The problem with the smoking ban is that, without the overpowering stench of cigarettes, now there's no disguising what most bars really smell like: sweaty feet, farts, underarms, and bad breath.

Or maybe that's just the places that I tend to frequent.

Bill Sullivan- The Man Behind The Potted Fern

Check out this photographer's site, and be sure to explore the three different sets of photos- the turn stile group, the elevator group, and the sitting for a different portrait group. It's artists like this that give me that "Why not me?" feeling, the one that makes me think I've wasted my life for lack of a good gimmick. Although I do have a photography gimmick, the last photo I've taken for it was over the summer. It's too damn cold to be standing outside taking photos, though. I can't be blamed for the weather.

In other news, I had lunch with some clients today, and I'm eighty percent certain that TV's Carl Winslow was eating at the next table. Had I been with friends as opposed to business people, I might have made more of a big deal about it.

Then again, the more I look at Reginald Veljohnson's photo, the more I think I should bump my eighty percent down to about sixty percent. Does anybody know if he still has that mustache?

Oh, forget the whole thing.

I got a ten dollar haircut today at that place in the strip mall near where I work. I think it's called "The Super Cuttery." There's always an element of shame when I walk into one of those places, which is similar to the feeling I get when I go shopping at the Salvation Army. I can afford more, so why am I taking up valuable room that could be used by vagabonds and old ladies on Social Security? It's because I enjoy a bargain, dammit. And in exchange for a cheap haircut (or a fifty-cent sweater at the Salvation), I silently agree to avoid eye contact and not make too much of a fuss. I don't expect a lot from the hair stylists at "The Super Cuttery." Get rid of the split ends, make sure the sides are relatively even, and please don't bother me with the banter I might have to endure if I went somewhere fancier.

Although one time I had a bad experience at a place like "The Super Cuttery." The woman started working on my hair, and, in the mirror, I could see her beginning to frown. She tugged the comb through my curls and muttered, "It sure is dry and tangled back here." What the fuck? You make minimum wage in a shithole located between a donut shop and a pet store that only sells goldfish. Keep the commentary to yourself.

It's not like it's easy to maintain naturally curly hair when all you ever buy is the VO5 conditioner they sell for 99 cents at Walmart. Sheesh.

Richard Brautigan is one of my favorite poets. Here is an example why:

CANNIBAL CARPENTER

He wants to build you a house
out of your own bones, but
that's where you're living
any way!
The next time he calls
you answer the telephone with the
sound of your grandmother being
born. It was a twenty-three-hour
labor in 1894. He hangs
up.

Supposedly the largest collection of his work on the web, I would strong suggest visiting this site. Whenever I start to feel like poetry is the lamest literary art form imaginable, I just read a little Brautigan and am instantly proven wrong.

Brautigan shot himself in 1984. Creative people should never be given access to guns.

An Open Letter To The Person Who Left This On My Car Last Week:

Dear Douche:

First of all, may I point out, that I most certainly did NOT crack your license plate frame upon parallel parking between you and that Honda Civic. I did, however, gently bump against the back of that Civic, but I highly doubt the driver noticed or cared upon returning to his car that evening. There are other things in life that take precedence; you could take a lesson from him.

The spot was tight, but I worked hard to maneuver my piece of crap car into it. My husband stood outside on the curb, yelling such helpful pointers as "You have about half an inch!" and "No, turn the wheel the OTHER way!" Together, we accomplished a pretty outstanding parking job, in a space with which most people wouldn't have even bothered. Which brings me to my second point. I am clearly NOT lazy. If I were lazy, I'd have found a valet to park my damn car, or I'd have driven around for another few minutes until spotting that ideal spot by the door of my destination, an ideal spot that would have been as long as the length of two station wagons. Parking that night was a challenge, and it was a feat that I accomplished with pride.

Also, was it really necessary to take the two corners of my rear license plate and bend them up and inwards, thereby forever creasing and deforming my plates? I'll level with you: it was irritating for about ten seconds. But it is certainly nothing that will keep me up at night. Have you seen my car? A bent license plate is the least of my cosmetic worries. Anyhow, if you were truly mad at me, truly convinced that I'd cracked your precious license plate frame, why didn't you REALLY do something about? Bending my plates and leaving a note only gave me fodder for a blog entry. Why didn't you perform the kind of act that would have really wrecked my evening, such as syphoning out my gas or cracking off my windshield wipers? You, sir, are lame. And lazy.

Finally, what's the big fucking deal? So your license plate frame is cracked. Who cares? As you know from tinkering with my own car, I don't even have license plate frames. What's the point? You get that plate bolted to your car, and you're ready to go. No muss, no fuss. Who needs a frame? We're not hanging pictures of our families on ends of our cars, you know? It's just a state issued identification number; it doesn't exactly require care and decoration. I bet you're the kind of person who has to jauntily garnish every dish with a sprig of parsley. Get over yourself already.

Oh, well, Douche. Thanks for the note, for taking time out of your busy evening to send a bit of correspondence my way. I will think of you in the future, during other successful parallel parking jobs in which I don't do anything particularly wrong.

Yours truly,

Lazy Asshole

Study Says Skin Tone Affects Earnings

Lighter skinned immigrants to the US tend to get paid more, while their darker skinned counterparts tend to get the shaft. In fact, a Professor Joni Hersch (who is extremely pale herself) is quoted in the article as stating, "On average, being one shade lighter has about the same effect as having an additional year of education." That's a pretty bold statement, and, unfortunately, I believe it to be true. Nonetheless, that's still good news for any Scandinavians who were thinking of moving here and then getting their MBA. Newsflash: save the dough on the MBA, you already "look" like you have one!

The study also found that taller immigrants earn more than shorter ones, with an extra inch of height associated with a 1% increase in income.

Very interesting. So if my hypothetical Scandinavian friend is also, say, six foot two, then he doesn't even need to finish his undergrad! If he's six foot seven, then my friend shouldn't even bother with high school.

It's kind of a fun math problem. Like a graph with x, y, and z. The x is related to paleness, the y is related to height, and the z is related to the paycheck. Please find the value for y if x equals a light olive coloring, and z equals $60,000 per year. You also must indicate the level of education needed to support z, and, as always, show your work.

Don't ever put me on speakerphone.

I called the dentist yesterday while I was at work. Just to chat, really- just to say, "Hey, Dr. S., what's up with these bad vibrations?" Truth is, I've been slowly feeling better, toothwise. But because I'm not back up to 100% like so many of those dang websites say I should be (fuck self-diagnosing from the internet, it gets me in trouble every time), I was worried. To recap (pun intended on the word "cap"), I've completed my root canal and am now waiting to begin the crowning procedure. However, the doctor had brought up that the pain I've been feeling is "unique" and that if it didn't go away, chances were good that there was a hidden fracture in the tooth and we'd need to rip it out and slap in an implant that costs more than my car.*

So because I'm still feeling some sensitivity, because every once in a while a gentle throb will rock through my general tooth area, and because I'm still having trouble pressing my lips together during such situations as needing to blot my lipstick or appear as if I'm concentrating on something- because of these things that all those websites told me should not be bugging me after over a week, I figured I'd holla at the good doctor. ** Over the phone he tells me that's not normal, there must be a fracture, and when I come in for the appointment that should have been for the first part of my crown, we'll talk about the implant situation. "Okay," I tell the doctor. Then, because I'm who I am, I inquire about the payment plan. "I know you're not the bookkeepper," I add hastily. "It's just that- oh, fuck it, I'll see you in a week."

Immediately, though, my tooth felt a little better. I went home at night and actually touched it for the first time in a month, tapping my toothbrush against it. And I have to level with you, I could feel the tapping a lot more on that tooth than I could on any of my other teeth. But it wouldn't describe it as "pain." I'd describe it as more of a discomfort. And discomfort is always better than pain.

I think we have to take into account the following pieces of evidence as well:

1. I have avoided biting with that tooth for over ten years since "The Incident." It isn't exactly used to being utilized.
2. I've been smoking and drinking up a storm. *** This has no doubt hindered the healing process. Retarded it, you might even say.
3. I realize that I possibly, sometimes have the ability to make things a thousand times worse just by thinking about them.

I am not dismissing the pain I've been in. It's been awful. But I do think that by sheer willpower, I did manage to make it a little worse. So it's entirely possible that my healing process has actually, physically, been almost normal, and it's just that sick part of my mind blowing things up, magnifying them the way I managed to magnify planning my wedding. Magnifying the way I worry, constantly, about that tricky light bulb in the bathroom burning out, the light bulb that I'd have no idea how to change and therefore manages to encompass an entire lobe of my brain for HOURS ON END. A light bulb. I worry about a totally functioning light bulb, and, worse yet, these thoughts spoil entire evenings that could have otherwise been pleasant.

So if I get that worked up about a light bulb that I can't figure out, maybe, just maybe, I'm entirely off my rocker.

I am, however, a little pissed at Dr. S., who is so willing to pull my tooth despite the X-rays not showing any fractures. Basically, he's just taking my word for it. Why would he take my word for it? Why wouldn't he suggest that I calm down, or get a second opinion? Maybe call in the other dentist for a peek. Granted, despite this blog entry, there is a good chance that the tooth just needs to be yanked and there's no two ways about it. However, I'd like to explore a second option. The option that maybe I'm just nuts.

Who knows. All I know is that everyday, I feel a little better, and that seems comforting. I know I have bad teeth, but guess what. They're my teeth. And I'm only in my 20s. I have another sixty years to worry about losing my originals and having to deal with falsies. Plus, dude, $3500 is ridiculous. I just love how replacing a front tooth is considered "cosmetic" and therefore unqualified for insurance. Like it's a luxury. What is this, Eastern Europe?****

* Figure loosely based on the 2006 Kelley Blue Book Value
** I can't stand people who casually use the word "holla."
*** That would be two storms, one containing cigarettes and the other vodka.
**** "Arkansas" seemed too obvious.

Another Reason Not To Get Out Of Bed

This global warming thing is really getting me down. I say we all just stop having kids and let the human race die off in a peaceful extinction, rather than a painful, extra hot demise. What am I supposed to do as one person to help alleviate global warming? Drive less? Use solar power? I don't know what the answers are. At one point, it had something to do with aerosal cans, but it's been years since I've used an aerosal can, and, look- the problem still exists. Unless my Aqua Net counts as an aerosal can,in which case, it's only been days.

Sidenote: You can make any hairstyle joke 15% funnier if you reference Aqua Net.

I just wish I had some kind of time frame to work with. How long before we're totally fucked, global warming wise? Three years? Two hundred years? Is it worth trying to get that promotion at work? Should I plan that trip to Manhattan for next year, or will it already be under water from the melting glaciers? I just wish I had a number.

I think I remember reading somewhere that the hole in the o-zone layer was getting smaller. I could be way off on this, but I'm a blogger, not a fact checker. Anyways, that hole in the o-zone bullshit really scared me for a few years back in the day. Now it's yesterday's news.

I find it funny that there's going to be a huge water shortfall in the upcoming years, and yet the glaciers are continuing to melt. Who hasn't put two and two together yet? Water, water, everywhere, so let's all take a drink! And an extra long shower, while we're at it.

I don't know what to make of this photo. This is potentially our next president, and he looks like he's auditioning for "Baywatch." Not that the man's not allowed to romp, sexy-style, in the ocean- it's just that it's not an image I expected to see.

Despite this photo, the man pretty much has my vote. We'll just have to see if Hillary fucks this up for him. Insert some form of an "it takes a village" joke here.

I did the northwest to southwest commute yesterday after work, joining the legions of fools who drive that awful rush hour path each day after work. Ri-goddamn-diculous, they are; no job could possibly be worth over an hour's worth of bumper to bumper expressway driving- both TO and FROM work FIVE DAYS A WEEK. My own personal goal is to live the rest of my life never having to spend more than twenty minutes in the car to get from work to home. We'll see how that plays out.

The reason for my drive, though, was a very valid one, as I was hanging out with my good friend Dan. It's been a long time- over four years, for sure- since we've spent an evening driving around Tinley/Orland, but while the evening probably should have reminded me of "the way we were" back in the day, it didn't. To clarify for the sake of clarifying, "the way we were" would refer to two best buddies spending aimless nights haunting that familiar ten mile radius, airing our grievances and punctuating our disappointments with jokes. Or our jokes with disappointments.

To be fair, there were still plenty of grievances and disappointments that came up in our conversation last night. But we're not the same people anymore. I've grown into somebody that I actually like, versus that once 20 year old girl who hated everything about herself, her life, her environment, and her hair. Well, I'm still not incredibly fond of my hair, but my hairstyle allows me not to focus on it so much, so, hey, that's definitely growth. And despite the things in his life that Dan's dealing with, I truly hope that he likes who he's become as well in this past half decade. There's a lot to be proud of.

I don't know what kind of people study the evolutions of friendships (sociologists?), but I'd like to sit down and talk about my experiences, not only with Dan but also with Carole, who have been with me through the bad and the good and the many, many years. We've all become different people over time, but there's still that unspoken commonality, the same core senses of our humanity and humor. Jobs, significant others, locations, and self-awarenesses all change, but there's something very significant that remains constant among very good friends. Is there a word for that special something? Besides "cheese intake?"

And of course there will always be the occasional argument, the occasional period of not necessarily keeping in touch. Out of anyone, Carole knows that best. But, after the ocean tides have calmed down, we're back right where we left off- a little stronger and wiser for the wear.

There's a lot to be grateful for. It's nice to grow old with the friends who knew you when.

When I was a kid, I spent a few weeks each summer attending bible day camp at a local church. My family was Catholic, however, and the local church offering the camp was Lutheran. So my mother pulled me aside each year before the start of bible day camp and told me to "just go along with them" and "keep my mouth shut" about going to the Catholic church. The only reason I was going to bible day camp at all, of course, was because it was a cheap way to get me out of the house four hours a day, three weeks straight.

It didn't occur to me until recently how messed up the whole thing was. The Lutherans were nice, though, and I don't think I was ever "caught," so all was swell that ended swell.

Weird times.

The post below was written after four happy hours at the neighborhood bar with some coworkers. You-Call-It drinks were fifty cents, so we were ordering them two at a time. I have no idea how many I actually had, or how many times I told Melissa that I was in love with her. At least five. I don't know. Anyways, all the gushing below is mostly alcohol-induced. But the sentiment is true.

I've found a new love.

Her name is Lily Allen, and I've downloaded everything by her that I possibly can. I included her song "LDN" in an earlier blog entry, but since then I've discovered "Knock Em Out," "Smile," and "Nan, You're A Window Shopper," among others. Good lord, this girl is clever. And her voice is something straight out of the skies. She's British, so of course that partially explains it. I'm convinced that the accent adds at least twenty-percent of her appeal. It's hard to sound witty with, say, a Chicago "Da Bears" accent. Not that I have one, but, you know.

Here's "Smile," which I'm pretty sure is her "hit." It's about a boyfriend that fucks the neighbor, then shows back up crying, which, of course, causes Lily's smile. Simple enough premise, but the way she sings about the smile- it's hard to admit that the pain of another can cause joy without seeming cocky. She, on the other hand, does it quite well.



I wish I could write sharp, catchey songs. I wish I could write at all, really. I've got the blog thing down, but why can't I express my feelings via any other method? I want to evoke what Lily Allen makes me feel. I want to be that girl who can casually toss out that she tells people that she has AIDS in order to get them to leave her alone. If I joked about having AIDS, I'd just be an asshole. But when Lily says it in "Knock Em Out," she's just being plain awesome.

Sorry for going on and on. It's not every day that music hits me like this. Aimee Mann, Jeff Buckley, and Elvis Costello have been in a league of their own for so many years. Now I've got a fourth. I do get like this occasionally, though. Laura Kasischke managed to do this to me, as a poet and novelist. I once owned three of her poetry books, slim paperbacks that I read and reread. They were poems that grabbed me with their exploration of the seductiveness of youthful uncertainty and then the banality of being old, of slowly rolling over flowerbeds in a Cadillac. Unfortunately, over four years ago, I gave these books away to somebody who I thought "needed" them more than I did. And now I'm sure they're probably in a trash can somewhere, and it's a bitch to track these books down, since they were printed in limited editions on a small press. On the other hand, it's been years since I've actually searched for them. For some reason I still have my books by Sharon Olds (bleh)- but the books that actually mattered, I gave them a-freaking-way.

I love feeling this way though. I love being affected. Because it so rarely happens- nothing artistic touches me anymore. And it makes me feel like so much is possible, even when I'm feeling low and unsteady.

So, thank you, Lily Allen.

I have a new favorite sport! I got to go to a Blackhawk's game last night, and it was, may I just say, freaking awesome. I have never enjoyed watching a sport as much I enjoyed watching hockey approximately twenty-two hours ago, and I didn't check the time EVEN ONCE. Let's list the reasons why this sport rules:

1. Cute players.
2. Non-stop action.
3. All that skating reminds me of the ice capades.
4. There constantly exists the potential for a fight, or at least bloodshed.


I may even start my own fantasy team.

Here's a picture of my husband. You should have heard him talking about hockey as if he actually understood all the different penalties and stuff.


Following is a picture of my side view mirror, taken this afternoon while I waited in my car for my lunch date. This should give you a pretty accurate idea of what driving in the winter is like for me- I forego seeing anything out of my side mirrors, half of my windshield, and the passenger side window for, usually, a good three months. Why should I bother cleaning off my car when nobody else does? Of course, this winter has been unseasonably mild (el nino), so I've caused less accidents lately than in years past. Ah, it's grand to be invincible.

Today's edition of Amateur Photographer Takes On Household Items:


I'm bored. I hate when football is on TV. I suppose I could go out and do something, but I'm in my robe. When is it going to be acceptable to go to the mall wearing a robe? Oh, those will be the days.

My root canal went decently, I think. There's some talk of having to remove the tooth and put in an implant, but, for right now, I have a feeling that everything may be okay, or at least close to okay. I think Ferozan put it the best: We're "too young to have tooth problems." Amen, sister.

I did finish a pretty good book this weekend. Probably not anything of interest for the boys, but what I'd be willing to call a winner for us girls.


"The Book Of Bright Ideas," by Sandra Kring, takes one of my favorite writing techniques and combines it with truly intriguing characters. This writing technique is to tell a story from the eyes of a child and target the story for adults only. The two main characters in this story are nine year old girls, and while the story is about the nine year olds and their friendship, it's more about the adults in their lives and what happens to them- told, of course, from the perspective of one of the nine year olds. Maybe it's a cheap writing technique, but it gets me every time. And the story, that mystery that involves the two Malone sisters- well, it's downright heartwrenching, and I can't get into it further for fear of ruining it if anybody out there might be interested in reading.

As cliche as it sounds, I didn't want this book to end. But it did, and now there's football on TV and Chris is pretty much unaccessible, so maybe I should have planned my reading time a little more appropriately. Oh well. Is it too early to mix a cocktail?

In under an hour, I'll be getting the second half of my root canal. I feel like vomiting. I hope I don't vomit on the dentist.

Lately I've been thinking alot about careers. For instance, what motivates somebody to be a dentist, aside from the paycheck? (I think I may have touched on this in a previous blog entry, but at this point in the game, there aren't a lot of things that I haven't touched on.) In questioning the career choices of others- (my good friend Gigi is going to school to become a cardiac sonographer- which is a title I've never even heard of before.)- I've of course been thinking of my own career choices. I think I should put that phrase in quotes. "Career choices."

If somebody asked me how I decided to be what I am now, I'd have to honestly say it was a series of accidents. I got a degree in marketing and couldn't find a marketing job. In working at an optical retail location that I picked out at random after moving to the NW suburbs, I met a woman who had a daughter who worked in banking. "It's a good company- you should be in banking," this woman said. As a lark, I emailed her daughter my resume, the HR lady called, and in something ridiculous like six to eight weeks (took forever), they offered me a job in a field I had no experience, and really no interest, in. But the money was decent. Two and a half years later, I'm in another, more "advanced" position. This only occurred because I got noticed by the right people. Again, no experience, no real interest. But they asked me to interview, I did, and now I'm well on my way to something else kind of just falling in my lap. Hopefully that something else will involve a big fat raise and an extra week of vacation.

If I hadn't met that woman at the optical, I don't know what I'd be doing, because I wouldn't have chosen banking. Would I have found a marketing job? Would I still be stuck in retail management? Would I be a secretary somewhere, or would I have gone back to school for something I really felt passionate about, such as - well, I guess there's not a lot I feel passionate about. Certainly nothing involving animals or sick people.

I don't know what my own career holds. But I do know what the next couple of days will hold. Discomfort. Mild to severe discomfort. I won't know the exact level of said discomfort until after the numbness wears off early this afternoon. Wish me luck.

Smoking In Bars

I’ll always remembering smoking in bars,
Lit cherries dotting the room as if stars.
The wispy gray curls, they spelled out my name.
Drinking in public will not be the same.

It’s cancer and politics keeping me down,
No Smoking signs tacked up all over the town.
It’s your fault and his fault, the ladies who sued,
Uptight asthmatics who thought us so rude.

But this was my life, a flick of my wrist,
Inhaling the world, harder if pissed.
Once I had freedom, the ash in my beer,
Now twitchy hands, skin crawling with fear.

What’s next on the list of what must be banned?
Ephedrine, Huck Finn, where’s the line in the sand?
Everything kills, some just a bit quicker.
Next year they’ll announce “Hey, wait! No more liquor!”

And we’ll always remember drinking in bars,
The swirling of vodka and puke that was ours.
Livers and lungs snoring deep into sleep-
Well, at least going out will be nice and cheap.

THE MORE YOU KNOW

Chris- you know Chris- has decided to start blogging again. This is after an eight month hiatus during which he claimed he had nothing to say. I'd like to think I had a hand in convincing him to restart the engine, as I pointed out, "Well I have nothing to say either. But I say it two to four times a week." And I get rave reviews for it. Such as this email I received today:

Sure, it has no theme beyond just being the senseless ramblings of one person, but I know that person. Shes my friend. And as it turns out, she writes pretty funny stuff.

So there! In your face, you non-believers!

If anything, blogging is cheaper than therapy. Less fun than pills, admittedly, but slightly less painful than electro-shock treatments.

Enough about me. Visit Chris' newly updated blog by using the handy set of links to the right. I believe his link is above my sister's defunct link. R.I.P. Xanga Marcia.

It's not global warming, it's el nino. And I'm tired of making small talk about global warming. I know that weather, in general, is a good small talk topic, but I don't know how many more lighthearted jokes I can make regarding melting glaciers or Al Gore. It's times like these I wish I knew something about sports. Go Bears?

I bought an iPod today. I'll be able to enjoy it in 7 to 10 days, as I purchased a "refurbished" 4th generation from a highly rated seller on Amazon (we all know how that goes). I couldn't see spending upwards to three hundred, and the newest ones in my price range are the Nanos. Which, sure, look kind of sleek and cool, but I'd like to be able to enjoy 5,000 songs at my next party, as opposed to only 500 or a 1,000. Assuming I throw a party that lasts a week and a half.

I never thought I'd buy one because they seemed useful only to hipsters stomping around the city- certainly not to a mostly sedentary suburbanite like myself. But then I thought, "Perhaps I'd like to keep all of my music in one easy to lose device. This way I can transport my music easily from the living room to the bedroom to the can." Also, the car, and on the off chance that I actually go somewhere this year, an airplane.

(My Vegas in January Extravaganza was ruined by the high price of my root canal and crown [my dental insurance covers next to nothing], and the fact that I've been slated to be in a semi-constant state of pain for a period no shorter than six weeks. I fucked things up, guys. If somebody tells you that a root canal is necessary, don't wait eight years.)

Where was I? Right. So my laziness brought me to the iPod, and I eagerly await its arrival. I'm partially ashamed of myself for buying one, but I can't explain why, at least not with the words I know. Who knows, maybe I just like the bitter taste of shame. It's more familiar than the sweetness of pride.

On a side note, a certain bank that I know was recently giving out discmans as gifts for opening a new account. Discmans. I thought I was behind the times- who the hell's walking around with a discman? That's like documenting your vacation with one of these:


Well, not quite as bad. I suppose this is where the 8-track joke comes in.

Anyways, good for me.

Well, today was possibly the greatest day of my life. Thanks to my Firefox browser, I "stumbled" my way right onto this dude's site. And, yes, he's onto something. I am never paying for music, ever again. I wish I were exaggerating, but I just spent the last three hours downloading free music. And I found "Brighter Than Sunshine" by Aqualung.



I heard this song while watching the horrid movie "A Lot Like Love," one of many horrid movies I watched last weekend while I was doped up on vicodin and immobile on my couch. But this song- I don't know, it does something kind of nice to me.

Since I'm now not paying for music, I also downloaded:



Because, really, why the hell not? I can download ANY song I have a passing interest in! Exhibit C:



Price will never again be a factor in obtaining the songs I'm ashamed of liking. And I will never have to feel the guilt of financially supporting someone I would really rather not. You know?

I downloaded over forty songs today. And I'm also rather glad to have found this gem by Lily Allen. I wish I could hug her.



My eyes are now crossed, my legs cramped. But- free music! A cheapskate's dream come true!

Ever forget that you're supposed to go out for a nice expensive steak dinner at a place like, oh I don't know, Wildfire and so you sit on the couch and eat a whole bag of Cheez Curls (this particular company is not legally able to use the word "cheese") thus effectively ruining your appetite? Ever try to pretend you didn't do this and then fake your way through the entire meal, acting like you'r eravished and everything just tastes sooo good even though you can't get that powdered cheez taste out of your mouth and you're about to throw up any second and even though your date/boyfriend/spouse can totally tell you're turning green, you deny it and keep stuffing your over-gorged, over-cheezy face? And then the ride home is completely silent because of the thick, soupy burp you let out before running to the bathroom, tugging at the seat of your pants? No? Well, me neither!

Seeing as how I didn't adhere to my `06 resolutions, I decided to create totally reasonable, completely do-able resolutions for `07. Here's what I have so far:

1. Watch loads of TV.
2. Eat more grains (damn you, food pyramid).
3. Get root canal. Stop drinking coffee through straw.
4. Buy at least one white shirt, since I currently don't own any white.
5. Get roll of film from 1998 developed.
6. Invent stylish new White-Out dispenser.

For real, I do hope to do one big thing in the upcoming year: become a homeowner. This will complete my journey into adulthood. Although based on the following actions, I may already be an adult:

1. Got married.
2. Griped incessantly about taxes.
3. Worried about the upcoming rise in electric bills.
4. Stopped getting carded on regular basis. Both pleasant and distressful.
5. Drank de-caf coffee.

Just kidding about the de-caf. I think de-caf has to be a true turning point in most people's lives. I've never seen anybody under sixty order de-caf. Have you?

How I Did

Here are last year's resolutions, and short reactions to how I fared:

1. stop going to work dressed like a slob. make it a point to iron my wrinkled shirts and take time to actually co-ordinate my outfits so i don't look like a hobo with a desk. stop going to work with wet hair tied back into a sloppy ponytail. buy more pants that fit properly. Nope. Still a slob.

2. get published in something, other than the daily herald. make real effort to work on series of david sedaris inspired essays (working title: me talk naked one day). Nope.

3. after the cash black hole that is my wedding, continue to save money as to one day afford the nicer things in life. save at least five hundred dollars per month. get chris to open roth ira. contribute another percentage point to my 401k. convince elderly sick man to put me on all of his accounts as sole beneficiary. Kind of. No IRA, still at 1 % for the 401K, still trying to avoid the sick and the elderly. Did save over $500 per month, though, so I rule.

4. go out more. stop turning down invitations because i'm "too tired," "too broke," or "too drunk." make genuine effort to see friends more. buy their love with baked goods. or, since i don't bake, buy their love with spare batteries from my junk drawer. test all the batteries first to make sure they work. Did test batteries. Did not go out very much more. Certainly did not bake.

5. be healthier. at some point start doing healthy things. stop doing unhealthy things. drink strange juices from new age wackos. Nope.

6. create elaborate filing system for pay stubs, tax forms, insurance forms, all bank accounts, and anything else of importance, including but not limited to good pasta recipes. stop fumbling around like a blind one armed man with a headache whenever i need to retrieve important info. organize desk at work, as well. throw out all packets of oatmeal in my top drawer. it's just plain embarrassing. Nope on the filing system, yes on the oatmeal. Replaced oatmeal with stale chocolate bars.

7. stop slouching. it's unattractive. Nope.