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)

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.

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.
2. ATMs are called 24 Hour FOR A REASON - DO NOT DECIEVE ME AGAIN 1ST NATIONAL BANK!
3. My life is so much better when I have Dana to drive me around.

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.

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!

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...

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.

And you think your family is crazy...

I have a great aunt (who will remain nameless, mostly for the sake of propriety, and also because you just never know where she will turn up) who is, basically, that crazy relative that every family is blessed to have.

She's not crazy I-live-in-a-cabin-alone-in-the-woods crazy. More, I-live-alone-with-my-cat-who-I-named-after-a-Chinese-opera-star crazy. And don't even get me started on the hats...

So every year, this aunt sends out a Christmas letter. A nice sentiment, but you're thinking "What does a single woman in her mid-70s talk about in a Christmas letter?" Well, lucky you - I'm about to reveal:

If you want to know the order of priorities in the Christmas letter, they go like this: Convention Center, Art Museum, Southglenn mall, new siding (flip the page) her Christmas tree, my grandma, the family ( seven paragraphs down, in case you were wondering) her new digital camera (she's been having a great time) her house and 'statuary' and Cherry Creek Mall.

Here's what's worse - somehow, she manages to insult someone in the letter every year. Usually, it's just the requisite blurb about what we're up to (Hilary has joined a sorority, ha ha!) But this year, it was worse. It happened to my mom's cousin Shawn. Shawn is, quite possibly, the nicest member of the family. He didn't inherit the sarcasm gene, and also managed to escape the I-talk-waay-too-much gene. And when he lived in Denver, he drove my aunt around all the time. But here's what she had to say about him this year:

"Shawn the middle boy lives in Nebraska and is single...he has his own little house and seems to be content there."

Points of contention on behalf of Shawn, because Lord knows the man wouldn't stick up for himself:
1. Shawn the "middle boy" is now in his 40s. Can we say word choice?
2. Is single. So is she. How would she like it if we brought that up in our Christmas letter?
3. Seems to be content. How content is he going to be after he finds out he was just insulted in a two page letter where Victorian trees get higher billing?

Separate points of contention, entirely unrelated to the cousin Shawn issue:
1. Apparently I have done nothing of regard since high school (except join a sorority. Ha ha!) I don't have two jobs or a double major or anything. It's cool.
2. Spouses who married into the family get no mention whatsoever. My Aunt Donna didn't have two boys, Uncle Kurt did - a medical miracle!
3. The siding on the house is more important than the family mentions. I am calling for a story restructure ASAP.
4. The paragraph about the digital camera is entirely true. She has, indeed, been having a great time. However, the day she photographed me standing in the bathroom looking for a nail file is when I realized that I was definitely not having a great time.

But on the plus side, that bear statue in front of the Convention Center is "amazing!!!"

If there was more than one, would it be nemisi?

I have a new arch nemisis. I will not mention her by name, nor will I give her any descriptors because, after all, you just never know. But I will talk about her in the most abstract of terms, simply because I want to, and I can.

Basically, if you were to compile all the qualities I hate in other people into one person, that person would probably look and behave just like this person - fancy that.

She's waaaay too competitive, bossy, controlling, and just plain mean. Now I can handle most of that. I myself have days where I dabble in controlling, and don't we all? But mean, I cannot deal with. I take care not to be intentionally mean to anyone (and yes I DO realize the irony of what I just said - is she really going to read this and figure out it's her? Is she really going to read this at all? Highly unlikely, so get over it) especially since the basketball-to-face incident of '93. Trust me, I know how mean girls can be, and I try not to be one of those. But this one, she does mean like a pro.

For example, today she snapped at her lab partner so much so that the lab partner was taken aback. ABACK! Physically, she took herself a back a few feet so that Her Meanness wouldn't spit venom upon her. It was a sorry sight. And right after the snapping, she commenced with biting the heads off kittens.

And the worst part about it is that we share the same major. Of course we do. So the kittens will not be safe until May of 2007, when hopefully she will move on to a small newsmarket and settle for rats instead.

Actual Conversation

"I'll have the Swiss oatmeal. After all, if it's Swiss, you know it has to be good."

"And why is that, exactly?"

"Think about it: chocolate, army knives, banking, mocha, luggage. Those Swiss people are good at everything!"

"Uh-huh..."

Having a Ball

I just got back from the Denver Military Ball, and despite that fact that my date and I were probably the only quasi-liberals in the room (after all, we do recycle...) we had a fantastic time.

The essence of the night: many and much toasting, wandering around to talk to people with lots of bling on their jackets, ordering drinks, more wandering around (and after a certain point in the night - avoiding people with lots of bling on their jackets and too much alcohol in their bloodstream) more ordering of drinks, drunken kareoke (more fun than you'd think!) running amok in a fancy hotel, dancing with elbows, and playing in the hotel room.

Good thing I don't have bling on my jacket or I'd probably try to recycle it.


Photo of the day: "All dressed up!" c. Hilary Davis