GeekWorld

Today, Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple, is holding a keynote address called MacWorld to unveil the company's new products for 2007. While nothing new has been posted on the Apple Web site, www.macrumors.com (visit the link on the right-hand side of my blog) has minute-to-minute updates and photos from the MacWorld keynote.

Thus far, Apple has revealed a new MacPro Cube, which runs silently due to its lack of fans. Also, a new wide-screen iPod, iTV (a way to view the movies you have downloaded onto your iPod through your television) and, most excitingly and importantly:
iPhone.

Blends a palm pilot, a cell phone and an iPod into one beautiful product. No buttons (cluttering) and no stylus (easy to lose) the iPhone uses multitouch technology so all a user needs is her/his fingers. So far, Cingulair is the exclusive carrier for the new phone. Whether they were the only company to sign on or whether Apple wanted only one company, nobody knows yet.

Price estimate? $500.00

MacWorld is the largest convention Apple holds each year. For MacHeads, it's like Christmas, with a tall, white, glasses-wearing computer geek Steve Jobs as Santa. Really, a more appropriate name would be GeekWorld.

Although at my house, we're glued to our TV, scanning the web on our G5 and our laptops, a MacBook and a MacBook Pro, sending text messages and blogging about MacWorld like it was our job.

GeekHouse?

Snow Day!

There is a fine line between being a grown-up and being a child. I believe 22 is, in its entirety, balanced precariously upon that line like a girl in a tutu walking the highwire at a circus. Sometimes, that girl and I, we veer closer to the adult side. We buy sensible shoes, we drink wine, and we purchase pinstripe skirts that are suitable for losing congressional races. Other days, we fall squarely in the middle, behaving ourselves all day long talking about intelligent things and planning trips to Europe, only to come home and snuggle with our roommates and watch cartoons. And then, there are the days when I am fully comfortable with ditching the girl and falling off the rope entirely. And what better excuse to revert back to childhood than for a snow day?

I have sledded, I have made snowballs, I have even hit people with snowballs - a miracle considering my notoriously poor aim and weak arm muscles. I have even helped to shovel the driveway of the neighborhood crankster who blames us kids (when we choose to think of ourselves as children) whenever a golf ball breaks his window. I just felt that, in the spirit of Christmas, shoveling his driveway was the right thing to do. Also, it probably made him feel like a jackass and the next time he goes to yell at us, he'll probably think twice. After all, the spirit of the season is all about giving. Giving neighborly assistance...and guilt!

I am so lucky to live in a neighborhood where every family subscribes to the "It Takes A Village" theory. When I was small, there was no difference between this kid and that kid, my kid and your kid. There also wasn't a single time-out corner I hadn't sat in! And now that I'm older, there isn't a single house that wouldn't take me in, make me breakfast, and sit me down to ask about my life. And then make me shovel their driveway. So, I guess in that way, there really isn't that big of a difference in childhood and adulthood after all. Now, I just wear bigger snowpants.

There goes the bride

I love weddings. Most people I know enjoy them, what with eternal love and happiness being the topic for the day, and all. Only the most jaded cynics and bitter single women place bets on how long a marriage is going to last, how bad the D.J. is, or how much they envy the happy couple - of course, this last sentiment of jealousy can only be percieved through the thick veil of sarcasm and comments about how tacky the dress is.

But I really love weddings. I love the tearful vows, the overdone flower arrangements, the sentimental slide-shows assembled by the bridesmaids, if the bride is so lucky - I love it all, the whole, expensive hoopla.

Which is strange, considering that my first experience with a wedding was a terrifying experience.

My favorite aunt got married when I was five. Being the cute, quasi-well-behaved, only girl under ten that I was, I was naturally optioned as the flower girl. Which was fine with me, because I was a cute, quasi-well-behaved, girl under ten who looved to play dress up, when I wasn't playing in the dirt. Let's be honest - I'm a nice, well-mannered, sorority girl under 25 who still loves to play dress up - I'd still be a flower girl as long as there was cake involved.

My dress was cream colored, with puffed sleeves (oh the glamour!) and three tiers in back. Each tier had mini ribbon roses, some in peach and some in pale blue. I wore a wreath of flowers in my hair and white mary janes on my feet. I distinctly remember feeling like the bride myself, only without the hassle of being stuck with a boy at the end of the day, which seemed like the best gift of all, especially considering who she was going to be stuck with: a long-haired ex-hippy who worked in catering (sometimes) and who was in a band (all the time).

The wedding was held at the Boettcher Mansion, because Anne Boettcher was (and is) my aunt's best friend. In the backyard where the wedding was to be held, there was a tiny log cabin playhouse where the ring bearer and my brother spent lots of time with sticks, but being who I am, I was much more enamored with the big house.

I remember the bridal suite specifically. On the day of the wedding, I also remember being told not to leave the bridal suite unaccompanied because it was almost time for photos. Again, being myself, I decided to go out exploring. For a child who fancied herself to be as much Barbie as Indiana Jones this was not unexpected, but still annoying I'm sure.

There were so many bedrooms to see, so many beds to hide under, and so many hallways of polished wood to run down, my dress billowing out behind me, my little heels clicking on the floors. And then, all of a sudden, I had no clue where I was. Since that day, I've been told the Boettcher Mansion has 17 bedrooms, several living rooms, and many, many bathrooms. I don't know about the validity of any of that, but I remember plopping down on some Oriental carpeting, feeling the stiff, prickly fibers poking through my tights, and beginning to cry.

I imagined that they would pick a new flower girl, that my brother would somehow steal my precious job (sibling rivalry rears its ugly head), or worst of all, that I would be left there forever, eventually outgrowing my beautiful frock, a 30 year-old in a rose bedecked mini-dress wandering the halls, my family never noticing I was gone.

Naturally, my wailing reverberated all over the house, and before long a rogue groomsman, the drummer, picked me up yelling, "Dudes, I found the flower maiden girl...whatever." (My uncle's band firmly believed that "it was 5:00 somewhere" and the pre-wedding drinking had commenced accordingly.)

After being gently reprimanded by my mother, the wedding went off without further incident. It was only after the reception that I heard shouting, behind a catering van. It was my aunt and soon-to-be ex-uncle, arguing. Over what, I'm not sure, but it scared me. And as my aunt walked away and back into the house, I ran to find my mom. And I felt for the second time that I was happy not to be stuck with a boy at the end of the day.

Yacht not waterski if you've never tried before

My aunt and uncle have a boat and belong to a private lake. The lake is so private only a few boats are ever on it at one time, which means they can feel very bourgeoise without anyone having to see them, which may defeat the purpose, but they're not the type to flaunt. Talk about the boat like a third child, yes. But flaunt about the lake, no. After all, we're descended of farmers, flaunting is just not in our nature.

However, sometimes the aunt and uncle take pity on their poor relations, ie, those of us who only have condos in Vail, not boats, and they take us out on the lake. Such was the case today, when, in the great American tradition of Father's Day, we decided to do what every American family should want to do and go water-skiing, eat ribs and strawberry shortcake, and hang out at the lake.

The key words being that these are things we should all want to do. However, perhaps not all families contain a pasty writer child who burns in the sun, cannot water-ski, and doesn't really look like she belongs on a boat. Don't get me wrong, give me enough time and I can assemble one hell of a boating outfit - navy and white stripes, loafers, a fetching head scarf, the whole thing, very Ralph Lauren - but then I'd have to actually go out on the water, and then the ensemble would be shot to hell anyway, so why bother? If I'm actually going to be forced into the water, then a black bikini under my wetsuit will do.

I'm not sure when it became the American dream to go boating and barbecuing all the live long day, but it seems to be a pervasive myth. When I told people I was "going out to the lake" they were very impressed and made envious noises about how fun that would be. What they didn't know was that "going out on the lake" means cheering for my cousins, who look like they were purchased at Abercrombie Kids, while they wake-board, and then listening to them laugh at me while I attempted to put my water-skis on. This, of course, was only a little overture to how hard they laughed at me when I tried and failed, several times to even get up on the skis. And then, when I finally did get up, they tell me "way to stay up for a whole five seconds!" Annoyingly, the exclamation point was one of sarcasm, not excitement, so I guess it should be a sarcastic point instead.

In the end, I can at least say I went on the boat - apparently, flaunting is in my nature. And come November, I'm going to kick some cousin butt on my snowboard. And when we all go to the condo, you better believe I'm going to laugh when they lock themselves in the bathroom, as they inevitably and annually do.

The Buckets

My little brother had his graduation party on Saturday afternoon. Well, it officially started on Saturday afternoon. It unofficially started the day he was born, and we've spent 18 years building up to the day where we'd have to put on a party that is good enough for he-who-is-holier-than-the-golden-calf. I know they love him more. It's fine. I'm not bitter. At all.

Anyway, after much partying and congratulating, the last people left at 6:00 p.m., which was six and a half hours from the start of the party. As a normally non-social person, I had to lie on the floor for awhile to recover. And then, it was time for a little something my neighborhood likes to call "beerthirty" (or would it be beer:30 p.m.?) alternately known as "gutter beer" depending on where you're drinking. As we were drinking on the back porch, I felt a little more classy about the inevitable outcome: getting drunk with my parents.

It all started with Mike's Hard Lemonade, and ended with shots of hard alcohol. I have never been in such close proximity to my childhood bedroom AND so tipsy in my life. And so white trash feeling. It's only a matter of time before I'm cooking Hot Pockets and watching NASCAR.

There was also mention of Ma and Pa Kettle and some family named Clampett. I don't know who my parents were talking about, but if our neighbors are The Kettles, would that make us The Buckets?

An entry that is mostly all-caps because I'm THAT MAD!

It was an outrage.

There is no other word for it. The anger that I felt was so intense I almost threw something. I've never yelled at an employee before, but last night took the Oreo Blizzard ice-cream cake, if you will.

Post-Baccalaureate we went to Dairy Queen because, like a good sibling I sat through a ceremony where my brother got all the attention, thus I needed to be positively rewarded for good behavior. It was just like when I got a Cabbage Patch doll for being quiet during G's baptism, or when I got a puppy for agreeing to have my wisdom teeth out. What can I say, my parents strike a mean bargain.

Anyway, my mom got a sundae and I ordered a vanilla cone dipped in rainbow sprinkles. Emphasis on the dipped in. So, the DQ people make my mom's sundae, looks normal. They then hand me a plain Vanilla cone, and a CUP with one spoonful of sprinkles in it. If you know me at all, you would know that I am serious about my sprinkles. I have been known to just eat them straight out of the shaker, because I am THAT serious about sprinkles.

In defense of my right to sprinkles, something had to be said. Here is the conversation that transpired:

Me: "Um, actually I wanted the sprinkles ON the cone, thanks."
DQ: "Well, we're not supposed to do it that way because it wastes sprinkles."
Me: "But I'm the customer, and I want them ON the cone."
DQ: "We can't."
Me: "But I ordered a SPRINKLE cone. Not a PLAIN cone with sprinkles ON THE SIDE!"
Me: Insert nasty and penetrating glare here.
Other DQ person: "Oh I'll DO it."
Me: "Thanks, have a nice evening!"

Meanwhile, as this was taking place, my mom was standing to the side making nasty and penetrating glares at ME, cursing herself that she had raised a child so assertive that she would yell at Dairy Queen workers over something as small as sprinkles.

I guess my mom doesn't know how serious I am about sprinkles. Also, I didn't know how serious my mom was about the discipline - I don't get to play with my Cabbage Patch doll for a whole week now.

Dining Hall chicken is as real as it's gettin'

Last night was my little brother's Baccalaureate ceremony, which is like the more sentimental, slightly funny, with a touch of religion ceremony, as opposed to Graduation, which is tonight. More on my emotional suffering later.

One thing I have dreaded about G's graduation is not that he is growing up and leaving home, although there is that, too. No, it's more the fact that I will have to sit through FIVE student speeches, all of which begin with the student looking out into a sea of faces, they can't believe they made it, or how words cannot express what they are feeling right now.

My words can express, and here is what I am expressing to you, dear and innocent 18 year olds:

.The "Real World" doesn't exist in college either, unless you are skipping your morning class and you decide to watch it on MTV because you aren't sufficiently dressed to go out in public.

.Keeping the above in mind, "public" refers to anywhere OFF campus, so feel free to lunch in your pjs five days a week if you feel so inclined.

."Achieving greatness" is, well, great. But achieving the status of being the only person in your hall to have watched the entire "Newlyweds" marathon? Priceless!

.Making a difference in the world is as easy as helping your roommate to throw up IN the toilet, not beside it. Small, but that cleaning lady will love you love you love you in the morning time.

.Bike police are wannabe real policemen, and as long as you out-bike them, you get off scot free!

.Don't underestimate the good stuff that you have going for you at home: Free kleenex and toilet paper, especially. Again, tissues are not something to ponder when you are thinking about the big things in life, but when you have spring allergies and a conspicuously empty box, all of a sudden, the Puffs play a pretty dominant role in your life.

.There is no adult supervision. You can use this for good or evil, but since college has little to no real ramifications for major screw-uppage, I would suggest evil. At least once.

.No matter how much you miss home at first, the homesickness gets better, you make more friends, and you eventually find your niche. And until that point, enjoy the free dorm cable and don't forget to buy extra Kleenex.

Peeping Mom

When I got home from vacation last night, there was a box of Peeps on my desk with a note, "These can be sacrificed to the microwave, just for fun! Love, Mom"

My mom is awesome.

Mullet Tales: part 1

I am officially coming out. It's my deepest, darkest secret, and it's one that only a few select people know about me. But I am coming out to you, Internet, please don't judge: When I was four, I had a mullet. Before you laugh and point, it wasn't my fault! I requested bangs and shoulder length hair, in sharp contrast to the 'fro that I was sporting at that time. I didn't really have any style icons - I was four! I still watched Mister Rogers and wore Micky Mouse sunglasses - but I knew enough to know that I wanted nice, shiny hair that could go in a ponytail. A simple request, no?

Tragically, a lack of style icons was also directly linked to a lack of salon finess, so when we went to my GRANDMOTHER'S hairdresser (there's a red flag for you) it seemed like any other place that one would go to get a haircut, if one went to a place owned by a woman who sported a silvery white beehive, black sunglasses indoors (which may account for all the bad hair that came out of that place) and loud, chunky necklaces that clanked against her heaving chest when she walked about in the smoke from her long, French cigarettes. Her name was Doris. There are no words.

Now, before I tell the rest of this story, I just want you to know that my mother still has guilt about this day. Well, we're Lutheran, so she has guilt about more things than this, but this particular day will always be in the forefront of her mind. And if I ever find it's made its way to the backfront, or even the mediumfront, well you can bet I will remind her of this awful, awful day.

I remember sitting down in the chair, olive green and sticky, and listening while my mom told Doris what I wanted. To her credit, nowhere in that chat did my mother ever say "And yeah, if you could give my 4-year-old a mullet, that would be great, too." Knowing this is probably what saves my mother from wandering in purgatory, if Lutherans believed in that sort of thing. Or from a lifetime of always volunteering to make the Jell-O salad, which Lutherans embrace as the third sacrament.

Then, and this is the part where I always want to rewind and pause to stay forever four so that I never have to face the indignity of public mulletation, after I was wrapped up and shampooed, MY MOTHER LEFT THE SALON. THAT'S RIGHT, LEFT. I WILL SAY IT IN ALL CAPS AGAIN SO THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS STATEMENT: MY MOTHER. LEFT. ME. WITH A SCISSORS-WEILDING CHAIN SMOKER WHO DISTRACTED PEOPLE WITH NECKLACES SO THEY WOULDN'T NOTICE HOW BAD THEIR HAIR WAS. OH. GOD.

I believe she went to a craft store just down the way. While my hair and sense of self literally fell to the floor, my mother was examining fabric samples and looking at vases or something. Needless to say, Hobby Lobby has never held any charm for her.

Contrary to how assertive I am now, the presence of a big Doris above me with choppers was too intimidating at age four, so I just sat there while more and more of my hair was lovingly feathered about my head, making me look not unlike a small Billy Ray Cyrus. I let her do it to me, but I maintain that no 4-year-old should have to defend her own hair against a Doris - it's just too much to ask.

Well, as you can imagine, the aftermath was catastrophic. My mom was yelling, I was crying (I was the one with the mullet, after all) and my grandma was trying to convice everyone that it was "very cute and trendy" because, after all, it was her Doris that screwed everything up. And remember that part when I said I had a 'fro? Try mixing hair that naturally 'fros, with a mullet. There isn't a hairstyle called the Frullet for no reason, kids: it's ugly.


There was, understandably, no Doris in my life after this. We left the salon that day, never to return. While I missed the time I spent trying to figure out just how DID her hair stay up in that alarming fashion?! I did not miss the creepy necklaces and bug-eye glasses. And to this day, I get a little shiver of fear when I go get a haircut, because there's always a moment when something could go wrong, and I could end up with another mullet. Because if that happened, I would be eating Jell-O salad for the rest of my life.

Oh, love

"Dad. Are you crunching tortilla chips while I am trying to watch 'The Bachelor'?"
(audible stopping crunching of tortilla chips.)

"Dad! Are you clinking your spoon while I am trying to watch 'The Bachelor'?"
(stopping clinking of spoon. Also, audible pondering of why someone was eating tortilla chips AND something that required a spoon simultaneously...)

"DAD! Are you breathing while I am trying to watch 'The Bachelor'?"
(man holding tortilla chip and spoon begins to turn purple. Also, general wonderment as to why I was even watching "The Bachelor," and WITH MY PARENTS no less...)

Time to go back to school!

No, but seriously, have you SEEN the bachelor? Hello!

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!!!"