Snow day, a deux

It's snowed again. This is now the second largeish snowstorm we've experienced in less than two weeks. It has to stop.

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.

Overheard at work today

"We were driving behind someone today when they stopped in the middle of the road, just stopped!"

"Why did they stop?"

"I don't know, but we honked, and when they didn't move, we went around them, and then..they fingered us!"

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.

Halting all relations with the foreigners

I am instituting an embargo. I'm minoring in Political Science, I do that.

The commodity?

Boys.

Or, I should say, men. Although I've dated 25 year olds, I've dated 19 year olds (although not particuarly recently), so I guess I'm embargoing anyone that identifies as "not a female." Let's not get caught up on semantics here. The important point is that I am instituting a mandatory embargo on datable males for the next several months, if not longer.

It's because I don't deserve them. Don't worry - I'm not one of those "poor me" girls who doesn't think she deserves to have a healthy relationship. In fact, the opposite. I very much believe that I deserve a great, fulfilling relationship. It's just that, in all my casual dating, I seem to have forgone the healthy/great/fulfilling part in favor of the relationship part. And it's not fair to these guys that I have been dating. My tolerance for the opposite sex extends to the end of one date, making-out optional (but usually encouraged, just to be sure) and then? I'm over them.

I really think that commitment is great, and it could be very liberating - if I found the right person. Which I have not. And I am tired of looking. It might be the fact that the men in my life have become more disposable than my conscious would like, or it might be the fact that I have high standards (I am what some people call picky) or the fact that I can't even keep my own shit together, let alone worry about someone else right now.

I'm not sure if I have some commitment issue that has newly taken root in my psyche since my last long-term relationship or if I just have the attention span of a mosquito when it comes to dating lately. I'm not entirely sure what my problem is, so if you have any hypotheses, do share them.

In the meantime, the Embargo will be an ongoing experiment in my ability to say No.

It's like in "Grey's Anatomy" when Meredith decides to be celibate. Instead, she knits. I couldn't knit a sweater if a naked, freezing child came to my doorstep with yarn, nor can I really do anything domestic in place of dating.

But I sure do like to use power tools, so if a table and chairs appears on your doorstep, just know that the Embargo is going well.

I'll keep you posted.

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!)

Thoroughly Disgusted

There are the people who wank off on airplanes. There are the people who touch everything they can get their hands on. There are people who pick their noses while on the bus in the morning. There are people whose mothers never taught them what proper behavior is while in the public eye, and these people? The ones I just mentioned? These people are those people, with those mothers, who are now either mortified that their son or daughter was noticed and pointed out as being one of those gross people. Or, they are those mothers, who are also picking their noses in public. It's hard to tell.

But I am here to tell you, Internet, that I have witnessed the weirdest and most disgusting personal habit ever. In public. And I am so disgusted that I feel compelled to share this with someone, anyone - even if I also feel compelled to vomit while I type this.

I just sat through an hour long class, and the guy in front of me was clicking his ballpoint pen. Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click. Over, and over, and over. Naturally, being as high-strung as I am, I went from zero to annoyed after the second click. I shifted around to see what was with all the clicking when I saw him using the tip of his ballpoint pen to scratch the top of his head, then click it open to clean it off (apparently he has some sort of head debris?) and then do it again...and again. For the entire hour.

I am speechless with disgust.

If this is something he learned from his mother, somebody better be calling Social Services pronto.

What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen anyone do in public?

Karmic ass-kicking

I have never been dumped. Also, I have never dumped anyone. For a 21 year old, this is strange, no?

Then why, you might ask, are you not in a major relationship? The above information leads us to believe that either A. you've never dated anyone (not true) or B. you must have only dated one person and you are still together (also, not true) but now we find out that C. that's not true ? The math doesn't add up!

Don't feel bad, I'm bad at math too! However, I am very good at ending relationships without actually ever officially dumping anyone. Listen carefully and you, too, can learn my very effective technique for only $9.95 plus shipping and handling. It's called The Phase Out.

Here I will provide you with a scenario to illustrate the necessity of TPO:

Once upon a time, a girl agreed to go on a date with a guy. Said guy was kind of cute, nice, and it seemed like they had a lot in common. Said girl didn't want to turn down a potentially promising date, so off they went.

After a few dates, said guy was becoming less cute and more annoying, and the whole thing was going nowhere. So, said girl decided to call the whole thing off.

Unfortunately, it is not that easy, because in a circumstance like this, said girl is usually quite a catch (if I do say so myself) and said guy is usually ___ (fill in the blank here) and that just doesn't do it for said girl. Sadly, said guy doesn't know this, and he continues to try to woo said girl, only making things more awkward and less promising every time he calls.

Enter TPO!

Said girl slowly starts screening her calls, only answering every other time said guy phones. Said girl also becomes very busy, yet apologetic, that she can't spend so much time with said guy. Soon, she no longer answers his calls at all, and only calls him back when she knows he won't answer. After a few days (or weeks, depending upon said guy's level of persistence or stupidity) said guy has gotten the hint, and said girl has an unbroken streak of un-breakups to her name and she can quit worrying about said guy and move on.

Enter the part when I'm regretting ever employing this!

I think I'm getting phased out. I may be overreacting, but I generally have a good sense for these things, and I'm pretty sure I'm right. Unfortunately. Because I really like this one. He's kind of cute, nice, and we have a lot in common. But he hasn't called me lately, I've been leaving a fair amount of messages, and he called me back today when he knew I was in class...

I guess I knew that one day, karma would repay me for my dating deceptions. I just didn't expect it to happen now. It's so unfair!

For someone that's done her fair share of POs, I'm still a little POed.

Clear, so clear

In class today:

"Don't forget, your papers are due on Tuesday the 26th."

"What sort of criteria will you be using to grade our papers?"

"Very specific criteria."

"Are you going to tell us what it is?"

"Yes."

"Will you be telling us soon?"

"No."

TMI

There are certain reasons to go to class. To ask questions of your professor, to engage in discourse with other students, to learn more about the topic at hand. Today, I went to Political Theory to learn more about Machiavelli. I did NOT go to class to hear about a brown recluse bite, asthma, strange cases of neck claustrophobia, a boyfriend's bed sheets, living in her mother's employer's house, constant NPR listening, and ADD. Lucky for me, I heard all about them anyway! And why? Because some people have a little disease called TMI.

You know the people. You do. If only they gave off some sort of weird vibration, a strange sort of shimmery light that would delineate them from normal humans. Unfortunately, you only find out that they are carriers of the disease AFTER they tell you about that one time when they just, like, couldn't get the poop all the way out!

I don't know about you, but I just, like, couldn't care less about that. Or about the spider bite, or even, believe it or not, the neck thing. I don't care. I am the opposite of a gossip - if you have information that does not pertain to me, please keep it to yourself, because it's just bad manners not to, and if there's anything I hate more than bad manners it's getting sick, and I'm afraid it might be contagious. It's just not socially acceptable to reveal so much to perfect strangers, especially not in a classroom when people are trapped and forced to sit next to you. Maybe on a bus when you're drunk, but even then, I would feign a heart attack rather than risk catching the TMI disease.

If only there was a cure. The best defense mechanism I have is complete ignorance. I always feel that, if I pretend not to notice the TMI carrier, don't breathe, and don't make eye contact, maybe I can avoid it. But it's not just me, because TMI carriers are indiscriminate and they will overshare to anyone. Maybe one day there will be an uprising in class and she'll be killed. Sadly, sometimes things like that have to happen, for the good of the group.

How very Machiavellian.

The waters, they are ripe for writing

I've heard rumors all through college about the worst thing that could happen on the first day of school. I don't mean worst thing like falling down the stairs (it's happened to me, you get through it) or getting lost (also happened to me). I mean worst thing like, finding out that your professor talks too fast or grades too hard - anything that basically signals to you that your GPA is going to tank because of a particular class. I've never experienced this, as my GPA will attest, so I thought that everyone was just really whiny because they decided to pick boring, hard majors and were now regretting it. My favorite worst first day excuse is the ever-popular "my professor doesn't speak English." I always thought, mmm-hmm, yes, CSU would definitely hire a professor who barely speaks English, yeah right.

Actually, it's true. They totally do that. And now, I'm screwed.

Okay, not exactly screwed, I exaggerate (who me? Never!) but only a little. My Comparitive Politics professor is from Turkey, but lived in Finland for awhile too, and now teaches in the states. She has the wonkiest accent I've ever heard, and it cracks me up, so much so that I listen to how she says words, not the actual words that she says, which then explains why all I've learned so far is that Britain is, in fact, a democracy, despite their insistence on keeping royals with bad hats.

My professor really loves direct object articles ('a' or 'the' for the grammatically ungeeky) and she is mad about plurals, which is always fun. She also ocassionally spells like she pronounces things, which makes for an interesting activity as well. Bored by the lecture? That's OK, just use the spare time to decipher the power point from Turkish accented English, into regular English. On the first day of school, she told us that she frequently checks her e-mails and that we shouldn't bring in foods or drinks, but if we wanted to bring in the water bottles to drink the waters, that would be OK.

I'm pretty excited to go to class tomorrow actually, because when we last left off, we were talking about the Quinn of England, and her relationship with the Margaret Thatchers.

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.

Seven minutes of deep introspection

They say that a smoker loses seven minutes of life every time they smoke a cigarette. One cigarette equals seven minutes. For most people, this is probably not a big deterrent. Really, their last seven minutes will probably be just like the seven minutes before it: sitting there, cursing themselves for not listening to their kids when they told them smoking would kill them, trying to drown out the sound of the oxygen tank or the ventilator or whatever. It's only seven minutes.

What if, though, in your last seven minutes, you were actually doing something you loved? What if you were completely healthy and cigarettes did no damage but subtract time? What if you were painting, making love, or eating a really great sandwich? For the rest of eternity, would you most regret the unfinished work, the kiss you would never feel, the delicious combination of turkey and sprouts that would never be eaten? I am willing to bet that if a person was not sick, they would keenly feel the loss of those last seven minutes, even thinking about their last cigarette and blaming it and it alone for their wasted sandwich.

Of course, many smokers are probably like me and they are A) bad at math, and B) don't like thinking about all those seven-minute segments, added up, because that would lead them to C) many years they will never get to live. And D) think, well, it is only seven minutes.

What would you do in your last seven minutes?

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.

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.