Monthly Archives: December 2005

I love heaps of things

If you don’t already know, I am obsessed with the movie “Garden State” (see previous blog entries for just how much I am obsessed) and now, I have a new love that goes hand in hand: Imogen Heap. Her album “Speak for Yourself” is amazing, especially if you like Frou Frou (she was the female singer for the band) or Zero 7.

Basically, I’ve been listening to it for days, overdosing in that annoying way that I OD on anything I love too much, by either listening repetitively/re-reading/constantly eating/always talking about whatever it is that I love RIGHT NOW.

So, if you want to know what it is I’ve overdosed on lately, it’s this:
. Imogen Heap
.”Are men necessary?” by NY Times columnist Maureen Dowd (brilliant gender study and social commentary)
. Blackbean ravioli with spicy chicken
. A black dress I LOVE (IN ALL CAPS!) at Banana Republic
. The Fam (although in a good way – they’re a weird bunch, but I love them, especially the bebe)


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It takes two to tango, but only one to order the beans

I love food. It’s become almost shameful, in this day and age of Victoria’s Secret models and “I’ll just have salad,” to admit that one actually loves to eat, especially if one is a girl. The fact that I am always hungry is probably alarming to most people, especially one of my friends who is a very dainty eater and always makes me feel like a lumberjack in comparison. But I do enjoy food, especially what I am having tonight: black bean and tomato ravioli at the best little restaurant ever, Red Tango with the Chach, the best friend ever.

Of course, if I could cook for myself this would all be easier. Except getting the beans into their little ravioli package. That would never get easier. That would always be really hard.

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Evil Twins: Banking and the D.M.V.

Last night, while participating in the gluttonous consumerism that is American Christmas, my best friend pointed out that I was driving with an expired license. And had been since Nov. 11. That’s neat. So, today, it was off to the D.M.V for me. And lucky me, I was there ALL MORNING LONG.

First of all, let’s be clear: I don’t like the D.M.V. Actually, I don’t like any place that I have to wait for more than 12 minutes to get what I want (GAP employees who take too long finding the jeans, take a hint) And at the D.M.V., I am surrounded by people I don’t know (a weird phobia I have) the possibility of small children being present is high (does anyone employ a babysitter anymore?) and I most definitely had to wait more than 12 minutes today. Try 47 minutes. And that’s not even counting the time it took for me to get TO the D.M.V. So let’s count! After all, I love math:

The time it took for me to get from my house to 88th and Wadsworth= 31 minutes
The normal time it takes to get from my house to 88th and Wadsworth= 6.5 minutes

The time I spent in the D.M.V. before I saw the “No Credit Cards Accepted” sign= 3.2 minutes
The time I spent cursing myself for never carrying anything but a credit card= infinite. In fact, I’m doing it right now. I will never learn.

The time I spent driving in circles at the bank trying to find the ATM so I didn’t have to talk to a person= 2 minutes
The time I sat at said ATM staring at the screen that said “ATM BEING SERVICED” and willing it to be fixed= longer than I’d like to admit.

The time it took to explain to a real person that I normally bank in Ft. Collins but I need $20 RIGHT NOW = 23 minutes. (Part of this time was spent giving the bank clerk the stink-eye, at which I am proficient having learned it from my mother.)

ACTUAL D.M.V. time= 47 minutes.
Amount of time spent listening to racuous, running twins at D.M.V.= 47 minutes.

Number of times I listened to the a capella version of “O Holy Night” by N*SYNC to get myself back into the Christmas spirit, and also to prevent myself from calling everyone on the road a motherfucker= like I’m really going to admit THAT…

So if you add all those times up, you can come to three basic conclusions:
1. People should not have children two at a time.
3. My life is so much better when I have Dana to drive me around.

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In which I round-house some MATH in the face!

I haven’t done math in quite some time. Apparently, neither have any of my other journalism friends, as was evident today when we took our final exam in Copy Editing and Design.

It started out well. Grammar? Done! Spelling? Please – I spell in my sleep. Sentence structure? I will structure you a sentence the likes of which you never done seen before, just hand me that pencil. Being as cocky as I was, it was probably no surprise that the MATH hit me out of nowhere. Yes, it’s true – MATH (in all caps AND bolded, because it’s just that scary) on a journalism exam. Oh, the humanity! Except for my professor – she doesn’t have any.

Luckily though, I wasn’t alone. As a group, we were whipping right along correcting those sentences, tossing gerunds and false posessives to the side in the middle of the linguistic carnage. But after this, the deluge- MATH.

You could see the devastation hit immediately. One by one, like rainfall, the pencils began to hit the desks as everyone arrived at question #35: percentages. People began looking around, afraid for their lives, eyes wide in the presence of numbers and symbols. We looked at each other, mouthing a silent scream that would do Edward Munch proud: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WE DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!!!!!!!!! OH GOD WHY???”

Well, after all that carrying on, there was little to do but carry on, in spite of the tragedy. I tried everything I knew how to do. Pie charts, colors, even reasoning with the MATH by using rational and well-thought out arguments and power point presentations. Nothing. The math would not yield its secrets to me.

After five minutes of staring at the MATH and wishing I had paid more attention in 4th grade instead of making faces at Donald Ackerman, I remembered the holy grail of percentages, and I knew that my salvation was nigh unto me: decimal points.

And then I did the MATH, and I did it good. I round-house kicked that MATH in the face. And in the end, MATH was really just math, and Munch was proud, and so was Chuck Norris. Because let’s face it – I can do one mean round-house kick.

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What are you, FedEX?

Ladies, you know the drill: You’re out at a party or bar, meet a really cute guy, exchange numbers, and then blissfully go to bed dreaming of picnics and phone calls the next day. Enter the next day… and nothing. Distraught, you painfully wander the halls of your house, asking your roommates why he didn’t call.

By day two, you are still hopeful, but that hopeful is tinged with a touch of anger.

By day three, you have SO lost interest, and when an unrecognized number pops up on your cell, you don’t even give it a second thought before silencing it and getting on with your day.

And around we go.

But never fear, because I now have the answer to this question that plagues the female species. I know why he didn’t call! Sweet victory is ours at last!

After an insightful conversation with a man whom I have successfully lured into my clutches, (oh don’t feel too bad for him, I think he actually likes being in my clutches) I have gotten him to reveal all the secrets of men, one of which is the little-talked about but often-employed Three Day Rule.

Essentially, after making initial contact with a female whom he would like to date, the man must wait three days before calling. Three days! What are you, FedEX?

I was told that you must wait three days because calling the next day makes you seem desperate, and calling the second day makes you seem desperate, but you tried to hide it, which is worse. But calling on the third day gives a man a devil-may-care, I-just-thought-I’d-drop-you-a-line feeling.

Actually, it means you suck.

Please call us whenever it is you feel like talking to us. You don’t have to wait three days. We won’t judge you. In fact, we might even go out with you.

If I am wrong about all of this, or if you have anything to say regarding this rule (loopholes perhaps?) feel free to comment!

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How to annoy me:

.Make smacking sounds while eating
.Move furniture duing quiet hours
.Play rap music really loudly outside my door
.Take away the pizza
.Overuse the word ‘template’
.Pee your pants and then blame it on me – okay, this actually happened in 1991, but I am still SO not over it…

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Filed under Digressions, My World

The M. stands for Moron

Sometimes, I am a moron. And by sometimes, I actually mean a lot. Like yesterday, for instance, a shining example of idiocy took place while I was working at the paper. Essentially, I committed the 6th grade faux-pas of talking about a cute boy while he was within hearing distance. And even though I am 21 years-old and I no longer wear leggings or bows in my hair, the 6th grader inside of me was still mortified. And blushing.

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