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think we have lost a great deal of respect for the elderly people in our society, and their wisdom and experience have been replaced by MTV and bare-midriffs, which makes me sound like an old person, but I'm cute, so it doesn't matter.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.

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!

In praise of my everything

"My women friends, they're all my sisters, all my mothers, all my husbands, they are all my everything. It's hard to find a man who can measure up to any of them."
-Jennifer Aniston

If anyone found out how wise Jennifer Aniston truly was, she could have made a living giving friendly advice, instead just being a Friend. Luckily for me, she found a way to put into words what is very hard to say, especially when you're in a committed relationship. With several other women.

While it's true that I am single by traditional definition, I feel very much spoken for, and to deny the relationship that I am in would be worse than infidelity - it would be a lie. Because even though I do not have a male significant other, I have others who are significant, and we have a relationship that is more real, more sane, and way more healthy than any other traditional relationship I've ever been in.

I consider myself lucky enough to have friends who respect me. Despite the fact that I make jokes when uncomfortable, give generally bad advice, and am the worst bartender alive, they don't try to make me anyone that I am not, because who I am is enough for them.

I am lucky enough to have friends who support me. Whether it's reading this blog, letting me drag them to press conferences, or talking about THAT boy again, they are always there with a listening ear, a beautiful smile, and a shoulder shrug, because sometimes it's all they can offer. And it's enough.

I am lucky enough to have friends who never go away, even when I want them to. It's easy to want to retreat into a corner and try to deal with it myself - I am the queen of alone time. And it's not so easy when they haul me out of the corner, ask the tough questions, and get angry, especially not when I deserve it. But my friends are strong women, not easily intimidated and not scared of what's hard or uncomfortable, even if I am.

My friends are my everything, the family I chose. We've been through breakdowns, break-ups, boys and Breckenridge, cancer and car trouble, fights and fiestas, and oh! the dreaded hangovers... They helped me remember my locker combination and held me when I cried. They will stand next to me at my wedding, help me raise a child, and look the other way when I fart in the nursing home.

You know who you are, and you know what you mean to me. I'm counting on you fix me when I break, catch me when I fall, and change the world like I know you're going to 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?

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.

EMOtional baggage

After a night out with the girls, talk turned to relationships, as it inevitably does. After scoping out boys, whom I'm sure we scared off with our air of collegiate worldliness and unattainability, and eating ice-cream, we began talking about our relationships, past and present, and I had to wonder: what do we take from our relationships after we're out of them? Tragically, they don't come with a nice parting gift, a "thank you for dating" card or even the shirt that you bought him. No, all you get is to see a picture of him later, wearing the shirt, with his new girlfriend. Baggage claim is right around the corner folks, and I will definitely be getting in line.

We all have baggage. The tough guys try to hide it, the young teenagers try to laugh it off, and the emo kids just put it all out there for everyone to see. Apparently it matches their eyeliner. But what about the people who don't believe in emotional baggage? What if you're in a happy, healthy relationship? When does relationship history, turn into emotional baggage?

I know that I am carrying around some luggage, perhaps the size of a stylish Louie Vuitton carry-on? After a traumatic first kiss (6th grade, on a dare) to my actual, real, enjoyable first kiss (age 16, behind the scenes during musical rehearsal) to my longest relationship that ended with a bewildering finish (did he lie? did he love me to begin with?) I don't think I'm exactly traveling light.

But I also think that we can learn from the lessons we lug around with us. I know now never to kiss on a dare and that the costumes from "Damn Yankees" are quite the turn-on. And, more seriously, I know to be more careful with my heart, to only give it to someone who values me as a person who is real and fallible, and not just as an entity to posess and admire. And I also know that my emotional Louie Vuitton is not nearly as bad as it could be. After all, what's my carry-on compared to the duffel bag and two rolling suitcases that are divorce, plus childen, or even infidelity? Is is just a fact that the older you get, the more your suitcases weigh?

One of my friends said that relationships are history in the making, and they turn into baggage after the break ups. Others of us believe that we carry the baggage from those relationships with us forever. And some of us, the idealists, believe that a good relationship can unpack the baggage from the past and get us ready for a whole new trip to paradise, if only we have the right travel partner.

I may be getting older, and my suitcases may be getting heavier, but there's always the hope that one day, I will get off the plane, and there at the gate will be someone perfect for me, waiting to help me carry them.

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.

The sexy tollbooth

I'm ashamed of myself, really.

I mean, it's completely normal to go to class and think a guy is cute, or go to the grocery store and make eyes at someone over the oranges (maybe), or even check someone out while at the mall. After all, what is college but an experiment in creative flirtation? But it is not, and I repeat, NOT normal to have a crush on a guy you saw in a tollbooth. And not just AT the tollbooth, like, driving through or hanging around - like, works in the tollbooth, sexy orange vest and all.

Am I getting that desperate? I mean, I'm happy being single for the most part, but now, I've stooped to crushing on people who work in tollbooths? Not that there's anything wrong with working in a tollbooth. Especially not if yer gunna grab some Hot Pockets ter eat while you watch NASCAR when you git home.

And the worst part of it is that I drive on that toll road when I come to and from Ft. Collins, which is a lot, and he only seems to be working on very select occasions. If you're going to take an extra $2.00 every time I drive through, the financial impact should be lessened a little by at least giving me something good to look at.

Perhaps I'm on to something here: ONLY hot men are allowed to work in tollbooths! That way, I'm happy to give up my hard earned money, and they get to sport about in those orange vests, in which they look so sexy.

Gluttony in the worst way

I realized that this blog is sometimes all about what I eat, which I'm cool with, but I don't know if people really want to read about that. But when you eat like I do, it's hard not to want to talk about it because a) it just tasted so good, I want to share, or b) it tasted so good, and it probably shouldn't - is that normal?

An example: yesterday, while at work, I was really busy testing the fax machine and talking to my coworker when we realized that there was ice-cream and toppings in the back freezer. And not just toppings, but toppings, the good stuff, like multi-colored sprinkles, maraschino cherries, caramel sauce and all.

However, I then had realization number two: I already made a date with LP to go to Cold Stone later that night. So clearly, I couldn't eat a whole bowl of ice-cream at work, go shopping and then go to Cold Stone and eat more ice-cream with a clear conscious. I mean, shopping for hot shirts is a little bit of cardio, but not enough for even me to delude myself.

But wait, what's that rule about ice-cream...? Ah yes, I remember now.... If you eat it out of the tub it doesn't count...? Yep, that is definitely the rule. Thank goodness I remembered!

If you scoop up some ice-cream, dip the spoon into the jar of caramel sauce, and then roll it in sprinkles, well, it's pretty much better than sex, amaretto sours and the shoe section at Barney's combined.

Five spoonfulls of better than sexsourshoes later, I felt energized enough to go back to working. Or something.

And yes, I did go to Cold Stone.

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!

No, YOU back that ass up

It has recently been drawn to my attention that I have an ass. You'd think this wouldn't come as a surprise, but for someone who spends a lot of time dealing with the largesse of other body parts, the knowledge that I have a double-wide trailing behind me ALL THE TIME has escaped me until now.

I exaggerate. A little.

While standing in my choir dress waiting to go onstage last night a friend of mine and I started talking about asses. She claimed she didn't have much of one, and oh woe is her, and then, before you know it hey! somehow, Hilary's ass is all kinds of involved in this conversation! She turned me around and triumphantly said to anyone who could hear, which was everyone, "Now that - that, is an ass."

And, to my shock and awe, it was, indeed.

Not to toot my own horn (or trunk, as the case may be) but after it was stared at and complimented by many a choir boy and girl, I decided that, for once, my Italian genes had come through for me, and instead of cursing my wide hips or very Italian nose, I could just get over myself and enjoy my body, which is so bootylicious.

For in Italy, she discovered the most priceless of all posessions...

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. And that something, is that I need to go back to Italy.

I have been having dreams lately where I'm just strolling down a nondescript street, alone, when I see a door to my left. I walk up the stairs, go through the door, and voila! I'm in Italy! I'm not sure where in Italy I am (my subconscious hasn't been too specific) but there are linens hanging from the clotheslines above my head, cyprus trees bending in the night breeze, and there are geraniums blooming in window boxes, and in Hilaryland, all Italian windows must have boxes, thus, flowers, thus red geraniums in every single box (apparently, in my Italy, everything matches.)

And there are lots of warm lights that glow from windows where people sit, eating pasta and drinking wine together, couples ride away on Vespas, and I stand in the street, looking in the windows, wishing that I, too, could be in Italy.

Also, yesterday I saw a huge truck with a license plate that read "GELATO."

It's definitely a sign.

Oh those funny engineers!

The punchline to a joke that I don't get:

"But it was an alloy!" (insert ridiculous laughing and snorting *here*)

Engineers have jokes about alloys, music kids have jokes about fermatas. I'm just waiting for a geeky joke about William Randolph Hearst to come my way.

Although I do know a really funny one about Final Cut Pro...