Busted

So I didn't wear any makeup to work today and I was totally called out by a co-worker for the faint black eye that I've been sporting since the ridiculous, drunken celebration that was Kyle's friend Zaza's wedding this past Saturday in Chicago. D'oh.

Photos of the debauchery can be seen here.

Two of my faves:

Kyle and his boys


Kyle, Me, and Mr. B.Cady


So yeah - I partied so hard Saturday night that I managed to give myself a black eye. I can't say with certainty when exactly it happened, but I do recall lunging at B.Cady for a hug, missing, and then running head first into a nearby wall. Yeah, that may have done it.

Some day, I'll be too old for this sort of thing. Some day.

House Details...

... will have to wait. Because first I need to laugh at myself.

Last night I went to happy hour after work and played wing-woman for a girlfriend of mine. We sat at the bar sipping Pinot Nior chatting about men and commenting on the handsome bar tender's cute butt. And then it hit me. "Huh" I thought to myself. "When did I start finding old men handsome?" I'm not just talking about older men here... but like actual, objectively OLD men. This bar tender was cute, but you know, he was old. (Sorta like George Clooney) He had the salt and pepper hair, the worn in "man-hands", and an air about him that said I may be old, but I'm sitll dashing, no?. And he was dashing, but that's beside the point. He was OLD! And I thought he was cute! Weird.

Well, fast forward to the end of the night and it turns out that I accidentally left my wallet at the bar. (If my head weren't firmly attached to my body, I swear...) So I called, and spoke to some kind soul, and was SUPER relieved to find out that they had in fact found my wallet and were keeping it safely behind the bar. Whew! (Insert "kindness of strangers remark" here.) The kind soul then pointed out that he, having seen the birth date on my driver's liscense, was exactly 1 day older than me. Neat!

So I head back to the bar and, upon entering, get the attention of Mr. Salt-and-Pepper OldieVonCute himself and inform him that I just called and spoke with someone who found my wallet and could he please retreive it for me from behind the bar. "Hey!" he smiles "It's the girl who is exactly one day younger than me!!" And then he said some other stuff while handing me my wallet that I didn't really pay any attention to because all I could think was:

WHAT!!!????? I am the SAME AGE as Mr. OldieVonCute????? GAH!

D'oh.

And Then BAM! Right Into The Side Of A House

Kyle and I played in Tahoe this past weekend and I just have to say it was a.maz.ing. Some of the best snowboarding I've ever enjoyed.

We hit the road from SF, bright and early, at 6 am Saturday morning. By the time we got gas and breakfast, and sat in Bay Bridge construction traffic, and made the 183 mile trek to Kirkwood, it was 10 am, which was later than we hoped for, but still ok. The weather was unbelievable. High 40s... maybe even 50 degrees... and not a cloud for miles. Sweet home Alabama had NOTHING on this awesome blue sky. And yet, even with the warm day, the snow was still beautiful. A bit slushy, but not nearly as wet as I would have expected, and still totally fun to carve around in. AND I had a total breakthrough on my board. I FINALLY FINALLY learned how to really flow from being on my heal edge to being on my toe edge (which I realize is just Greek to anyone who doesn't snowboard, but for me it was HUGE DEAL! Something I've been trying to master since last year.) It was so exciting for me!

Unfortunately, I was so excited that I sort of stayed out on the mountain way to long and rode way too hard. By the end of the day my whole body was exhausted and all my muscles were shaking. On my last run I just could not go one little bit further. I had gotten myself stuck in a gully and needed to get out in order to make it back to my car. I was half way up one side of the gully when I decided to just take my board off and walk the rest of the way up. I sit down, dig my board in a bit and then unstap my left foot. I then unstrap my right foot, take a deep breath, and remove my board. I relax for a minute, working up the energy to stand up and carry my snowboard the rest of the way over the hill. Feeing ready, I reach for my board... and it ever-so-slooooowly sneaks down the hill a bit. I pause and think for moment, oh this can't be good... "No no no", I tell the board as I point in its general direction. And it then starts sneaking a bit more... so I stand up and start walking behind it, still pointing, now demanding, "Hey hey hey! You... board... stop right there." And then it starts moving faster, and I start running down the hill thinking I might actually catch it... well then it just TAKES OFF! The sides of the V-shaped gully we were in kept the board on course and so it was able to just pick up more and more speed. Foom! Down the mountain it went. Whoosh! Just missing another skiier. ("Sorry!" I yelled). Wheee! Up over an embankment at the bottom of the mountain. And then BAM! Right into the side of a house. (D'oh)

The board survived, and just missed a window (by about 6 inches!!) so I was able to laugh about the whole episode.

Sunday was more of the same, blue sky, great snow... but with less running into houses, so that was good.

Stupid American Independent Party

I think it's a conspiracy. I can't be the only person to have made this mistake.

14 days ago I RUSHED, frantic, to the post office, on the very last possible day, making myself very late for school, so that I could re-register to vote. (Having moved and whatnot.) Being the hip chick that I am, and wanting be a part of that "very sought after" chunk of the voting population, I decided to go the independent route this time around. No official party for me, thank you very much. Go ahead candidates, fight over me. My vote could either way! I was ready to relish the tug-of-war.

So I filled out my name, address, birthday, blah blah blah... and then I got to the little section of the form where you state your political party... Republican? No. Democrat? No. Green? No. Independent? A-ha! Yes! I colored in the bubble, signed my name, and ta-dah! I was registered to vote. Woo-hoo!

I got my little yellow voter registation card in the mail today. Next to my name it said "AIP". AIP? What the heck is AIP??? According to wikipedia... AIP is American Independent Party! Which is not at all "independent". Rather, it's a whole other official political party that exists in California. Gahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! So now the only primary I can vote in is some worthless American Independent Party one.

This is like the BIGGEST PRIMARY EVER!!!!! And I'm totally missing it. >:

Consider me so annoyed.

At the very least, I will share this. If you haven't made up your mind yet, please feel free to vote for this candidate in my honor. I'll be sitting at home, missing out.

California School System

I'm terrible at geography. Terrible. Like, I actually thought the body of water that Boston Harbor sits in was Lake Michigan. Yeah. The Boston Tea Party? Totally in a lake. And not even on the East side of the lake. No no... I thought Massechuesettes was on the WEST side. You know, where... ummmm.... that one state is.... you know... shoot. I don't actually know what state *IS* on the West side of Lake Michigan. Are we sure it's not Massechuettes?

Anyway. Like I said, terrible at geography. I blame the schools. I'm pretty sure my geography classes went something like this:

Teacher: See, there's Los Angeles... and then there's more Los Angeles... and then there's some desert... and some mountainy things... and then there's this mystery area in the middle of the country that no one's really explored yet, I think the Bermuda triangle might be there... and anyway, if you just keep going East you eventually hit New York, which I've heard is really cold in the Winter, so you should never go there. In fact, you should really just never leave LA. Trust me. The rest of the country doesn't even have flush toilets or paved roads or movie stars.

So, see, I was doomed from the start!

I kid you not, when I went away to college (a whopping 5 hours north of Los Angeles) I wondered where I would do my shopping, because certainly malls don't exist outside Los Angeles... and also, where would I find hip new music to listen to, because certainly they don't have radio stations outside Los Angeles, and if they do they probably play nothing but top 40s music and think it's AWESOME.

The first time I went to Michigan, I actually WAS shocked to see that the roads were paved and the bathroom facilities were both indoor and flushable. Yeah. Let's just say I grew up a little sheltered.

But anyway, I digress. Back to geography! And my non-existent skillz.

So I'm going to a conference in April in Bethesda. Which, people tell me, is in Maryland. And when I heard Maryland I thought, "!! Oh !! I have a friend in Washington DC... I wonder if Washington DC is anywhere close to Bethesda, Maryland?" Turns out it is!! Hooray! And then I thought of my blog friend, Julie, who lives in Delaware. And I thought, "Hmmmmmmm I wonder if Delaware is anywhere close to Bethesda, Maryland?" And then I spent a non-zero amount of time trying to figure out which state Delaware was in.

Yeah.

That's What Friends Are For

I was rushed this morning, and just sorta threw the shirt on haphazardly. After a quick glance in the mirror - to make sure I had remembered pants - I was out the door.

For the record, this is not the best way to dress oneself. Dressing should consist of more than a cursory check for pants. It should, at the very least, include something that goes roughly like this: Shirt not see through? Check.

Alas... woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Hangs head in shame and then admits: I wore a see through shirt to work today.

Luckily, I have work friends who love me. And who point this sorta thing out to me. And who don't laugh hysterically at me (at least not out loud) as I remedy the situation by lining my shirt with masking tape so as to make it bit more "business casual" and a bit less "hey, let's have casual sex right here on my desk."


Note the parts of the shirt that are sorta masking tape colored - behind the cute little black flowers... yeah, those were previously totally see-through. Awesome.

On the upside, I think the masking tape looks totally cute!

On Kissing Frogs

Should you find yourself in the unfortunate situation of discovering a wart on one of your otherwise pristine fingers, you should NOT, under any circumstances, mistake that wart for some sort of strange finger zit and attempt to pop it, and then, when said popping attempt fails, stab at it with a needle for several hours hell-bent and determined to get the darn thing to release its pussy disgustingness. Trust me. It’s a bad idea. Just get some wart remover and call it a day.

One Of Those Days

In the ladies room at work this afternoon I realized that my shirt was, and had been ALL DAY LONG, on backwards.

I left it.

Look Ma, No Automatic Transmission

A few weeks ago I achieved the un-possible. I drove a car, without an automatic transmission… and nothing blew up.

Now, driving a motor vehicle without causing the engine to suddenly burst into a thousand bits of molten metal may not seem like much of an accomplishment for most people. But I am not most people…

Once upon a time I had a boyfriend. And that boyfriend had a (fancy schmancy manual transmission sports) car. And one night, he was drunk, and I was not, and so I snatched the keys from his hands in the hopes of driving us home safe and sound. Sigh. See, the thing about hope is that it can be a deceiving little bugger. And just when you’re not paying attention… bam! Hope kicks you in the keister.

It was perhaps my fourth time ever driving a stick-shift, and my drunken driving instructor/boyfriend was, at the moment, of little to no use to me as a driving coach. (In his defense, he was, in general, a pretty good teacher, except when it to came to giving snowboard lessons, which he was terrible at, but that’s another story all together.)

Anyway, so there I am, driving a stick, sweating profusely and clinging to the steering wheel with a death grip to end all death grips and he’s (inebriated and) shouting driving commands at me. Second gear! Third gear! Downshift! Floor it! You can make the light! Let’s race this jerk in the car next to us! (I’m about ready to smack the jerk in my passenger seat, Mr. Drunky Von Drunkerson! Shut up!)

He calmed down a bit until we got to freeway. There, he decided that it was time for me to practice my downshifting / driving like an asshat technique. I was cruising along (panicked, yes, but also) happy in the slow lane at 65 mph when I started closing in on the car ahead of me. Now *I* was more than content to slow down to a perfectly respectable 60 mph so that I could stay (nice and neat and safe) in my slow lane. No fuss, no muss. But the boyfriend was not having it. This was, apparently, a PERFECT opportunity to drop the transmission from 5th to 3rd, floor it, and (if I remember correctly) “blow past this grandpa”.

Huh??

HURRY GO!!!!! Before the guy coming up behind you beats you to it!

What?

Clutch in! Shifter out of 5th and over-up into 3rd! Then Floor it! GO!!!!!

Uhhhhh…

GOOOOOO!!!!!

Ok! Clutch… 5th… over to 3rd… and up…

They say you can’t put a finely tuned, German engineered, spots car going 65 mile per hour into 1st gear. But let me tell you, you can. And it ain't pretty.

Ka-Ka-Klang! Ka-Ka-KLANG! Our bodies were thrown hard against our seatbelts as the car grinded (quite literally) to a halt. Hazard lights, tears, hyperventalion. Not pretty. My boyfriend, bless his drunken heart, saw my melt down and noticed that we’re were on the shoulder instead of cruising along down the highway, blowing past some grandpa. “What’s the matter?” he asked, concerned, “Did you stall?”

(Must resist urge to strangle drunk boyfriend!)

“Yes darling, I stalled. Quite permanently. We have to call AAA now.”

“No no, I think you’re fine, just turn the car off and start her up again.”

I think his skin may have actually smoked a bit as I burned his face with my death stare.

We towed the car home and, being engineers, eventually took the whole engine apart to examine the extent of the damage. It was, let’s just say, extensive. Hunks of deformed metal EVERYWHERE. A whole piston – gone! Cylinder walls obliterated. A dozen or so guys crowded around to ooh and ahh and holy crap! over the mess I’d made. Their faces cringed as we peeled back layer after layer of the once beautiful straight-6 to find more and more engine bits in places where engine bits did not belong.

Never again, I thought. Until recently. When Kyle trustingly handed me the keys to his manual transmission.

My car was in the shop for the day and I had school and work and errands to scurry to and from. I was desperate. And probably a little sleep deprived. And definitely not thinking clearly. But I took the keys. And I drove his car all day.

And nothing blew up.

Whew.

So That You Might Be Saved From Making The Same Mistake

I must first remind you all that I live with boys - twenty-something year old boys who have not had the benefit of proper (attempts at) training from wives or long-term live-in girlfriends. Many years have passed since last they lived at home, with mothers to gently remind them how to behave in polite society. They are raw and unruly… in an environment almost completely free from nagging they have returned to their most natural, most instinctual, most unrefined state. They are messy.

And I have neither the time nor the energy to do anything about it.

(So the boys are messy. You all get that, right? This fact will be important later on when we assign blame.)

A few nights ago I walked into a kitchen that looked… strange. Mounds of dishes, with days old food caked on them, had somehow disappeared. Oh, the crumbs and dried spills and various bits of dinners long since passed remained on the counters (and floor)… but the dishes were gone. Panic set in as thoughts of dish robbers raced through my mind. Not the good plastic cups! Please don’t let them have taken our good plastic cups!! Just then, I opened the dishwasher. And, prepare yourself, it was full of dishes. Now, they hadn’t been rinsed off or anything momentous like that - countless food boogers still clung to plates for dear life and a cure for cancer might very well have been growing on the milk residue at the bottom of a few glasses - but the dishes were in the dishwasher! Hooray!

And now I must point out another very important fact/aide-to-blame-assignment.

Our dishwasher SUCKS. It really ought to be called a dish-redistribute-the-dirt-er. (I believe in truth in appliance naming… blenders blend, toasters toast, ovens… well, whatever. A dishwasher should WASH DISHES. Mine does not.) So really, this appliance should only be used to rinse several pre-cleaned dishes with very hot water all at once. Its usefulness is questionable at best. If it wasn’t installed, nice and neat, into our (rented) kitchen, I would throw it away... in an instant... off a three story roof.

But I digress.

So, my very messy roommates placed their very messy dishes into our very crappy dishwasher. And did I mention the dishes were piled in the dishwasher two to three dishes deep? NO WAY were these things getting clean. But it was late, and I was tired, and I was so happy that dishes, in any state/quantity, got removed from the sink/counter that I didn’t care. I wanted to run the dishwasher.

And here’s where you should take note of what not to do.

In addition to dishwasher soap, I also poured in (a VERY small amount of) regular liquid dish wash soap… you know, the kind you squirt on a sponge to hand wash all your pots and pans. The kind that makes lots and lots of fun soapy bubbles? Yeah, that stuff.

Don’t look at me that way! I wanted to give the dishes a fighting chance at getting clean!!! And sudsy dish soap was the only thing I could come up with short of unloading the entire dishwasher and hand-scrubbing each and every dish. You weren’t there. You can’t judge.

Well, the folks at Ajax should be pleased to know that just a small(ish) squirt of their Ruby Red Grapefruit Original Formula dish soap goes a VERY VERY long way.

I dropped in my dishwasher tablet… poured in some Ajax… closed the dishwasher door… hit start… and happily went to bed.

Ten minutes later there was a frantic knocking on my bedroom door.

The awesome grease cutting suds that were supposed to be inside the dishwasher, awesomely cutting grease, were, instead, pouring (like an avalanche – coming down the mountain) out the front of my dishwasher.

GAH!!!

The kitchen floor was COVERED in snowy white bubbles… several inches deep… and getting deeper by the second. And the worst part? There wasn’t anything I could do about it. Even if I turned the dishwasher off, which I did immediately, there was still no way to get the Ajax soap out. So I just had to let it run its course… and dump soap onto the floor… which I then scooped up and deposited into the sink as fast as I could.

It only lasted 15 minutes, but it was a mess. My pajamas were soaked, the kitchen was soapy and filled with soggy towels that proved to be all but totally ineffective, and my nerves were frazzled.

I think it’s safe to say that the incident was not entirely my fault. There were mitigating circumstances up the wa-zoo. BUT, still, wa-zoo aside, if I could go back in time and NOT put liquid dish soap in the dishwasher, I would.

Please learn from my mistakes.

Not Quitting My Day Job Any Time Soon

I should have known better. Should have known it was a mistake. Should have realized what I was getting myself into.

I thought I could handle it.

As I hide my bruises and fabricate excuses to co-workers for why it hurts to stand up, I realize – I’m in way over my head… I just… never thought it would be like this.

I’m writing, of course, about pole dancing.

Yes, pole dancing – as in skimpy outfits, seductive music, and a cold metal pole, mercilessly beating on my shins and inner thighs as I try desperately to cling to it. It’s not a pretty sight. What it is is frustrating, and exhausting, and $50 per class... it's the antithesis of pretty.

First off, the upper body strength required of a pole dancer is a detail that I greatly under appreciated… the friction of your patent leather heel against the pole and the super human strength of your “strong arm” (that’s what they call it in the biz) is all that you have to pull your entire body up off the floor. Let’s just say that my “strong arm” is little lacking in the strong department and the 14 (girlie) push-ups that I’ve been doing EVERY day for two weeks now are just not helping.

Second of all, two words – hand sweat. I don’t know what kind of gymnast’s chalk these girls are using, but I have got to get my hands on some (quite literally.) My pole all but drips with the perspiration from my disgusting palms… ewe ewe, and double ewe. I do a rubbing alcohol wipe down every few minutes, but it seems to provide only mediocre, and temporary, improvement.

Third, my backside + those skimpy little outfits = a shocking punch to the gut wake-up call regarding the devastating effects of long term exposure to the comfy chair in my cubicle. (I wonder if “Office-chair butt” is a work-related condition covered by my health insurance similar to carpel tunnel syndrome… I should ask.)

And then there are the shoes – HA! Do not get me started. 6 and a half inches of patent leather torture. And you want me dance in these things??

All I can say is it’s a damn good thing I have this engineering degree to fall back on, because I would never make it as a exoctic dancer.

------------
*p.s. Sorry I've been gone for SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO long... things have gotten ridiculous at work AND I'm back in school (eee!). I've missed you all!!!

Santa?

While driving around town the other day, Kyle and I saw a cop issuing a traffic ticket. In the driver's seat of the pulled over vehicle? Santa. Yep. Red suit, red hat, white beard, rosey cheeks... Santa. Looking quite distraught, I might add. Hey cop! It's Christmas!!! And you just pulled over Santa Claus!!! You are *so* getting coal this year. Thank goodness no little kids were around.

Oh, and I owe you all a tacky sweater pic...


Me and Keri in our holiday sweaters... made by the same company!

Ta-Dah!!

It doesn't look nearly as bad in this picture as it does in real life... The camera missed all of the details! The sequines, the bows, the beaded Santa belt, the shoulder pads, the jingle bell clip on the back (ala 1993).

Oh and the little random santa hat? It's the zipper! I love this sweater.

***Updated to add a picture of the jingle bell clip!!***


Check out the jingle bell clip!

*** Updated again to explain Kyle's lack of a Holiday sweater***

Unfortunately these pics are from a DIFFERENT night when I wore my super-awesome-holiday sweater... not the night of the actual holiday party. (Yes, I'm addicited to the sweater and have been wearing it non-stop. Please don't judge.)

It seems that I was a bit intoxicated the night of the holiday party and, in my drunken state, decided that all of the pictures that were taken of me and Kyle made me look fat and ugly... and so I deleted them. On the spot. Like an idiot. :(

Kyle really did look adorable in his red, white, and black, way too small, festive looking, turtleneck sweater from the used clothing store. Maybe I can get him to put it on again. For you guys. Becuase I love you. And because he looks cute in it. And I'm a sucker for cute.

Sticking To Girly Push-Ups From Now On

While riding on BART from San Francisco to Berkeley yesterday, clutching the two overhead handrails, I, being an idiot, attempted to do a pull-up. Not only did I fail (mis.er.a.bly) but I think I pulled something in my shoulder. :( In fact, my whole upper body hurts today. I am embarrassingly weak. (Trust me on this one, I once lost in arm wrestling to 90 lb Asian woman.)

On the upside, Cal stomped on UCLA and I got to watch it (we scored FREE last minute tickets!!) from the student section of my alma mater’s stadium with enough beer, sausage, and adrenaline in my system to not notice the pain. So that part was good.

Book

Re: some of the comments on my last post...

There's a BOOK!!??

Lost In Translation

Reason #4852 to teach your kids a foreign language... so this doesn't happen to them.

So there I am, in Bremen, Germany, enjoying a lovely evening with my German family. It should be noted that my German family does not speak a whole heck of a lot of English... and I do not speak ONE WORD of German (gee thanks, Dad.)

Well, my cousin, Andrea, put together the most amazing BBQ for everyone - really, everything was delicious... and I wanted to tell her - in German of course, so she could actually understand me. So I flip through my handy dandy German phrase book looking for the perfect phrase to express just how happy and satisfied I am with the entire meal.

I find the phrase... I get my entire family's attention (I want them to witness just how fabulously my German is coming along)... and I throw on my most convincing German accent.

And then, in PERFECT German, in front of my entire family, I say:

"Andrea, this food was inedible!"

Oh the look of horror and shock on Andrea's face! My aunt gasped. My cousin Sven was caught so off guard that he spit coca cola everywhere. And my uncle Harold, who had been absolutely SILENT up until this point, burst out laughing.

What'd I say, What'd I say!!!??? I thought to myself as I flipped madly through the phrase book.

Oh no!!!

See inedible and incredible are right next to each other in that stupid little book. An honest mistake, really, but I could not have been more embarrassed.

My family teased me about it for the rest of the trip... in fact, I'm sure I'll never live it down.

Ugh.

Sporty Courtney

Doh!

Well *Now* I'm Numb

So I go to have a cavity filled today and my dentist informs me that some people get their cavities filled without Novocain. Yay for them, I think, drug me please!

Apparently my cavity was really small and Mr. Dentist thought I might be a good candidate for some drug-free drilling... so he pokes at my un-numbed tooth. It turns out I am quite possibly the WORST candidate ever for drug-free drilling. I scream in pain and we decide to take the Novocain route. He gives me a shot, and then we wait for the numbness to take over. Except that it's NOT taking over. I can still feel my whole mouth!!! I inform him of the situation and he says, "Well, let's find out..."

"OWWWWW!"
"Ok, you're not numb yet... let's give you a second shot and wait a few more minutes."
Shot... wait... drill...
"OWWWWW!"
"Maybe we'll wait just a few more minutes..."

So we wait, and wait, and wait some more.

FINALLY we decide that I'm numb enough and the cavity gets filled. Mind you it *did* hurt a bit, but I felt like such a baby by this point that I decided not to say anything.

I thank Mr. Dentist and am on my way... out in the parking lot... into my car... start driving back to work... then it hits me!

My mouth is NUMB... my tongue is NUMB... my cheek is numb, my neck is numb, and I'm pretty sure my left ear's not feeling quite right. Help! I feel like my face is actually going to fall off! In retrospect, maybe that second shot was not the best of all possible ideas. I start laughing, and my mouth feels absolutely ridiculous, so I laugh more, and then I start drooling and, well, it wasn't pretty. HELP!

So I'm back at work now, trying to eat the oh-so-yummy turkey and avocado sandwich that I made this morning, (not that I can taste it with all the numbness, but it smells really yummy) and people are looking at me like a have down syndrome. :( Ahrhghgahgh. (<- What I sound like when I talk) Sheesh! Next time I am sooo going the laughing gas route.

I'll Take "Computers For Absolute Morons", Please

I am officially retarded when it comes to computers. :( Oh sure, I'll design aerospace qualified mechanisms all day long, but heaven forbid I try to download a music CD onto my computer ... you'd think I'll was blind chimpanzee trying to perform brain surgery. It’s completely unacceptable. Actual quote from a few months ago…

Luke: “… just open up Windows Explorer…”

Me: “Wait, what’s a Window’s Explorer.”

Take blogging (my new obsession) for instance. My blog is so ugly and boring! I can’t stand it. At first I thought everyone’s blogs was boring… default background, standard font, blah blah blah. Ummmm No. Apparently I am the only person on the planet who doesn’t know the secret password and handshake to make my blog come alive. People are posting pictures and links to other blogs… they’ve got counters and music, they’re changing the font, the format, and *gasp* even the background! Why do I not know how to do these things!!?? Did I miss that day in the life school? Was I out sick, did my mom write me a note – because, darn it, she shouldn’t have. She should have said, “get your lazy butt out of bed and embrace the computer… you’ll thank me one day” (She always adds a “you’ll thank me one day” to the end of her motherly tidbits.)

Seriously folks, can’t someone help me out??