Mustang Sally, back on the horse

So, apparently I am a Sally, a big one. Capital S. Why?

Because I am typing this in a word document because too afraid to write this in a Blogger window because I am just so scared of putting myself back out there, out there on the Internet. It’s been so long.

It is as though the Internet and I were dating and now we have broken up, but maybe we’ve realized that we were meant to be together and that we want to get back together, but someone has to make the first move and that someone is me, apparently.

Regardless, here I am. Here I am again. Hello. How are you? It’s been so long since last we met. Did you get much done since I was gone? No, me neither.

Except for a few things. I did cross a few major things off my to-do list:
1. Graduate from college. Done and done.
2. Become a vegetarian.
3. Embrace the fact that I no longer have a plan for my life and that is okay.

Aaaaaand, that’s pretty much it.

In summation: I have now graduated from a university of higher education. I have a degree in Journalism and Technical Communication with concentrations in TV/Video Communication and News Editorial. And a minor in political science. Which is basically fancy talk for “I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life.”

I am currently a marketing intern for a large non-profit organization and I spend my days planning and designing invitations and advertisements for luncheons, conferences and benefit tournaments. When not designing invitations and advertisements, I can be found attending luncheons, conferences and benefit tournaments.

Despite not having a plan for my life and knowing that is completely okay, (no really, I’m completely fine with it, can’t you tell? Like, can’t you?) I will have to come up with something eventually.

Suggestions? Here in Lacking-Direction-Land, we take suggestions very seriously.

Okay, I’m putting this on the Internet riiiiiight now.

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?

There is talk of poo and sticks

I have decided that this blog is getting boring. And not because of the new font color or the fact that I switched to Blogger beta, a fact which I am regretting because I lost the fabulous color pink that I had found from a random HTML Web site and can never get back, unfortunately.

Nope, it's boring because I have, simply and frankly, lost the will to write. And I must ask myself why. Or rather, you, since you're reading this.

Is this a semester-long writer's block?

Is it the gargantuan decision that I no longer wish to be a traditional journalist that has colored my ability to write anything whatsoever?

The fact that my "editor" at the newspaper (we're using that term loosely because he gives absolutely no feedback or assistance, just rude remarks and ad hominem attacks that stem from what I believe is jealousy and a deeply imbedded stick up his...) and because of this, I've had a remarkable new thought that all other writers are better than me, even Nicholas Sparks, whose books I believe I could write with two eyes closed and while taking a dump?

Is it inappropriate to mention both poo and sticks up asses in one's blog?

Should I care about what is inappropriate?

Should I just give up now?

The Quick and Dirty

.Back at work again. Love: the discount, working with fabulous friends, having something to do. Do not love: 8 hour days in 5 inch stiletto heels. My bad.

.The Embargo is being fiercely enforced. I was asked on a date by a med student at the Mercury Cafe Friday night and I said "No thank you, good sir!" I proceeded to explain to him about the Embargo and how NAFTA might even be involved, that's how serious it was, and how...- then he walked away. I'm pretty sure telling guys about the Embargo ensures its effictiveness in and of itself.

.Going to Vail on Wednesday for Thanksgiving - hooray! I will either kill my family or greatly enjoy spending time with them. Jury is still out on that on. I'll let you know.

I love deadlines, I love the whooshing sound they make as they fly by

Here are a few things that have happened since I've last posted:

. The Democrats took control of the House and the Senate.
(Yippee! I am looking forward to Nancy Pelosi making Bush's last two years...interesting...)

. The congressional candidate I was working for lost the election.
(So unfortunate, because the woman who beat her is a pirate hooker.)

. The election is now over, so I can have my life back.
(Hello, life! What is up? It's been so long since last we met!)

. In what proves to be a most stupid decision, I've been all-too-frequently making out with boys after indulging in adult beverages.
(Hello, boys! Oh, wait, nope - I don't actually like you after all. Now I must phase you out...)

. I have decided to throw a most fantastic Christmas party and I can't wait.
(Goodbye, PC, non-denominational "Holiday Party" nonsense!)

. This blog experienced its one-year anniversary.
(Happy Birthday, Awritinglife! May your next year be filled with ever better writing. Or some writing at all, since that seems to be the main problem lately...)

. I have experienced the joy of painting my fingernails black in a show of rebellion that is rearing its moody, teenaged head eight years too late.
(Hello, age 13, how nice to see you. It seems that your hair is looking much better these days, also.)

. I have decided that I am going to embark upon a new project, to be detailed in a later post.
(And by "later post" I mean a post that I am going to type right now, immediately following this post, so that A. I don't forget to type it, and B. I mostly want it to be a separate post so that this new project post is not cluttered up by this extremely cluttery and random post. Anal retentive, party of one? Hey, my table is ready!)

Finally returning phone calls

It's gotten a little ridiculous.

At first, I thought I would just take a break from the blog for awhile, just for the summer. But now, I'm a month into school, with a brand new computer (Dell can no longer be my scapegoat) and it's just like those guys I date and never call back, so I'm here to apologize.

To whom? Maybe nobody. My considerable absence has resulted in less than a public outcry, more a general wonderment (didn't you used to have a blog?) and now I'm sure all readership has gone down the toilet, not that it matters.

Regardless, I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Maybe we could have dinner sometime?

Mac attack

Most decisions you make in life are small. Should I eat at Noodles & Co. or Red Robin? Should I go to the gym now, or after Law and Order? Should I buy the cute new underwear or not?

Some decisions are huge. Where should I go to college? Should I break up with him or not? Should I show him my cute new underwear? If I do, where might this lead?

Some decisions you make are life decisions. Those who have transferred colleges, been divorced or fired might be able to tell us a thing or two about life decisions, good and bad.

Myself, I've made some good ones (Noodles is always a safe bet, and Law and Order reruns are always on). I've also made some bad ones (eventually, you will run out of space for all the cute underwear) and even though I'm only 21, I've had to make a few life decisions as well (CSU was a really great idea, but upon going back to CSU, keep underwear hidden!) But sometimes, no matter how good your intentions are, a great idea can turn into a very poor life decision. Case in point: buying any computer other than a Mac.

I have always been a Mac user. But for the first three years of college, I have done everything on my Dell Inspirion 1100 laptop. I never wanted a Dell to begin with, and I was sort of tricked by a snobby PC-using, although well-intentioned, relative. He truly believed that I would prefer a PC, once I had been shown the light. I truly knew he was wrong, but in the confusion of going off to college, I thought it didn't matter what I had, so long as I had internet access. This ambivilance is what I now recognize as a BAD life decision. For a long time, I would have a Mac attack and try to click and drag, but to no avail. I thought shutting down would rid me of my problems, but sadly, no. I was like a starving person who had chosen fast food over filet mignon. My desperate desire for a Mac eventually turned to tired resignation, the realization that I did not own a Mac weighed heavy on my cheating, PC-using shoulders. And, also like fast food, I had a lot of indegestion - Dell induced, thank you very much.

Expectedly, over the past year my Dell has, essentially, crapped out. It shuts off spontaneously after about 10 minutes. It's slow, finicky, and nobody can quite pinpoint the problem. I was told it needs a rebuild. I think that a quality product should last more than just a few years. Which is why I'll never buy Dell again, no matter how good an idea anybody believes it to be.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I can now testify that the road to computer hell is lined with broken Dells. After doing the math, I realized it would be better in the long run to just bite the bullet and buy the Mac I always knew I wanted (and should have bought three years ago).

And now, I sit typing this on my new, shiny white MacBook Pro. I am in debt up to my eyeballs, and I only have $100 in my checking account, but it's all worth it. Because the next time I get a Mac attack, I won't choose fast food. I'll be having the filet mignon, with a side of click and drag.

Breaking down leads to breaking up

Dear Dell,

I didn't think it would come to this, at least, not so soon. The moment we met, I knew we were destined for something more, but I never felt the pulse of true love. It's not your fault, I should have been honest with you. I just kept hoping that if I took care of you, kept you updated and dressed you well, our relationship wouldn't have to end this way.

I'm sorry to have to do this, but I think it's time we spent some time apart. Me apart from you, and you... well, a part of you will be here, a part of you will end up over there. Try not to think about it too hard.

It's just that our relationship isn't fulfilling anymore. You're slow, you don't pay attention to me, and completely shutting down while I'm still talking to you is just plain rude. And I shouldn't have to deal with this anymore. I am a successful, intelligent person - I demand more!

I have to tell you one final thing, I hope you won't hate me for it later, but I need to come clean if I can ever move on from the scarring experience that has been our relationship these past three years: I've been seeing someone else.

It was nothing at first. We would meet in the library, only for a few minutes between classes. At first, it was just something fun, it didn't mean anything to me. But then, the more time we spent together, the more consumed I became. And after spending the entire summer together, I don't think we can pretend anymore, which is why I am officially breaking up with you.

I know you were always jealous of him. He's a peer, a friend, a coworker, and it killed you that he was always excelled beyond your wildest dreams. But you can just keep dreaming, because tonight, and every night after, my dreams will be of only one man:

Mac.

Sincerely,
Hilary

The Mac is back. Coming to a blogger near you. Fall 2006.

Politically incorrect without Bill Moyers

I was raised a Democrat. Or, I should say I am currently being raised, as I am often reminded: 21 is not that damn grown-up, so quit acting like you know everything! And as Democrats, we believe in the potential of people, that everyone's space and personal feelings should be protected, and that everyone is entitled to do things his or her own way because that's what the founding fathers wanted, thank you very much. While I very much agree with the founding fathers' desire for freedom of speech, religion and their desire for equality (although their hairstyles needed a little bit of work) I think, at the risk of sounding not so Democratic, that in our great haste to protect everyone's everything, we are going overboard. After thinking about this for a few days, and coming up with some concrete examples to boot, I had to wonder: is America becoming too politically correct?

The other day, I was driving downtown on my way to Cherry Creek mall. I know, I work in a mall, but for an admitted shopoholic, all I need is a change of scenery and the fires of shopping blaze anew and my sudden need for a new quasi-business casual shirt with matching capri pants is fiery and all-consuming.

There is an old person home on the corner of 1st and Alameda, or perhaps I should call it "A Campus Community for Seniors" - they do. When asked how old he is, my grandpa always says that he's not old, he's just chronologically gifted. In truth, the man is 78, and we all know it, but he's cute, so it doesn't matter. Before we go further, I'd like to say that I think we have lost a great deal of respect for the elderly people in our society, and their wisdom and experience have been replaced by MTV and bare-midriffs, which makes me sound like an old person, but I'm cute, so it doesn't matter. If older people prefer to be called seniors, it's okay by me. I'm a campus senior, maybe they'll let me move in! I kill at bridge.

What cracks me up is not the senior community, but the special section of the senior community, "dedicated to the memory impaired." This, I say, it pushing it. In truth, we all know they are advertising for Alheimer's patients, and diminishing the dignity of the patient in doing it this way. I feel that being so PC smacks of condescention. In trying to be respectful, they are just being ridiculous. I say, let's call it what it is. No matter how old someone gets, they deserve the truth about their situation. Besides, if you hurt the feelings of someone who is "memory impaired", in five minutes they won't remember anyway.

This is just one example of many in the past few months: I've driven by restaurants that advertise really great Hispanic food (I guess with immigration debates raging, Mexico has become a dirty word?) and I've seen shampoo for "women of color," (you can tell because the bottle is brown. Clearly, this is necessary.) and, my personal favorite, the lighting of the "holiday tree" in front of Rockefellar Center in New York City. If you know of any holidays other than Christmas that involve decorating a giant tree, please let me know so that the confusion can stop!

I realize this sounds insensitive, but I think if we cut the crap and everyone is free to express themselves instead of tip-toeing around people who are different, we can finally understand each other and begin the process of learning from all cultures and all ages in America, because like it or not, we all came from immigrants, and they are an important part of our culture too.

I don't know about you, but I love Mexican food, my grandpa (who is not memory impaired), my black friends don't need different colored shampoo bottles in order to decide which one to buy, and I think the tradition of the Christmas tree is just as important as the traditions behind the menorah or the seven principles of Kwanzaa or any other relgious celebration, thank you very much. And I'm pretty sure this is how the founding fathers would have wanted it.

But thank God for color-coded shampoo. The founding fathers' coifs really would have been screwed then.

Sunset in summer

Sunset in summer
Originally uploaded by hilaryldavis.

I have recently joined Flickr, so this is a trial run! I would ultimately love to have a photo every day, since I did start my blog as a place for photography as well as writing.

Not all of my photography is up yet, and the photos that I really like (ie, the ones I actually think are somewhat good) were all taken in black and white, with high-speed film on a 35 mm Nikon, so it will probably take me awhile to scan and post them anywhere. And anyway, a majority of these are just snapshots of my family and friends.

So, to conclude, I am a much better writer than photographer, but I hope to get better! Feel free to browse through these, and welcome to the visual side of my life, I guess...

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.

Hair today, embarassed five minutes from now

I went to the bank to deposit my paycheck yesterday. The bank is a respectable place: people wear suits, make disapproving glances, and handle money. The bank is a place where you should be somber and professional. The bank is not a place to make an idiot out of yourself.

However, if you are me and you are well acquainted with idiocy, especially in inappropriate places, you will sympathize with me and what occurred in the 1st National Bank yesterday.

I got off work at 5:30, so I was cutting it a little close when I waltzed in at 5:45. I knew the bank closed at 6:00, but I also knew I could be a speedy depositer, so I went in anyway. I propped my sunglasses up over my ponytail and was quick like bunny filling out the paperwork.

I went up to the desk and the lady gave me a strange look, which I assumed was because it was so close to the end of their day, so I apologized profusely about being late. Then, several other women stood around while she deposited my money, which I thought was weird, but maybe bank people are really cliquey or they work in small herds, I don't know, I'm bad at math, which is why I'm a writer.

Several minutes later, I finally left, feeling more self-concious than anyone should feel walking out of a bank. It's not like I was turned down for a loan or told my house was being reposessed - how dare those mean, suited bank ladies make me feel like this!

Only when I got to the car did I realize what they were staring at: it was a stage five twanger. And it was bad.

If you are not well-versed in hair lingo (as I so clearly am) let me tell you, a twanger is about the worst thing you can have (aside from a mullet). Imagine Alfalfa from "Little Rascals" and you kind of get the idea. However, a twanger doesn't have to stick straight up, no. A twanger is pretty much a rogue lock of hair that does whatever it chooses, in whichever direction it chooses, which is not only embarassing, it is also quite dangerous. And on this particular day, when I had so nonchalantly propped those sunglasses up on my head, the bangs that are growing out had been pushed up and to the side in such a way that a lock of my hair was sticking out above my ear, perpendicular to my head.

I had a 90 degree angle hair twanger.

I am never going to the bank again.

Corporate retail whoredom as birth control

I work in corporate retail. Just for the summer, because as much fun as it is to fold pants and pick up after grown people in fitting rooms, I have bigger and better things to do, like get married and become a trophy wife.

But some trophy wives should really employ nannies, or quit with all the sex, because my new number one gripe about working as a retail whore is the children. Which is strange, because I work in a store that sells adult clothing. Yes, there is a kids section, but why are all the children in MY section? Why are all the children pulling the magnetic appendages off the mannequins, hitting themselves in the face, and then blaming me? Why are some people even allowed to procreate at all?

I think every adult should have to take a parenting class, and then do a trial run with some test children (never mind where these children will come from, we'll cross that bridge later) and if they don't pass, they should be sterilized. Or at least, have to shadow some gold-star parents until they know what to do. Because I have seen some very unruly rugrats, and if the children whose parents shop in my store are any indication, the apocolypse should be coming any day now. And when that day comes, America is definitely going to have to develop it's own, non-British version of "Super Nanny" with more spanking.

And if you think I'm kidding about any of this, the next time your kid smacks himself in the face with a plastic leg, you remember this and start planning that vasectomy!

NeatFreak

I am a strange dichotomy. Or, to quote someone pretentious and with a beard: "I am vast, I contain multitudes." (Walt Whitman, if you didn't know.) That is to say, I think I am two people.
I know what you're thinking, and I promise I'm not going all crazy-Sibyll-I-need-meds-now! girl. Or girls... It's just that I am one way when at school, and another way entirely when at home. Is this normal? Let's discuss!

For example, the cleaning situation. When at school, I have the cleanest room in the house. No really, it's always a show room and everyone tells me how clean it is. Let's ignore, for a moment, how third grade proud I am of this fact, and focus on the fact that at home, which is where I am right now, my room is an absolute mess.

I have a pile of clothes, clean yet unfolded, that are precariously close to the floor. A Rubbermaid container full of stuff, still not unpacked. A stack of books that is knee-high, sitting next to my bed (I always read multiple books at once) and within easy reach. And, the worse sin of all, an unmade bed. And I'm not even kidding. If you lived in the sorority house with me, you will be aghast right now. I know, it's not like I'm living in dirt, but the clutter doesn't seem to bother me, while at school, this would be enough to send me into a Fabreze frenzy.

Speaking of which, have you ever been in a Fabreze frenzy? Either whipped into or otherwise, this kind of frenzy is all kinds of fun! LP and I were just discussing how much we like to clean, and I have to say, I enjoy Fabrezing above all other things. It just makes you feel cleaner and better smelling, not to mention allergen reduced, if that's the kind of thing you go for. As we can tell, it's the kind of thing I go for, wheezy and allergic to everything as I am. Even if the Fabreze does nothing of the sort, I feel less allergic and I sleep better.

Fabrezing, however, is only seconds ahead of one other product in the We Like To Clean 5K because of it's powers in the allergy department. If Swiffer should ever also reduce allergies, Fabreze will have to bow out gracefully, because I do love all things Swiffer. The wet jet, the dry mop, the handheld Swiffer duster - the possibilities are endless! My only regret is that my flat next year has carpet in the bathrooms, thus limiting my potential Swifferable surfaces.

So, in conclusion, I'm not really sure why I am not compulsively cleaning right now. A psychologist would probably say that, because it is summer vacay, I am so relaxed I don't feel the need the have control over everything in my life, thus, my OCD tendencies have also gone on vacay, perhaps to Tahiti. I might just say that working several hours each day as a corporate retail whore makes me too tired to do anything, let alone clean with my usual compulsive gusto.

However, the most important question to be asked after all of this is still begging to be answered: Do you think Walt Whitman Swiffered?

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.

Memoirs of a (formerly) angsty teen girl

You could not pay me to go back to high school. I mean it. No amount of money in the world is worth the awkward, angsty, crying nights of those four years. I know that some people claim their high school years were "the best of their life!" but I was praying just to make it through the day. And yet, when I think about high school in the most abstract way, I remember dances and choir concerts and flirting with boys and getting my first car. Why is there a discrepancy between what I actually felt and what I remember feeling?

I have been reading my old journals (my mom told me to clean my room, and in my house, you do what she says!) and the pain and anger that oozes out of those pages is enough to remind me that what I remember feeling is not nearly as cheery as I would like to think. Why do some of us hold on to that anger and let it infect our lives? Why do others of us mold our memories to reflect what we later processed, not what we actually remember feeling?

I remember the anger of not getting the lead in the musical my senior year, the dances where I didn't have a date, my senior prom and having to pick between two dates, the day in choir where nobody would talk to me... and on and on. Putting aside how small and trivial all of these moments are, they were very real to me at the time. And reading my old journals doesn't help either. The obvious pain of that writing only fans the flames of anger that have been lying dormant for a long time.

But these are not the memories I think about. I'm wondering when and how the old, bad, painful memories got sanded down and covered with the "oh I loved high school!" varnish? I feel like I'm not being true to myself if I can only remember the good times. It's like saying the embarassing, horrible moments weren't valid and they are best forgotten. When in reality, I believe that the moments when I felt the most alone are the moments when I felt, more resolutely than ever, the conviction to hold steadfastly to myself. Reading those journals last night made me feel like I had betrayed myself somehow, or at least the memory of my old self. I wondered if I had shaken the teenage girl angst for good.

But then I went back to high school today, to visit some old teachers. Just walking down the halls made me nervous. I felt like all the old awkwardness would rub off on me as soon as I walked in. I wish I could go back to myself at that age and know that one day it would be okay. The heartache wouldn't be over, and the drama would still occur, but in clinging to myself during those years, I made it okay to be myself later. I wish my tortured 15-year old soul could have known that.

I also wish I would have known that, even at age 21, going back to high school is not a good idea. Because as soon as I walked through the doors, I was afraid that, at any second, I would be 15 again, wearing overalls and braces, just hoping to make it through the day.

That's MS. Carrie Bradshaw, to you

It's official. I am a real writer. I have a real column. In a real newspaper. A real column, in a real newspaper, that is read by more than 12,000 people each day. Wow.

If you are a reader of this blog, then THANK YOU, first of all, for reading. All of the positive feedback I've gotten has been amazing, and knowing that there are people out there who enjoy my writing was actually what led me to apply for the columnist position to begin with. So to my friends, my family members, and the anonymous people that I've never met that have responded to my writing - thank you. I appreciate you.

With this new medium (which is strange, because only in 2006 could a person publish first on the internet, THEN in the newspaper...) I have decided on a new site design. Feedback much appreciated, as I am very new to the whole HTML thing.

If you're interested, my very first column appears in the Rocky Mountain Collegian tomorrow, along with an article I wrote about the SAFER Initiative. It will be my only column for the year, as school is almost out, but I'll be writing weekly in the Fall of 2006. If you're curious, please pick up a copy of the Collegian tomorrow, or follow this link to read it online.

Get Excited!

-Hilary!

Confessions

1. Last night (oh, and right now. I can't lie to the internet) I am eating a chocolate bunny in the most chocoholic way possible - that is, with complete greed and utter lack of modesty. If you've long been a reader of this blog, you will know that the dark devil and I go way back. I'll admit, some days I still struggle, but the fact that I am clutching the tail of a hollow, milk chocolate Easter bunny and knawing on its ears disgusts even me. Unfortunately, not enough to keep me from continuing to eat it.

2. I also just drank a soda. You can actually see the imprints of both bunny and beverage on my ass when I stand. This will be my motivation for going to the gym...later...perhaps...if I'm not too tired.

3. I am currently reading "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey. However, the knowledge that even part of his book is fabricated cuts to the core of my uppity, journalistic integrity - so much so that I have now disregarded the entire novel as fiction. This is sad, because his book will resonate with so many addicts and give them hope that they too can get better. Unfortunately, now James Frey is not addicted to crack, he is addicted to his own fame. If I am ever addicted to something (besides chocolate) I would rather the crack. At least I'll still have my dignity.

4. I love fresh lilacs. Every year when they bloom, the smell of them reminds me of all the springs before it, and I can remember each individual spring since I was five because my mom and I pick lilacs every year. This year, she sent them to Ft. Collins so I could have them in my room. What's to be guilty about? The fact that when this bouquet dies, I fully intend on shearing off some lilacs from outside the engineering building. I like to think of it as pruning. I'm helping the landscapers.

5. I borrowed season four of "Sex & The City" from Jess C. the other night because I was THAT desperate to finish my quest. The girls have missed me, and I them. And now, I have to go to bed, because I have an early deadline in the morning and I'm supposed to be meeting Charlotte and Miranda for coffee on the upper East side.

Sex & the separation anxiety

It's a little bit like a drug. It's consumes my time, I'd rather be doing it than hanging out with my friends, it's pretty much all I can think about. And I can't get enough.

I am, of course, talking about "Sex & The City" on DVD.

I borrowed the complete set from a sorority sister last week, for a class project. No really, it was for a class project. But then I thought, if I had them, I might as well watch a few of them. For the sake of the research, you see. But then, by the time I got to the middle of season three, I was hooked. I watch it before I go to bed, I watch it while I'm getting ready in the morning. I even come home in the middle of the day and, instead of reading the newspaper or having lunch with friends, I go up to my room and watch it.

I clearly have a problem.

I realize, thanks to my Media Effects class, that I'm having a completely inauthentic experience with this particular show. According to critical media scholars, somewhere, in my subconcious I believe that I am friends with Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. That I, too, go shopping at Barney's and own the latest Manolo Blahniks. I sleep with half of the men in Manhattan, I drink Cosmopolitans every night, and I have a well-read sex column that is modeled after my well-sported sex life. And in forgoing actual experience with actual people, I am living a life that is inauthentic, and completely untrue.

That is ridiculous. I know that these characters are not real people. I am in college, my disposable income is zero. When I do have money it is more likely to be spent at Target, not Tommy Hilfiger. I do not have a column and I do not have a fabulous boyfriend named Aidan (I'm only in season three.) I am not friends with these people.

But in my defense - who cares? Isn't college all about the late night movie marathons? The weird addictions? At least I didn't plan my class schedule around the soap operas I watch (unlike someone I know...) If I want to watch my DVDs, then I should be allowed to, free from judgment.

However, they aren't - tragically - my DVDs. They belong to a certain sorority sister downstairs. And now, knowing what you do, you can imagine what a problem I'm having now that the afore-mentioned sister has taken her DVDs back. I can't be separated from them!

What if they go shopping without me?