Thursday, November 30, 2006

Can't keep me down!

Hey there, bitches. Did you notice that today is the last day of November? Did you see that I posted every day of the month?

Oh, sweet success. NaNoBloMo, you are my bitch.

It wasn’t as difficult as I anticipated it to be. But I’m always pretty reliable/predictable/awesome/fantastic when it comes to blogging.

I was going to celebrate by taking tomorrow off.

Instead, I think I’m going to celebrate by signing up for Holidailies.

Because that’s what being mentally ill is all about.

Same time, same place. Every day of December, kiddies. It is my gift to all of you.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006


I scored on myself in my hockey game last night.

For those of you who don't know, I'm my team's goalie. As in, I'm the last person back. As in, if the puck is innocuously dumped into our defensive zone and I go to clear it and I don't consider the puck to be the slightest puck and I have a moment of mental retardation and totally fan on the puck (which is embarrassing enough) and the puck trickles past me AND INTO THE NET, I've essentially scored on myself. 20 seconds into the game.


I could've died right then and there.

But it only got worse.

They kept scoring and scoring and scoring. Most of the other goals weren't my fault, really, but they sure as hell feel like entirely your fault after letting in such a boner first goal.

Somehow, my team (which hasn't scored more than two goals in a game all season) pulls five goals out of its collective ass. With a minute left in the third period, we're winning 5-4.

Girl on team takes stupid penalty.

Score. 5-5.

Girl on team gives the puck away in the neutral zone.

Goalie can't stop a beach ball.

Score. 6-5.

That game sucked more than any game has sucked before.

The rematch is on Sunday.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

What I did on the biggest bar night of the year

My Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving without the baking of an astronomical amount of pies. This year, Mom calculated that we needed 18. Baking them was, um, entertaining. As always.

We baked pies by the warmth of a fire. How quaint.

World's largest vat of pumpkin pie innards.

As you can see, my cousin Danielle and I weren't great at making crust, but Mom refused to do it. She claimed some ridiculous crap about practice making perfect.

Danielle attempts to keep her cool while making crust.

Attempt is the key word.

Nice try?

Pies in the oven.

Pumpkin pie. Two of eight.

Pecan pies!

Pretty close to perfect, no?

I'm always in charge of the cranberries, 'cause they're my absolute faaaavorite.

This next picture has nothing to do with pies. But I wanted to share.

Meg, dressed in a mask Danielle brought home from the show she's in, provided the Thanksgiving entertainment.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Hey, hey Hockeytown

I'm going to the Red Wings game tonight. I'm not really all that excited, because I have enough hockey in my life and I haven't felt well all day and I really should be going to kickboxing class and I'd also like to get to bed super early.

But. Like I said. Red Wings game. They're playing the Dallas Stars and it will be fun. I'm taking my friend Aviva, who doesn't leave to go back to NYC until tomorrow morning.

Aviva isn't really a hockey fan, but she'd like to be. She jumped on the bandwagon back in '97, when the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup, but never got the memo that, to be a real fan, you have to, like, watch the games. Or know one or two of the players. Or have a vague idea of what the blue line is.

It'll be fun anyway.

I wanted to take Colin, but he's working tonight. I knew that he was working tonight, but I called him anyway. When he didn't answer, I immediately rang up Aviva. She was so excited that she nearly screamed.

(She's only been to one Wings game before. I took her. Probably four years ago. The seats weren't even that good. Tonight's are amazing. She might shit herself.)

And then my sweet Colin called back and was like "you should've waited for me to call back. I could've gotten out of work!"

I felt bad.

I considered calling Aviva and telling her that my dad had already given the tickets away.

But that would be absolutely horrible karma.

Aviva will enjoy the game more, anyway.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

How I know it's winter

My skin is so damn itchy.

This happens whenever it gets cold out.

I could spend 11 hours a day scraching at myself. Gross, right?

If anyone knows of a way I can be infused with moisture, please let me know ASAP. Until then, I'll be sitting here, searching for a dermatologist who specializes in lotion IVs. Between the itching and the scratching.

And the moaning.

And the whining.

This is complete crap.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

How to enrage me

1. Tell me that I’m too dumb to go to the college that I ultimately attended and graduated from. In four years. With two majors.
2. Expend major time and effort “helping” me build my career and expand my connections while “covertly” mauling me with “subtle” “suggestions” (read: demands) on what my life and career should consist of.
3. Attempt to land me a job, despite the fact that I just landed my own, because the one that I just got wasn’t good enough.
4. Try to control the rest of your nieces in much the same way.
5. Try to control your sisters/sisters-in-law, too.
6. Suck any sense of self-sufficiency from me when I stay at your house for a job interview.
7. Ask me about my job with “you could do so much better” thick in your voice.
8. Send me an email with the subject line “GOOGLE HIRING IN CHICAGO!” (yes, it was all capitalized) less than a month after Google didn’t hire me.
9. Send me THE SAME FUCKING EMAIL 29 minutes later. What, making me feel like a collosal loser once in an hour wasn’t enough?
11. Be naïve enough to think that I’m actually going to call you back.
12. Keep pouring the salt in the wound.
13. Keep pointing out the obvious.
14. Continuously make me feel like an underachieving fool.

I don’t like it. I’m hard enough on myself, thanks.

Friday, November 24, 2006

And now, the lighter side of my holiday

This week, my cousin Max's teacher passed out a worksheet to the class. The instructions were for the students to make a list of what they needed to buy at the grocery store for Thanksgiving dinner.

Max, who is six, had a very short list. One item, as a matter of fact.

Bud Light.

What six year old puts Bud Light on his Thanksgiving shopping list?

What six year old makes Bud Light the only thing on his Thanksgiving shopping list?

And, most importantly, how much does the fact that Max (who has the same last name as me and is enrolled in the same school district that I graduated from) put Bud Light on his Thanksgiving shopping list ruin the sterling reputation that I worked so hard to maintain?

That's right. It's all about me.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Happy fucking Thanksgiving

When I got to Mom and Dad's house yesterday, I was a mess. Work was such a wreck on Wednesday. After an hour drive in rush-hour traffic to top it off, I was drowning in my anxiety.

It took me all night to calm down. I was edgy and exhausted. The last thing I felt like doing was playing the role of the good daughter, baking over a dozen pies with my mom while my sister hang out with her friends. I wanted trashy reality television. To take a hot shower and go to sleep. I wanted to cry.

But I didn't. I wouldn't acknowledge it. I made the pies, teeth clenched, afraid that I would snap at any minute.

I felt a little better this morning.

And progressively better through the day.

After a lovely Thanksgiving at my aunt's house, I left for my apartment with just enough time to catch the beginning of Grey's Anatomy.

I had to choose between two northbound roads. Although I always, always take the second of the two, tonight I picked the first.

And got a ticket.

I should've known better. It's a speed trap. It drops from 50 MPH to 35 MPH in a one mile stretch. I'd just gotten into the 35 MPH zone when I was pulled over.

I'm so stupid.

And now I'm back where I was last night. Anxious and pissy and on the verge of completely losing control.

All over a stupid speeding ticket.

I need to be medicated.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006


It's incredibly sad, how it works. How you hear stories of tragedies in the news and they just sort of roll off of you. You acknowledge their weight for a nanosecond before tossing the significance aside. Horrible things happen every day. There isn't time to dwell on them all.

And then something happens to someone you know.

Or, in this case, someone who used to work for your dad.

And the world seems at once terrible and terribly clear.

He was just a year older than me. He was decapitated in the accident. Decapitated. Jesus.

It didn't roll off of me.

It seeped into my head. It keeps echoing in my ears.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

At the back of my closet

I own a lot of party dresses.

I don't go to all that many parties, truthfully. Enough, yes, but I wouldn't label myself a socialite or anything of the like.

This weekend, I dug through my closet at Mom and Dad's house. Due to the limited closet space at my apartment and the infrequency with which I wear my dresses, I keep all of my party dresses there.

Wanna see?

I don't have many of my dresses from high school, but I wore this one to my homecoming dance when I was a sophomore. I wouldn't dare wear this now; I have a feeling that it would be too short to cover my ass, if I did.

I wore this navy blue dress to a charity event (or maybe two?) that I went to with my parents. The picture doesn't do justice to the beautiful shape of the dress, which was very flattering.

My favorite part, no doubt, is the embroidery along the top of the dress.

It's the dress I was wearing in the famous picture of me, tennis babe Anna Kournikova and her then-husband, hockey player Sergei Fedorov.

I know I wore this to a charity gala. But I think that's it. It's a Jessica McClintock. The dress isn't quite as shiny or multi-colored as it appears in the picture, but I think it's a little too young-looking for me to get away with now.

My favorite part of this dress is the brooch at the top. Ironically enough, when I first bought the dress I wanted to cut it off.

This is the dress that Kevin's wife hated so much. It's made for a slender person. It's been a few years since I wore it, so I'm not sure I could even pull it off anymore. The entire dress is ruffles, which makes it a super fun variation on a plain black dress.

This looks like a sack on a hanger, but it's actually a Kenneth Cole wrap dress. A little more casual than the others, I've gotten good wear out of this.

I think the pattern is fun.

Oh, look! An old picture of (L-R) me, Mom and Meg. I'm wearing the Kenneth Cole. Meg's in my Ralph Lauren ruffle dress.

This is one of my ever faithful little black dresses. It was the first dress I'd bought that didn't have much structure, more flowy, with a drop waist. My mom says that it looks like a dress a ballerina would wear. I insist that it's more of a figure skater's style.

I love the drop waist. It gives the dress its flow and almost makes me look tall.

The drape of the neckline is pretty, too.

Another flowy dress, this dress was quite flattering on me. I think it was the color. Aren't blondes supposed to look good in red?

The embroidery is very delicate, subtle and pretty. The scarf thingie that hung over one shoulder is a bit unusual, but it grew on me.

I think I'll have this dress forever. Or for as long as it fits me. Pretty conservative, with the square neckline and all.

The two bows at the right side are cute detail, I think.

I haven't worn this yet. Invite me somewhere, people! The color is super pretty and it's that same ol' flowy style that I've found suits me well.

Ruffles to detract from my lack of boobies?

This dress is very slinky. I like it.

And the beading is gorgeous.

This Laundry dress is currently my favorite dress. It fits me perfectly. And it's totally versatile.

Here's me and my pointy nose wearing this dress at Meg's best friend's wedding this summer.

A good cut for a flat-chested girl.

Another drop waist. This one hangs so fricking perfectly. And look at the detail. Don't you love the detail?

Of course you do.

And you want me to escort you to your company's ultra-fancy Christmas party?

Of course you do.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Snotty McSnotterson

I have a cold. Again. I've had a cold for three of the last four weeks. I am so over this crap. I have things to do! I have a stunningly interesting life to lead! I simply cannot be blowing my nose every two minutes.

And, when I skate, I get whipped in the face with my snot every time I jump or spin.

Disgusting but true.

I imagine that all of my late nights have made me more susceptible to colds than usual. I'm a big fan of sleep - it's pretty much my favorite activity - and I haven't gotten much lately. I can't go to bed before Dr. 90210 is over on Mondays. Hockey keeps me out until at least midnight on Tuesdays. I take yoga on Wednesday nights and the ensuing endorphins keep me awake. I mull over that night's Grey's Anatomy instead of going to bed on Thursdays. Friday nights, lately, have been reserved by Colin. And we never go out until late. Saturdays are consumed into the wee hours by Lucy or Colin or by Mom and Dad taking me to a late dinner or by driving to A2 to watch one of Meg's hockey games.

I shouldn't complain. It's only sleep. And, yes, I do feel better when I get more of it. But actually living my life, after existing in such a narrow existence for far too long? That makes me feel pretty darn good, too.

The moral of this story is that you can't win.

Sometimes you get slapped in the face by your own boogers. And you wipe them off. And you gross someone out by telling them about it over dinner. Then, when they smile at your ridiculousness, you forget about how tired you are.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

I'm really pleased with myself

I knit a baby hat for someone I work with. He's a part-timer (which is why I can stand him) and he and his wife are expecting their first baby any day now.

Hopefully the hat will fit the baby (gender unknown, hence the very pale mint green color) a little better then it fits my bear.

Saturday, November 18, 2006


Well, that wasn't the result I was hoping for.

I really wanted an excuse to go to Arizona, too.

There's always next year, I guess. But that seems an awful long way away.

Go Blue, anyway.

Friday, November 17, 2006


Bo Schembechler died today.

The legendary coach of the University of Michigan football team died on the eve of Michigan v. Ohio State. The battle between the first and second-ranked teams in the nation. The day before what is being touted as one of the biggest college football game in recent history.


He addressed the Michigan football team just yesterday. Today he is dead. Tomorrow his Wolverines play the Buckeyes.

The timing of his death is surreal. Straight out of the script of a movie. The effect Bo’s death will have on the game tomorrow is intriguing, to say the least. I imagine that the Wolverines will play with emotion tomorrow, in honor of Bo, in celebration of his legacy.

God bless Bo.

Go Blue.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

An abusive relationship

I was going to write something funny. It might have even been hilarious.

But, first I sat down and watched Grey's Anatomy and - WHAM! - gone.

That show sucks all humor from my life.

I take melancholy to bed every Thursday night. And I love it. Thrive on it. Shake with giddy anticipation during Ugly Rita.

It's too good. I love it too much. I shouldn't be allowed to watch.

This show? It destroys me. Then picks me up and kisses my boo boo. Then it pushes me in the mud, points and laughs. Then it sends me flowers and chocolate before it kicks me in the teeth. Kisses my cheek. Spits on my lunch. Mails me a valentine. Keys my car. Holds me tight. Drops me fast.

Every week.

It gets me every week.

Now if you'll excuse me, melancholy and I need to get some rest.

And now a word from my body

Being a female sucks.

Aly's Hot Bod

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

There would not be an idle hour in my day

Lately, all I feel like doing is baking and knitting.

And figure skating.
And playing soccer.
And hockey.

I'm pretty sure that if I suddenly became incredibly wealthy and had no need or reason to work, I could easily fill my days.

Not only could I fill my days, I could fill my days with activities that could be viewed as somewhat productive. I could keep myself busy. I might only have time for a manicure and a pedicure ever other week, in fact.

I really look into becoming incredibly wealthy.

Or marrying someone who is.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006


I’m sure that it wasn’t huge news in most parts of the country, but Detroit was abuzz today with the news that the leaders of General Motors, Ford and DaimlerChrysler were meeting with President Bush.

Around here, any Big Three news is huge. Everyone here knows a handful of people who work in the industry. Entire extended families, series of generations, are loyal employees of Ford. Some are eternally loyal with GM. For others, it's Chrysler. As you may imagine, Detroit lives and dies with the automobile industry.

When a wrap-up of the meeting between President Bush and the Big Three popped up on CNN this afternoon, a coworker and I stopped at the television to see the report.

The coworker I stood with, Lisa, is the only coworker I really like now that Kevin’s gone She’s extremely sharp and witty and far too much fun. I trust her and I respect her.

Lisa is very conservative. Conservative to the point that she’ll snap at a harmless comment about how the president "cracks me up." I, of course, am fairly liberal; Lisa and I hadn’t worked together long before I realized that I should not even mention current events, let alone politics, at work. I liked Lisa too much. I didn’t want to go there.

And I’ve never gone there. I sit at my desk and watch Lisa’s reactions while masking my own behind a façade of disinterest. I doubt that she had any idea of my political leaning.

Until today.

Much of the report that we were watching, like much of the meeting with the president, was focused on healthcare.

Lisa mentioned, casually, how ridiculous it was for the Big Three to think that they would get any help from Washington. Especially for healthcare. Why do they think that the government would want to help them?

Uhhh. Because the government has a vested interest in keeping the Big Three in business?

Well, yes, Lisa conceded. But that’s just one step closer to socialized medicine.

I shrugged my shoulders. And blinked back a few tears.

"I don’t know," I said. "But I know that, as a child, I watched a father stand at a pharmacy, trying to decide which of two prescriptions he should get filled for his baby because he couldn’t afford to fill them both. No parent should be forced to make that decision. And that broke my heart. And just thinking of that breaks my heart now. It’s wrong."

She said something about agreeing that was wrong and terrible, but...I didn’t stay to listen.

I couldn’t.

And it makes no sense. I’ve never been without excellent health care. I’ve never been anything but privileged. Because of my pampered history, it feels like this issue picked me. I swear that I never consciously picked it.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Silver lining?

Lucy, my dear Lucy, called me today with a very delightful pick-me-up.

First: she told me that Other Bridesmaid didn’t even make it past her first interview with that big, flashy company that didn’t hire me last month.

Please, girl! If you’re going to get rejected, you at least have to make it to the very, very end of the hiring stages so that you’re so convinced that you’re about to be hired that, when you don’t get the job, your world comes crashing down on you!

So there.

She clearly ranked much higher on the rejection scale.

And there’s something strangely soothing about that.

But it gets better.

When Other Bridesmaid told a friend whose boyfriend works for the big, flashy company about the division that she was rejected from, he laughed and told her that she was better off without the job.

Apparently, the position is painfully repetitive and the people who are hired for it are always devoid of personality so as to be the type to thrive in the monotony. When they were still based on the Googleplex, everyone else would laugh at the high concentration of losers that this particular department attracted.

This probably isn’t true, but I’m going to believe it anyway. During the interview process, I did feel like I clicked more with the higher-ups who didn’t work directly with the product than those who worked in that department.

Maybe I dodged a bullet! Maybe now I can get my head out of my ass!

I got a call to schedule a phone interview today, too.

Dear Pieces,

Please, please, please fall together. Convince me that there is a higher power and a grander scheme.

Love, Me

Sunday, November 12, 2006

It's great to be a Michigan Wolverine

A normal Michigan-Ohio State football week is great.

A Michigan-Ohio State football week when the teams are ranked #1 and #2 in the nation? I can barely breathe.

It's equal parts nervous and excited here.

Go Blue. And please refrain from breaking my tender heart.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Life Lesson of the Week

Unless you like really the gross or the moldy, throw away your Halloween Jack o' Lantern prior to November 11.

Thank you. Godspeed.

Gettin' out

Last night I went out with Colin and a few of his buddies. I almost didn’t go. Dinner was on the agenda and, as I’d had my lunch at 3:00 pm, a meal wasn’t appetizing. And I had lovely Saturday workday hanging over my head, which sort of made me want to pout and crawl into bed super-extra early.

But I didn’t! I put on makeup and a smile and a hot pair of jeans and I socialized. Just like a big girl.

We went to dinner. We consisted of Colin, Colin’s best friend (Josh), Colin’s best friend’s girlfriend (Katie) and another pal of Josh and Colin’s, Chris. Oh, and Josh’s dad. Totally random, yes, but he totally bought us all dinner and drinks. Score.

Somehow we ended up playing Whirly Ball. For real. Totally random, but rather fun. We played boys against girls, with the referee subbing in on the girls’ team. We tied. And laughed our asses off. It was glorious.

After, everyone returned to Katie and Josh’s house. And I had Colin drop me off at my car. The real world called. I would be a grownup and get to bed before 1:00 am.

I went to sleep happy.

Sometimes all you need is a group of friends – even if it isn’t your group of friends, even if you’re a loner by nature. There’s something to be said about power in numbers. Number of smiles, I mean.

Friday, November 10, 2006


Lucy just called me. In the ten years I've known her, she has never sounded so down.

She still doesn't have a full-time job. And it doesn't look like she will anytime soon. Her dad gave her a pep talk a few days ago and she felt so broken that she didn't even have the energy to fight back. That is so not her.

On one hand, it's comforting to know that I'm not alone. On the other hand, I'd be unhappy in my job for the rest of my life if it meant guaranteeing her professional happiness.

This growing up is absolute crap.

To do: Friday

1. Bumble out of bed far too early
2. Mindlessly dress in skating gear - two pairs of tights, black yoga pants, Under Armour cold gear and a lovely lime green fleece
3. Inhale a small bowl of baked oatmeal, the recipe for which I found earlier this week at Everybody Likes Sandwiches
4. Drive Miss Stella to rink
5. Skate, skate, skate for 1 hour, 40 minutes
6. Drive to Mom and Dad's house
7. Eat Mom and Dad's food
8. Use Mom and Dad's computer
9. Blog
10. Shower
11. Dress
12. Spackle on a bit o' makeup
13. Take Stella to the dealership to have a little boo boo fixed
14. Badger my father into taking me to lunch
15. Drop by the craft store for a yarn needle and some stitch markers
16. Sleep in front of television while Oprah is on
17. Paint fingernails
18. Make significant progress on knitting project
19. See Lucy
20. See Colin
21. Badger Colin into taking me to dinner
22. Make irritatingly loooooooong drive back to my apartment
23. Go to bed at a decent hour

You know you're jealous.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

I don't make this stuff up

My mom snapped at me. When she left the room, I turned to my dad to make an obvservation.

Me: "See! Mom isn't just hard on you!"

Dad: "Hard on? Heh."

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Weak stomach? Skip this one.

I will preface this with a little background information: I’m not a puker. The last time I barfed was the summer before my senior year of high school. I’d taken a real whopper of a pain killer for my bad back. My stomach rejected it. Violently. Prior to that day, I hadn’t vomited since fourth grade. I was out of practice. As a result, I honked on the floor of my bedroom. And then the bathroom floor.

My mom looked like she wanted to execute me as she asked, through clenched teeth, why her 16-year-old couldn’t puke in the toilet like a normal human.

I didn’t have enough practice!

Anyway. On to our story.

After the Michigan-Iowa game that I went to with my mom, we met up with my sister (who had been sitting in the student section) and one of her good friends. We were all mighty hungry. Starving, even. So hungry, in fact, that we didn’t think we could weather a long wait at a decent restaurant.

Any restaurant that is truly a campus institution is packed after any game.

Joe’s Crab Shack? Not a campus institution. Not even technically on campus, in fact. But we got a table right away and it was very fast and we were all stuffed and happy when we left.

On the drive home, Mom made some comment along the lines of "geez, I’m not used to eating so much fried food. You’d think they could throw a vegetable or two on the plate with the fried fish and fried shrimp. But do they? No. They serve it nestled in a bed of fries."

I was too full to chime in my own commentary.

A telltale rumble in my belly awoke me at 1:00 am. I made a mad sprint for my bathroom, blazing down the hall with my hair blowing in the wind and my hands pressed to my mouth.

It had been a long time.

But I knew.

And I knew that I needed to make my mother proud.


I made it to the bathtub, which seemed like an acceptable alternative. I barfed and, as any 24-year-old would do, I went to get my mom.

"Mom? Mom? Psssst! Mom! I just threw up."

She looked like she wanted to strangle me before she even opened up her eyes. "Where?"

"On my sleeve." I inserted a dramatic pause. "And in the bathtub." I pushed my voice to assure that she'd feel sorry for me.

"Then wash it down the drain!" Her pity wasn't exactly palpable. I shuffled back to the bathroom to take care of my mess. On my own.

I go into the bathroom and turn the water on as high as it can go. In addition to improving the water pressure this maneuver, of course, also made the water really hot.

I was, essentially, steaming the vomit in the bathtub.

And then my mom came to help me.

Completely naked.

(Due to menopause, not my father, thankyouverymuch.)

So there I am, with my naked mother, wearing vomit on my sleeve.

This might be a good time to tell you all that my mother is a nurse by profession. She doesn't practice full time but, as a professor, she's frequently in the hospital with her students.

We all know that nurses are well versed in the gross.

So imagine my surprise when my half-asleep and completely naked mother peers into the bathtub, takes in the sensory overload that was my barf, turns around and pukes - TWICE - into the toilet.

And that is the story of how I made my nurse mother vomit in the nude.

It's an accomplishment for the ages.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

The first Tuesday after the first Monday

Ever since I reached voting age (has it really been six years?!), voting day has made me nervous. Legitimately nervous. The stomach knotting nerves that plague me before a soccer game? It’s exactly the same.

My nerves always subside within a minute or two of starting a soccer game. Voting will do nothing to cure my anxiety.

This year? It’s huge. Everything on the ballot seems so enormous that I can’t even seem to grasp the importance of each vote I’m casting. Maybe I’m being a little dramatic. But I have been infected with a really, really strong sense of right and wrong. And it breaks my heart when what I view as wrong is what the voting majority deems right.

I’m not a fan of feeling helpless.

Which is one of the primary reasons I vote in the first place.

Monday, November 06, 2006

I feel the burn

Both of my knees are aching.

I have done some thinking, and I have narrowed down the source of the pain to the following:
1. My hockey game last night
2. Dancing in my bedroom to Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds
3. Quality time on the treadmill on Saturday afternoon
4. Old age
5. Figure skating (rather poorly) in yesterday's lesson
6. Growth spurt
7. Preemptive pain striking before I attend kickboxing class
8. The disgustingly premature "all Christmas, all the time" programming schedule on a local radio station
9. NaBloPoMo

A blog from your influential consumer of TV media

I’m not supposed to tell any strangers that I’ve been chosen to be a Nielsen TV Ratings family but, really, are any of you strangers? I think not.

So there it is: I’m a N*elsen TV Ratings family!

I wouldn’t actually consider myself a family – I see myself more as a pathetic single girl – but N*elsen does. And if N*elsen does, who am I to argue?

A few months ago, I got a survey and $5 cash (fun!) in the mail from N*elsen. The survey was pretty short and, since I was so keeping the moolah, I felt somewhat obligated to fill it out.

I spent the $5 – probably on coffee and cinnamon raisin bagels at Tim Horton’s – and assumed that I’d heard the last of N*elsen.


A few weeks ago, a N*elsen representative knocked on the door and told me that my answers to that original survey, which mostly asked about my demographics and TV viewing, qualified me to be a N*elsen TV Ratings family!

Fast forward a bit and, in my humble little living room, is a ratings box attached to my telly. When I turn on the TV, all I have to do is punch in and watch my little heart out. Easy! Fun!

I was a communications major in college. I totally get off on this exercise of media dorkdom.

I also feel exceptionally powerful.

But, oh what the people at N*elsen must think. A typical day of television at my house: Good Morning America in the morning and Laguna Beach, The Girls Next Door, Grey’s Anatomy or MTV’s True Life. of which, obviously, I need to look into getting.

Sunday, November 05, 2006


I had a hockey game this afternoon. It was right near Mom and Dad's house, at the rink my sister played at as a kid. Of course, Mom and Dad came to watch their baby girl. Who, at the tender age of 24, still has her parents in the stands.

Colin came to my game, too.

I didn't even know he was there. He snuck in late in the game, not bothering to climb into the stands. Colin didn't know that my parents were at the game (I'd like to think that he wouldn't be opposed to socializing with my parents); when the game was over, he went straight to his car.

Mom and Dad, however, waited for me in the lobby. They walked me out to my car, told me how fabulous I played, helped me stuff all of my goalie equipment into Stella.

At this point, I still didn't know Colin was at my game.

While pulling out of the parking lot, I called him.

He congratulated me on my 2-1 victory. I cursed him out for now waiting for me in the lobby and for leaving without even seeing me.

"I'm actually still in the parking lot," he admitted. "Your parents were parked right next to me."

Mom and Dad go to Mom's new car, which Colin parked unknowingly next to. And there he is, randomly sitting in his car.

I cannot imagine what they thought.

So, after making fun of Colin for at least 10 minutes, I called my mom to hear her side of the run-in with Colin. I expected some friendly teasing from the 'rents.

It went more like this.

Me: "So I hear that Colin was parked next to you, just sitting there like some creepy molester."

Mom: "Whether or not Colin molests you is between the two of you. There are some things you just don't tell your mother!"

I could've died.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Who is this boy?

There are times that I pick up the phone and see that I have a missed call from Colin and wonder who, exactly, this boy is and how, precisely, he has inhabited my notoriously misbehaving Colin’s body.

It’s totally different. Entirely glorious. Simple and sweet and moving at a slow, cautious pace that pleases me endlessly.

I will venture far enough to say that I’m lucky.

This new Colin is nearly perfect. I see the caution in his actions. He’s afraid to fuck this up. I can’t express how much that pleases me. I don’t want to be the only one who is equal parts painfully scared and exceptionally happy.

We’re working through this.


And it’s fun, you know? I never realized. I’m so inexperienced in these boy-girl things that I didn’t know that a girl could be with a boy early in a relationship and she could be truly and genuinely happy. It doesn’t all have to be all drama.

Go figure.

Friday, November 03, 2006


I'm a big fan of John Mayer's writing. Have been for years now. (I liked him long, long before Your Body is a Wonderland hit the airwaves, dear friends.) There's just something about the way he puts his thoughts together that is witty and hilarious and perfectly colloquial yet incredibly talented that I just love. ...and, truth be told, am pretty envious of.

Needless to say, I check his blog quite regularly.

I can't get over what he posted last Sunday.

And, at the same time, I can't quite wrap my head around it.

I've been entertaining the idea of printing it out. Highlighting. Writing in the margins.

But, quite honestly, I'm somewhat afraid of what I'll write.

Stomping on the accelerator can be a daunting task.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

I've been thinking about something lately.

Imagine this:

You're on an airplane, sleeping with your head against the window, your heart set on being home this time three hours from now. All of a sudden, something goes very wrong. The plane stops moving across the air and instead starts falling through it. The lights are flickering and the movie is skipping. The plane dips hundreds of feet in seconds, and the yellow cups fall from the ceiling. They're a brighter shade of yellow than you remember, because unlike the demonstration, these cups have never been handled before. "Flight attendants take your seats now", you hear, the pilot's voice trembling over a cacophony of alert tones. You get that smell in the bridge of your nose like you've just been hit with a football. That's what the fear smells like. The plane is going down.

Four more drastic drops in under a minute. People are crying. For all the folklore about how your life flashes before your eyes, you're remarkably fixed on one vision - your parents. They're sleeping at this very moment, in a bedroom so quiet they can hear the clock in the kitchen. And you can see them, clear as can be. You wish you could see a playground or a first kiss, but all you can see is your parents sleeping. Huh. Well, that's that.

Several long minutes go by. Then, all at once, the lights come back on and the plane somehow rights itself. Some people cheer, but most people cry harder. The plane lands about an hour later, and as soon as you feel that touch down - hell, even when you were within 50 feet of the ground and could still technically survive a fall - you realize that however you brokered the deal between you and God worked; you've just been granted life in overtime.

Here's the question: what do you change? Whom do you call that you haven't spoken to in years? Whom do you realize has been toxic to your heart and drop with surprising ease? What trips do you cancel, and what trips do you book? What can't you be bothered with anymore? What's the new you like?

Think about that, and then ask one more question. Why not just change it all right now?

(Working on it...)

I'm glad I didn't write this.

Ending with (Thinking about it...) would've ruined it.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Pappy, my pappy

Conversation I just had with my father:

Dad: "I just started a fire in the fireplace. Your mother is going to sit down with a glass of wine and watch Ugly Rita."

Me: "Ugly Rita?!" (insert hysterical laughter here) "It's Ugly Betty, Dad!"

Dad: "Well, in my experience, there sure as hell isn't such a thing as a good looking Rita."

You're going to be so sick of me!

I neglected to tell you all yesterday, at the beginning of National Blog Posting Month, that I elected to participate.

I'm not going to lie: I'm pretty pumped.

Most of my enthuiasm is due to the fact that I can so do this. Blog every day? Please! If I can crank out something 5-6 times per week, I can manage every day. For a month. A whole 30 days.

Maybe this won't be so easy.

But ya'll know I like a challenge.

Two days down!

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


My boss was out of the office today.

Translation: I spent my entire day, minus when I left the building to pick up Thai for lunch, looking for a new job.

Incredibly depressing.

There's nothing. I swear, there's nothing.

Which leads us to our fun fact of the day: my parents paid $80,000+ to send me to the University of Michigan and I am going to end up being someone’s secretary.

Or moving out of the state.

Neither option sounds particularly appealing.

In the midst of both the Chicago and New York interview process I thought I could do it. The thought of moving was terrifying, yes, but as scary as it was it was equally exhilarating.

I didn't land either of those jobs. It was disappointing. And a relief. I'd dodged the relocation bullet. They made the choice for me.

And now, here I am, so incredibly stuck in a job that I absolutely cannot stand in the state I want to be in. I'm done being vague about my feelings on the matter: I don't want to move. I want to stay in Michigan.

On Monday, my dad told me to look for jobs outside of Michigan. I cried after I hung up.

I'm not even sure if staying is an option.

The economy is that bad. The worst in the country, from what I understand. The outlook is pretty dismal. Still, I don't want to go. I'm not ready to bail.

What an ugly corner to be painted into.

What a stupid tail to chase.

Lucy and I grumbled about our (lack of) options today. She feels trapped. And, between the two of us, we know at least 10 others in the same situation. Graduated and ready, holding a degree but unable to find work or idiling in jobs with no future.

We thought that we could all move to the same place. Pick a city with a bit of potential. Find jobs. Create our own family. Little Detroit.

It'd be better than nothing.

I hope it doesn't come down to that.
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