. Now imagine you are in an elevator, and someone is gabbing away on their phone. It bothers you. Why? What if they were having the same conversation with the person standing next to them? Would you still be bothered? This leads to a hypothesis...people must not like the idea of seeing someone talking to thin air. If they can't see what's going on, they get frustrated. There may be hundreds of explanations. Ultimately, it might be that people are still not used to seeing humans interract with technology. It's just a hypothesis.

To sum things up here, let's remember that our society is changing. With so much technology growth, we're seeing stretch marks in our daily expectations. These will go away, and they'll smooth down. When the generation that has caused all the need to grumble ages enough to grumble about the generation following, we'll probably be complaining about a neo-letter writing campaign. We'll say: "Why doesn't anyone use their cell phone anymore?"

I'm growing up.

Yes, after 26 years (very nearly), I have found a reason to embrace responsibility. I get up early. I make my lunch for work. I've been going on walks, doing my dishes, and this is the longest my room has been clean since my mom gave up cleaning for me when I was six. I'm getting my homework done on time...actually, the procrastinator in me is still going strong. But overall, I have changed.

And what brought on this change, you might ask? Did my stirring blog from a couple weeks back have that large of an impact on my lifestyle? Did my doctor tell me I only have a few months to live? Or am I on medication that has whipped me into shape? Nope. None of the above...I got a dog.

For the first time in my life, someone is completely depending on me (sorry David, but you are way more independent than this pooch). He needs me to wake up and walk him so he doesn't pee on himself. He needs me to keep him from barking at the strange noises coming from the speaker. He needs me to keep him from soiling a shoe and chewing my dirty socks. I have an important job.

Everyone, meet Oscar:



How could you resist giving this guy what he deserves? His original owner was a crack addict man named Monica, who brought Oscar (then named Tokyo, bleh) and two other dogs stuffed in a duffel bag to the shelter. Oscar had mange, and now is afraid of anything bigger and louder than him. Except me, that is. This guy follows me from room to room, he sits by me every chance he gets, and he cries like someone sat on his tail every time I try to leave the house. Very cute. Very time consuming. Very different from what I expected.

I'll keep Oscar around. He's already learning so much. I have him in a secret competition with my brother's dog, who is also quite a looker. So far my dog has a better name, and is apparently smarter. By the time the two meet, my dog will be a perfect gentleman and try to make nice. His dog will jump on my dog and try to tug his ears. Oh well, it's how doggies play.

On a final note, I'm running out of plastic grocery bags--you know, for the poo. If any one is reading this and is in town, I'd be happy to take them off your hands. Sheesh, I'm in too deep (not in poo, in puppy love!).

What do we do with Pluto?

The loss of Pluto to the solar system planetary family has made us all stop and take notice. Maybe it's our need for soft news after weeks of daily war reports and the upcoming anniversaries of two huge American disasters (Katrina and 9/11). Yes, it is good to have balance.

For some reason, I can't stop thinking about Pluto. I've always thought of it as a potato-shaped ball of ice, with little divots in it for sledding, maybe some flatter spots for ice skating. When I did a report on the planet in the third grade, I drew a snowman shivering for the cover. Now I don't know what to do with my image. Essentially it stays the same. But would I want to take a vacation to Pluto, a dwarf planet, when I could visit a real planet?

The news has far reaching effects. Most notably, on the astrology community. Here is Astrology.com's reaction to the news.

This doesn't mean that you should disregard
Pluto's place in your charts! It hasn't left
the solar system; it's just in a new category.
Historically, astrologers have examined
events in the world at the time of a planet's
discovery for clues about what it represents.
As god of the underworld, Pluto represents
power, transformation, the cycle of death and
rebirth, and the process of breaking down and
rebuilding. And now the status of Pluto itself
is transforming -- a sure sign of its power
and influence! Time will tell if the scope of
Pluto's symbolism will decrease as a result of
its reclassification. In the meantime, Pluto
retains all its astrological significance, as
it continues to orbit our Sun.

Clearly they are worried about the destruction Pluto's demotion will bring to their industry. As they should be. Either we take the road that astrology is a bunch of balogna, an interpretation of "signs" vague enough to make everyone believe the stars are speaking to them, or we buy into the "signs" and take the interpretation further--that Pluto's demise signifies a greater downfall on the mortals. Events in the news would certainly point to this. Coincidence or Balogna? I like the balogna with the little olive pieces in it. Constellation bologna, you might call it, if you were an astrologer or an astronomer.

And the next important issue to be determined-- what about Mickey Mouse's dog? I recall Pluto being a very happy dog, but maybe those days are also numbered. It's a good thing his friends at Disney are supportive, otherwise the dog might have started slipping some tonic in his dog water, if you know what I mean. Here's what those cartoon heads had to say about the news, posted officially on the Disney website:

In reaction to news yesterday that Pluto was demoted to the status of "dwarf planet," the Seven Dwarfs issued their own short statement:

"Although we think it's DOPEY that Pluto has been downgraded to a dwarf planet, which has made some people GRUMPY and others just SLEEPY, we are not BASHFUL in saying we would be HAPPY if Disney's Pluto would join us as an 8th dwarf. We think this is just what the DOC ordered and is nothing to SNEEZE at."

As Mickey Mouse's faithful companion, Pluto made his debut in 1930, the same year that scientists discovered what they believed was a ninth planet.

Said a white-gloved, yellow-shoed source close to Disney's top dog, "I think the whole thing is goofy. Pluto has never been interested in astronomy before, other than maybe an occasional howl at the moon."

As long as Pluto continues to be walked and loved by Mickey, I think everything will be fine in this department.

And what will your reaction be? Will it inspire you to clean out your closets, to get rid of that bikini that really doesn't cover enough flesh to be considered clothing? Will you finally throw away the moldy leftover meatloaf in the back of the fridge, since technically, all the mold on it disqualifies its edible status? Or maybe you'll just sit back and watch life go on as usual. Because really, nothing has changed.


Check out this interview with the ex-planet itself.

The Salt Water Taffy Shakedown

I always feel like handing out assignments for people to go find out about, then report back to me. Well, things are changing. I'm going to tackle this one myself. I want to know more about salt water taffy.

I love grabbing a bunch of them, not knowing what flavors to expect. Then you unwrap it, peel the sticky body away from the wrapper, and pop it into your mouth for a minute of creamy and chewey heaven. That is--if you get the right flavor. I recently tried a butter popcorn flavor and felt like I had a tablespoon of artificial butter on my tongue that wouldn't melt. If you are ever uncertain about your flavor of saltwater taffy, let me make a suggestion-- try the nibble method. The method is a bit of an art, since you need to get enough to determine the flavor, and to enjoy the bite if the flavor is worthy. Don't try licking...salt water taffy is meant to be a full-mouth experience. You have to commit to biting.

Now, where did the silly name come from? I wish I had something interesting to report on this front, but apparently no one really knows. There is a charming story involving some ocean flooding, some candy, a little girl looking for a treat, and a store owner joking "all we have is salt water taffy." There is also speculation that the name comes from the ingredients. While salt and water are *sometimes* in the recipe, brine, seaweed, and fish pee are not.

Salt water taffy has been around since the late 1800s, and originated somewhere near Atlantic City, where it is now a requisite souvenir purchase. It's made with a variety of ingredients that are not very good for your teeth, including corn syrup, butter, and sugar. The mixture is boiled to a specific temperature (too hot and the candy is brittle, too cool and the candy is chewy). The thickened mixture is then slung over a hook and pulled, over and over. This forces air into the candy, and the candy is pulled until it is five to six feet long. In the old days, people with arms six feet long were employed to do this job, nowadays robots with six-foot-long arms do it. When the candy is too hard to pull any more, it is removed from the hook and put on a table to be cut and packaged.

Some fun facts:

• National Salt Water Taffy day is May 23rd
• Salt Water Taffy is also the name of a 1930s movie, and a band active in the 60s
• Interesting flavors include: Cantaloupe, Grand Mariner, Hawaiian Punch, Jalepeno, Peanut Butter Grape, Pumpkin Pie
• The most popular flavors are: Chocolate, Cinnamon (really?!), and Peppermint.

People are so boring sometimes. I say we work hard to get Jalepeno the recognition it deserves. I'm sure it's such a delightful flavor, and is the perfect compliment to any fajita, taco, or margarita.

Blaura's Blog Fear Factor

When I was younger, my biggest fear was of aliens. My dad watched so many UFO investigations, abductee interviews, and alien dissections that I was convinced it was only a matter of time before they made an appearance at the foot of my bed in the blackest night, beamed me up to their spaceship, taped my eyelids open, and forced probes through my bellybutton while brainwashing me telipathically. I've learned to convince myself that they aren't interested in my particular earthling ways, and to my knowledge, I've never taken a tour of the solar system.

Fears change. Even though I can turn out the light without worrying ET will pay me a visit, I can't get to sleep without experiencing my much more mature fear of failure. We all have it. It's what motivates us to direct our paths to the same desk and chair at work, and what makes us work so hard on our relationships. It's a matter of pride--how we see ourselves and how we perceive others see us. Mostly, it's a healthy fear. And of course, sometimes it's not.

There are many things I could be afraid of failing at, and the scenarios run through my head all the time. They will always be there, but I feel like there must be peak times in your life when they creep up the most. Maybe I'm entertaining the idea that I'm going through some sort of quarter-life crisis.

Seriously, I feel like I'm above a puppet show with all sorts of strings in my hands. Which ones do I pull? Which ones will make the show move along smoother? Are they all connected to something, or are some of them just strings with nothing on the other end? I know which ones are which, for the most part. There's the wedding string that is getting heavier and heavier by the moment. There's the school string, which right now is pulling the line pretty taut. And then there's the mysterious string of the future, that dangles casually into the deepest pit. How far down does it go? Do all strings originate from this string? And, finally, how do I keep all the strings from knotting up.

Hmm, I smell a story here. I need to face my fears. Maybe I'll write a book about aliens descending on a play and abducting the audience members, changing their lives forever. Would you buy it?

Hello! This blog is has been transplanted from my MySpace account. I think what I disliked about posting my blogs over there was that I could see the random people that were potentially looking at my blog. I suppose that's a possibility here, too, but I don't anticipate browsing through other people's blogs very often. And therefore, I will feel secure, and less like a proded, raw piece of meat.

Having said that, I don't want to give the impression that I'm too shy. I am shy, but this blog will force me to break free and share some thoughts. And who cares if no one reads this? Who cares if everyone I know reads this? Either way, this should be fun.

It's Tuesday evening, and I just finished my Monday. After taking a day off to get my dad to the airport after his visit, I feel like the week is just beginning. David is gone until Thursday, so that means I still have a couple more days to myself. Usually I spend these types of days on the couch, or occassionally catching up on my reading. Tonight I have big plans for writing a lingering assignment before school starts, and maybe busting out that yoga mat that has been in the closet for months and months.

Lately, I've noticed I have a problem. It's lack of motivation. Every now and then I notice this ailment and it really bothers me. So I'll go home, go for a run, leave the tv off all night, make a tasty dinner, get some work done, head to bed at a decent hour, and wake up the next morning feeling relaxed as a result of my productive evening. On really good nights I'll do a load of laundry and do the dishes. Very rarely, I will clean the bathroom, or put the laundry away.

I've proposed a lifestyle change for myself. It is to acheive the "productive me" I just described. Hopefully, by making my announcement public, I will feel more obligated to veer away from my nasty habit of laziness. [For those of you that don't know me, please don't place a picture in your head that I am glued to the couch with various unidentifiable crumbs wedged between my many fat rolls. My action here is actually to prevent that from ever happening.]

So, faithful readers (pretty easy title to acheive since I've only posted one blog, huh?), this is my vow to you: I hereby promise to change my ways. I will not venture out to the wastelands of sloth. I will pick myself up and trudge (however painfully it may be) to the land of productivity! Harrah!