Committees suck.

There's a saying in advertising: Design by committee.

Basically, it's when a group of people get out of control and botch up a perfectly good design for no apparent reason other than they want to have an opinion.

And "it's good," isn't a good enough opinion.

Beautiful things die by means of fear. Good ideas get buried in meaningless words. And hard work never gets the recognition it deserves; it just gets reworked until it's unrecognizable and looks like a five-minute combination of fonts and colors.

And it's not just advertising that melts at the temperture of group mentality.

Committees ruin ideas. Propositions. Careful planning.

Everything.

And even when a committee isn't consulted, one sprouts up anyway.

And I'm left staring at a computer screen wondering where to start. All over again.

Thanks for the Christmas card, stranger.

Back when Cooter and I were inviting people to our wedding, we ran into the same problem so many couples face.

Mom and Dad want to invite everyone from here to the moon, no matter how well (or unwell) they knew these people.

I can safely say that my Dad invited at least ten people whom he barely knew. At one point, he even said, "I think that's her last name."

Why invite people who are practically strangers? I have no idea. But he was paying and we had to oblige.

Anyway, there's one couple's name that kept popping up. Because every time our expending family would look at the invite list, they would ask, "Who are Jane and John Doe?" (Obviously, I changed the names.) And a every time, Cooter and I would say, "We have no clue. [Dad] invited them."

And most of the time, Dad couldn't remember who they were either.

Again, why were they invited to our wedding?

Chances are, they had no clue in hell who I was. And no clue in the largest circle of hell who Cooter was. But they feel like they should know us now, because we got a Christmas card from them. Picture and all.

And still, even after seeing their smiling faces, we have no idea who these people are.

Oh well. Nice to know that even as strangers, we're worth a 48 cent stamp.

You smell wonderful.

Someone who smelled very good stood here not long ago. 

I know absolutely nothing about this person. Not his or her gender, hair color, sense of humor. But I know what this person smells like. 

And I like how he or she smells. It's clean like soap. But sophisticated with light floral notes. But friendly and with a hint of fruit. 

I like how the scent of this person lingered in the hallway just for me. And then surprised me again in the elevator, one of six which could have answered my call.

You smell great, stranger who once stood here. And I feel we would get along famously.

Adding an X doesn't make it any better.

Around a year ago, clients started sending me .doc and .ppt files like they always had, only there was one tiny difference.

An X.

.doc became .docx, and .ppt became .pptx.

What is this new file type? I wondered. Shortly before my computer hiccuped and froze.

Then I soon discovered that Microsoft Word couldn't open these new WordX  files.

What?

That X was apparently the newest cockroach in the Microsoft suite of office tools. And I just want everyone out there to know that the X doesn't make Word or Powerpoint or Excel any more badass.

If anything, it makes them worse. Because now they've got an X. A letter which used to mean "cool," "edgy," and "untamed."

Now it's just another fad adopted by corporations in order to appear young, fresh, an alive.

Or maybe it's just supposed to make some accountants feel badass.

Whatever the reason for extending the extension with a ridiculous x ("doc x" sounds like a comic book character as opposed to a creative brief), it's lame. Just like everything Microsoft does.

Besides, iWork, Apple's version of the office suite, is far less buggy, easier to use, and prettier.

And it opens those ridiculous .docx files. Unlike every version of Word I already have (which, being a writer, is quite a few).

Oh, crap. Am I a vegetarian ... vampire?

Today, I was alone in the elevator when I started looking at my nails. And I noticed that my hands were sparkling ever so slightly.

Hmm, I guess my hand lotion has some shimmer in it, I thought. Then I noticed that my arms were also glittery.

But I didn't remember putting lotion on my arms.

My upper arms shined under the dim lights of the elevator as well.

What the fuck, I thought.

Looking at the halogen bulbs in the ceiling, and then wondering if there were indeed cameras hidden in there somewhere, I tossed out caution and lifted my shirt enough to see my stomach.

AND IT WAS SPARKLY, TOO!

That's when I panicked. Because I wasn't wearing anything on my person that would make me sparkle.

Then it hit me. I'm one of those sparkly, glittery, asshole vampires from Twilight.

I shine. And I twinkle.

At least in low light.

I couldn't run out of my building and into the sun fast enough. Where I discovered that if I was sparkling, it wasn't visible in the daylight.

A small bit of relief sandwiched inside of a bigger, glittery question.

Is it normal to twinkle in low light? Someone please tell me this isn't exclusive to just me and that fictitious, possessive Edward jerk. Please!

I'm going to start carrying a dry-erase marker in my car.

When people are behind the wheel, they are assholes.

Perfectly kind, normal humans turn into unholy demons when there are four wheels beneath them. I can't explain this odd phenomenon, and I won't try to.

What's even worse is when those same demons park their vehicles in a way that disables other people from getting into their cars.

This is common practice at my apartment, which in itself is odd considering it isn't hard to find out who drives what car.

Anyway,  I just read a blog bitching about the whole I-had-to-get-into-my-car-from-the-passenger-side-because-some-dickhead-parked-too-close-to-my-car problem. And the writer didn't leave a note because it would do "no good."

The writer is right.

The alternative sucks, too. I have friends who'll gladly bash the offending car with their car door trying to teach a lesson. I'm not too fond of that, either, considering it's impossible to know the entire reason they parked so close (perhaps they had to because of another asshole car on their left side). Or there's always the chance that the poor parker had no idea they parked so badly (I know, inexcusable, but it happens), and they're left with a huge scratch they won't feel guilty for.

Anyway, I came up with a suitable solution that damages no vehicles, yet lets a fair amount of venting take place.

The dry-erase marker.

When someone parks too close to you, parks over the line, takes up two spots, whatever the offense is, simply write a message on their windows with the dry erase marker.

It does no damage to their car. It doesn't waste paper. And it'll freak them out thinking they've been Sharpied with:

• Just because your car cost 100K, doesn't mean you get to park like an ASSHOLE.
• Thanks for making me get in on my passenger side, DICK WAD.
• Take my license from me. I don't know how to park.
• I can't stay in the lines, either! Enjoy the Sharpie, JERK. 

Or perhaps it's a terrible idea. But I'm excited to try it.

Go ahead, demons, park too close to the 'Stang!

My desk is a death trap.

Did you know it’s possible to be allergic to dust?

Dust! Plain, lands-on-everything dust.

I’m allergic to dust. And “allergic” is putting it lightly. Apparently, I’m really very truly allergic to dust. And I have the photos of my allergy test to prove it.

And my desk? Covered in dust.

This knowledge has made me paranoid. Instead of my keyboard, I see teensy, tiny skulls. The light film that collects in the corners of my work area look like tiny daggers. And the film that gathers on my phone buttons looks like itchy, sneezy spears.

No wonder I was constantly scratching my face, arms, neck ... I’m fucking allergic to my work environment. 

 I guess I could do a better job cleaning it. But everyone will laugh at me if I break out the gloves and face mask. Which is far worse than some scratching. Right?

Can we say girl power?

A friend of mine dated this guy for around two months. It was a fun little fling that she needed to get over a previous ex.

Because as most of us know, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

Well, he called it off, and to her it was no big deal. She wasn't going to marry this guy anyway.

But then he started checking up on her. Via mutual friends. And painting this picture that she was depressed and eating tubs of ice cream while sobbing to Lifetime movies.

So she sends him this:

Posted with her permission.

Um. Genius. If I had half the balls as my friend does, I'd rule the fucking world and drive a motorcycle or something.

Instead, I can only bestow her Awesome status. Which ain't bad, in my awesomely humble opinion.

Let's amp up the window washing.

The other day, window washers assaulted the building I'm working in. And by "assaulted," I mean that they were just doing their job. But they startled the crap out of nearly everyone.

Three of these acrobatic men all slammed into our 25th floor windows at the same time. Then the rubbery sounds of squeegees waved through the air like blasts of buckshot.

But it was still cool. Many of us grabbed our phones to snap photos as the Peter-Pan-like shadows danced behind the blinds.

"Perhaps we should wave," I suggested. "They probably don't get too much human interaction when office folks are trying to ignore them."

"I bet they get flashed a lot," a guy commented.

Shortly after, I walked home. And another building was being washed by these brave men.

And as I watched from the sidewalk, I thought to myself, window washing could be even more entertaining if retired Cirque du Soleil performers did it.

Think about it. A flexible clown scaling up the side of a glass building without a rope, tumbling and stretching as he artfully removes dirt and grime above the streets.

Together, the crew of clowns would spin and dance. Operatic music would play, and just as it reaches a crescendo ...

... the clowns fall, spinning to earth.

The crowds which have gathered below would gasp. They would their faces behind quivering hands. Others would stare as the colorful clowns twisted and flailed, fighting gravity's strong grip.

And then, just as it seems too late, they would all land on ledges and light post with the litheness of cats. The whole descent was a part of the show, the audience would realize. Then applause and cheers would explode from the masses.

And the window washers would dash off into the sky, leaving behind a sparkling building and an amazed group of onlookers.

I want to be more than an ACD.

In the advertising world, ACD stands for Associate Creative Director. Usually it means you have a teensy bit of power (but not much, it's still a creative job in advertising) and a few more responsibilities.

But it's a lame title. ACD? Come on.

I don't want to be an ACD ever. But I do want to be an ACDC. Because that would fucking rock.

What does the extra C stand for?

• Copywriting
• Cock-punching.
• of Creative (again).
• Awesome (yeah, there's no C, wanna fight about it?)

As the sole ACDC in the creative department, I would promise to only wear shiny, leather pants. Perhaps even pleather. I would grow my hair too long and tease it to the ceiling. Every meeting would end with my throwing a chair through a window. No windows? I'd rip the marker board off of the wall.

When I'd enter a room, smoke would billow through the door along with me. Lunches would be metal--served off of the bodies of hot people. And I would never sit on someone's desk. I'd just prop a foot up on it, and stretch as I explained whatever I would be explaining.

Every day would start with a guitar solo and end with an encore. And you bet your sweet ass that all of my friends would get backstage passes to my office.

Yep, I want to be an ACDC. In fact, I think every office should have one.

Still rocking out on YummyAwesome.com.

My partner in crime, the DirtyCanadian, has decided that if our Facebook page can get 100 fans by Halloween, we each must eat 100 pieces of candy back to back.

The part of me that loves my way-to-expensive designer jeans is screaming, "Noooooo!"

But the four-year-old girl in my is screaming, "CANDY!"

So what defines a piece of candy? Because I could totally cop out and eat 100 jelly beans. Although, that's still a shit ton of jelly beans, the more I think about it.

Although, baby Snickers bars sound good. Or Rolos.

Just not Tootsie Rolls. I hate those. They look and taste like little chocolate turds.

ACL almost killed me. Again.

Consider my most recent trip to the popular Austin City Limits musical festival my swan song.

Because there's no way I can go back again. Unless the city of Austin manages to install huge filters to suck the dust and allergens out of the air.

Two years ago, simply attending ACL put me in the hospital and resulted in weeks of crazy steroid treatments to flush out my lungs and get me breathing normally again.

Because I'm the pathetic asthma kid.

So I didn't go last year. But this year, my sweet husband begged me to attend. And I was terrified. Because I remember how bad I felt. And I remember thinking I was going to die as my air supply slowly shut off. And I remember how the first clinic we went to wouldn't accept my health insurance and wouldn't treat me despite the fact that I could barely stand.

So I went. I listened to the music. even enjoyed it. I ate the food and drank many cans of delicious tea.

And I put my vanity aside and wore a mask over my mouth and nose so I'd be filtering the nasties out of my inspired air.

But alas, this wasn't good enough. After rushing to the medical tent and undergoing a breathing treatment (and the possible chance of being carted out of the festival in an ambulance), living this entire week with a cough that exceeds safe volume, a faucet for a nose, and exhausting my inhaler, I've decided that ACL just isn't for me.

Austin, to you I cry, "Uncle."

What is wrong with children's toys?

My sister and I were Barbie girls. We had tons of Barbies (don't you dare call them dolls), multiple cars, the dream house.

The works.

And since our childhood, Barbie has undergone multiple rounds of plastic surgery to shrink her bust, expand her waist, and reshape her hips. Because several people felt that her unrealistic body was prompting little girls to eat less and wear less.

Barbie has also been dating Ken for decades. And both of them have also undergone procedures to make sure their genitalia is as un-genital like as possible.

Because God forbid some little girl knows that men have penises and women have ass cracks.

Yet today, toddlers are given these toys.

Yo Gabba Gabba character, a giant dildo with one eye

Sing-A-Ma-Jig, looks to go along great with the above Gabba

And all I'm going to say about these horrific toys is this:
If Barbie is considered dirty, what in the hell do people say about these creepy toys? Usually these items are illegal in the state of Texas unless labeled "cake topper."

Next bachelorette party I attend, guess what the bride is getting.

I'd hate to hear what Freud thought of this.

Today, after a considerable amount of job-related stressors attacked me like buck shot, I realized that I was working with left my hand firmly wrapped around my throat.

And I panicked a bit.

Not only because I looked weird in my masochistic pose, but because I was so subconsciously angered by a particular project that I was trying to off myself in public.

Did anyone see? And if so, why didn't anyone stop me?

I have  dangerously expressive gestures anyway. (Another writer who shares my plight works by the manta "hide your face.") It's not unusual for someone to walk by me and make some comment about my being deep in thought, frustrated, or elated. I'll smile when I write something I enjoy. I'll slap my forehead when I write something particularly bad (or someone makes an asinine comment). Or I'll blankly stare out the window, at ceiling tiles, or at my pencil cup as I search for the right grouping of words.

All of this when something small happens. I over exaggerate with my body what I'm feeling on the inside.

But never before have I so unknowingly slipped a hand around my throat and started to squeeze.

Perhaps it's time to take up a new hobby.

I have a deal for the bed bugs.

Dear Bed Bugs,

I have a few family members around the country who've had to deal with exterminating you. And the whole experience sounds awful.

Steaming furniture. Bagging books. Washing everything including curtains. Temporarily moving out. Spending assloads of money.

I don't want to do any of that.

So I'll cut you a deal, Bed Bugs. I hear that you like tasty tasty blood. In fact, I hear you love it. So I will gladly give you a lip-smacky vial of my sweet vegetarian blood every week if you promise not to infest my home.

I'll even deliver it to wherever you'd like.

Think about it. Fragrant, veggie blood. I'll even eat extra fruit so it's super sugary with hints of citrus. And just think, you won't have to try and break through my skin. Extra bonus!

Act now, Bed Bugs. I'm completely serious.

I will make beautiful music.

When I was little, I wanted to learn how to play the piano.

I saw tons of my friend playing talk about going to their piano lessons. And I wanted to go to piano lessons, too.

So I begged my parents. And they said, "No." Because they felt that I would get bored. And it would be a waste of money.

We had an out-of-tune piano in our house. And I would spend hours banging on the keys. Making little tunes. Writing songs that I can sort of still remember. Sounding out things like "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

But even after bleeding as much dedication as a seven year old could, my parents still wouldn't give me piano lessons. And being the eighties, I couldn't simply google "how to play the piano" like I can today.

So when we started playing the recorder, those simple little plastic instruments in the third grade, I practiced and practiced until I was the best recorder player in class. I played in my room after school. Before dinner. After dinner. I could play any song in that book the teacher gave us.

Still. My parents felt I'd get bored with the piano. I think they were just cheap. Or they thought dance lessons were more feminine (after all, I wasn't allowed to take karate, either).

So after years of being discouraged from learning the piano, at 27 years old, I googled "how to play the piano."

I also bought myself a keyboard. And I've been learning how to read music. I already know all of the keys. And  I'm starting to be able to play the easy songs (although playing with two hands at once is still beyond me, but it'll happen).

I'm going to do this. I can do this.

I taught myself how to ride a bike when I was in third grade (late bloomer, I know; but I had no one to teach me).

I taught myself how to do back handsprings. And then a series of back handsprings. And then with a flip in the end. And to salto off of a balance beam.

I taught myself how to swim. And dive. Sort of.

And I'm going to teach myself how to play beautiful music. It's not going to be easy. But neither was waiting twenty years to learn.

I am officially a professional.

The dictionary definition of a professional is someone who gets paid to do something.

It's a lose definition, but you get the gist.

Well, the dictionary is wrong. In order to be a professional, one must master the art of walking away while still engaged in conversation.

Not ending the conversation and then departing. Actually finishing up a sentence while increasing distance. It's multitasking at it's finest. And only the best professionals do it well.

EXAMPLE 1
Person 1: This is great.
Person 2: I appreciate that.
Person 1: Thanks for getting it to me so quickly.
Person 2 (while walking away): Let me know if you need anything else.

EXAMPLE 2
Both people are approaching one another in the hallway.
Person 1: Hey, how was your weekend.
Person 2: It was fantastic. Did you go to Six Flags with your family?
Now they are side by side, but only for a moment because they're both still walking.
Person 1: Sure did. I won a basketball.
Person 2: Did you play in college?
They are now walking away from one another and not facing.
Person 1: Sure did.

Over the course of the last few weeks, I've been slowly observing this phenomenon. And I'm finally getting the hang of it.

Hooray. My parents would be so proud.

I usually don't drink while I write.

There's one week out of every month that I refer to as Hell Week.

And no, we're not talking about that week.

I have a monthly writing assignment (that I absolutely love) that's a ton of work for a relatively short amount of time.

So for that week, I'm usually writing late into the night and burning my brain with the glow of a very large computer screen.

Some of the things I have to write come easily. Some of them require more time-eating research than I'd prefer to do. And some just bust my non-existant balls.

Like this one thing I have to write tonight. I don't even know where to start. It's a ridiculous little thing that's so far outside of my comfort zone that I had to go to the liquor cabinet.

I never drink while I write. Er, I never start writing and need a drink. After all, I can't help it if my glass of wine from dinner follows me into the home office. Plus that glass usually take three hours to drink.

I digress. I don't purposefully drink to alter myself to alter my writing.

Drinking makes me fuzzy, not funny, slow, and a poor judge of taste.

But without my little glass of flavored vodka, there's no way in Hell I'd get through this one piece of an otherwise overflowing Hell Week.

Cheers, friends.

I really hate censorship.

Have you heard of the phenomenon "Shit my dad says."

It's hilarious. It's basically insane ramblings from someone's hilarious father (in a nutshell, anyway).

And one of the big networks is adapting the concept into a TV show. And they've decided to call it "[Funny Symbols That Imply a Censored Word] My Dad Says."

That's right. They're using symbols. They're not saying "shit."

And people are getting their fucking panties in a tight little wad and then shoving that tight little wad up their puckered asses like little bitches.

Because symbols mean there's a dirty word. GASP! You know what else means a dirty word? Darn. Or fiddle sticks. Or oh my stars. Or golly geez.

Using *&%# in type when you're expressing shock is no different than keying, "Shoot!"

I just can't believe people are getting offended by an asterisk. If they're so worried about their kids learning a dirty word (that isn't even there), tell the kids that the symbols mean kablooey, blast, rats, or drat.

I'm glad William Shatner (whom I will now refer to as the Shat) is on board with this show. The guy's got a temper and he's bound to say some brilliant stuff about these censor-happy fucktards.

Let the Shat hit the fan.

I am a city mouse.

I love the city. I love the concrete, the tall buildings (despite crippling acrophobia), and the one-way streets.

I love the sounds of traffic, construction, and high heels on hard surfaces.

I love working downtown. And I'm so stoked to be spending most of my working hours here again.

Downtown just gives me energy. It gives me the feeling of flying (perhaps because I'm on the 25th floor). And ideas are just easier to find this close to the clouds.

As long as I stay far enough away from those floor-to-ceiling windows. Those make me dizzy.

Let's go to sleep.

Christopher Nolan, I love you.

Not in the way I love my husband (so have no fear, dear), but out of true admiration.

You tell the greatest stories. In the greatest ways. And leave my head delightfully spinning.

Yesterday, I watched your latest movie. "Inception." A movie about dreams and the power of dreaming and people who take advantage of that power.

People who can share dreams. Experience the hazy dream world together. Some not even aware that they're dreaming.

After being pulled down the layers of these dreams-within-dreams-within-dreams, I couldn't wait to go to bed. And dream myself.

Perhaps I'll sleep easier from now on. In anticipation of what awaits me once my eyelids close.

Thank you, Guitar Hero.

Tonight, I will have three teenagers in my home.

A girl and two guys. Fifteen, sixteen, and twelve.

A normal person would be scared to death of this scenario. A normal person wouldn't volunteer themselves to this daunting task.

A normal person may not have four Guitar Hero instruments, either.

Bring on the age-driven hormonal rage. It only makes for better rock.

Yummy Awesome is coming to a browser near you.

My good friend (and fellow copywriter) and I are starting a new blog.

www.Yummy Awesome.com

It's presently in it's infancy. As in, not really designed yet. But I'm giving my devoted readers the first look. After all, we're writers. We wrote posts before the damn thing was named.

Basically we're talking shit to "good" food that tastes bad. And admiring "bad" food that tastes good. I believe I've already written a few posts like that on this blog.

Anyway, check out Yummy Awesome. Tell your friends about Yummy Awesome. And then go eat something Yummy Awesome.

What is wrong with all of the women?

I really don't get it. No matter how hard I try I can't understand why Twilight is such a phenomenon. 

It's about a moody, vapid, and dangerously immature teenage girl who can't choose between a sparkly pedophile and a housepet.

She let's the pedophile manipulate her. Let's him tell her she's weaker than him. That only he can protect her. Then he leaves her only to return and tell her the same I-do-it-for-you crap. That follows very closely to the definition of a mentally abusive relationship. 

I hate what these books teach not only young women, but all women. That it's okay to be treated like a little doll, told that we're weak but it's okay because it's so cute, and that we should be okay with puttig ourselves in danger for a crush. Because bones heal and skin regenerates. 

I'm all for a fantasy story. I'm all for love and tales of romance. But I'm not for telling women that it's okay to be the lesser person in a relationship. Because in the end your creepy older boyfriend will marry you and the younger guy you like/d can then date your daughter.

I hope the sun sets on this Twilight crap soon. The proud woman in me is weeping for my lost friends.

Your food is ready.

Poor microwave. You're just not the smartest appliance in the kitchen, are you?

Sure, you possess the unique power to cause molecule gyration, creating friction and heating food up by crazy alien magic (or so it seems).

But it's impossible to ignore your sad little foibles. Like the fact that your timer doesn't have an off option. Or that your handle is falling apart and can cut fingers if gripped in the wrong spot.

And that you always announce with a ignorantly chipper beep, "Your food is ready."

Because, dear sweet dumb microwave, we don't always use you for food.

Granted, hot tea is potable and therefore ingestible, it's not food. A food item perhaps, but not food.

So when I want my steamy mug of green tea and you say, "Your food is ready," I always pause and think, "There's no food to be ready."

And it's not always edibles that go in the microwave. When I'm heating up leg wax and you proclaim to the household that the food is ready, I worry about you, microwave. Because no one in their right mind would call leg wax food. Yet you seem to think it's appropriate to spread on crackers and toast.

There's another fallacy to your logic. Even if you're heating food, it's not always ready when the countdown is over. Many items require repositioning and reheating. Sometimes up to three rounds of changes. And each time, you sing, "Your food is ready," and I get resentful. Because my macaroni is still ice in the center and I know it's going to be another four minutes after I've poked holes in something, or transferred dishes, or stabbed the cheesy cube a few times.

Microwave, at times like that, your proclamation isn't just ill informed. It's downright rude.

We need to work on your announcement, microwave. Perhaps you should say, "I am shutting off."

Or, "Thank you for using me instead of the toaster oven."

Or a simple, "Have a nice day."

I will give you one acclamation, microwave. You spelled your correctly. So I suppose your odd sentence can slide. For now.

Your education doesn't impress me.

You have an MBA.

So what? That doesn't impress me at all.

I went to college. I have a degree. And it was easy for me.

I imagine it's easy for tons of other people.

You know what isn't easy? Paying for college. And paying for an MBA.

That is what impresses me. That you found thousands upon thousands of dollars in order to write how big your penis is on your resume.

I am not impressed by your MBA. And I'm fairly certain I'm smarter than you.

So quit bragging about it.

Of course there isn't more video.

Since I just posted about a video, I must get this story out of my brain.

Yes, yes, yes. I got married a few months ago. And like most weddings, there was major head butting between the bride and the person with the checkbook.

Not that the wedding was extravagantly expensive. It was well under the Dallas average. But that aside, we didn't hire a videographer. We're lucky that we live in the days of the Flip cam and the iPhone. And various people recorded our nuptials from various angles and I'm slowly putting them all together for a DVD to watch when I'm a 50.

But last night, my dad asks me, "Who recorded the reception?"

What?

"Dad," I very carefully replied, "no one recorded the reception."

"Why not?" he asked.

In a panic, not knowing how to answer without totally insulting him, I eeked out, "We didn't hire anyone to record it. So no one did. I've seen a snippet here of a few dance floor videos. That's it."

"So no one recorded our dance* or the cake cutting?" he directed at me. With complete ignorance.

At this point, I'm shocked. One, because he knew damn well he didn't want to front the money to pay a pro. It was discussed heavily. And I was cool with that (because as a photographer, I like photos anyway). And two, because we had PIE AND NOT CAKE. How could he forget that? He fought me on it until the night before the wedding. Seriously. At the rehearsal dinner, he asked me, "Are you sure you don't want a cake? We can probably still get one."

"No, dad. The only thing we have from the reception are pictures. No video."

"Oh. Hmm. Maybe we should have hired someone."

Fuck me.

*That he never picked a song for, by the way. And the DJ had to scramble for one LITERALLY as Dad was going to the dance floor. Never mind that I harangued him about it weekly. Then daily once we hit the seven-days-before-the-wedding mark. I even sent him MP3s and said, "Choose one."

I need help.

I watched a cell-phone-camera video the other day of me dancing with a friend at Cooter and my wedding.

Well, it's wasn't so much us dancing as it was my friend slinging me around. And me awkwardly trying to keep up.

Even a wedding dress can't make a marionette look graceful. In fact, referring to myself as a marionette is insulting to puppets.

You know what I looked like? One of those children's toys that collapses when a button is pushed. Because it loosens the taut strings that keeps it rigid.

I'm all elbows and chin when I try to groove.

It doesn't help that I'm tall, either. So these long limbs just flail with the grace of a falling egg.

It brings back painful memories of when I was in high school gymnastics. When I would dance on the beam.

"Perhaps we should just focus on the skills and tumbling," my coach said when I attempted a graceful arm movement. Woman fail.

I even took a pole dancing class the other day. Seriously. Seeing myself in the mirror got me so nervous that my hands kept sweating. Which made it even harder to dance. Which made me stiffer and ... The instructor was very kind. Perhaps I'll go back?

Or perhaps I'll just get so drunk the next time I have to dance, that I won't care.

As long as no one takes any video.

I'm two people.

I faintly recall changing my name around three months ago.

It wasn't that hard of a process. Stand in this line. Show this form of ID. Show this sheet of paper. Sign this other sheet of paper. Get a photo taken.

Boom. Sweet new name.

Well, apparently, that made me a whole new person.

Because as a humble freelancer, I now have to re-fillout all of the wonderful W documents that I've already so bitterly filled out.

Not that it's a huge deal. It's just that lately, they keep pouring in. From various clients.

"Oh, well, we thought everything would be fine with your old stuff, but we really need to fill everything out again."

Because for some reason, when they see my new name on my invoice, my old name appears on my check.

And then the bank looks at me cross-eyed.

"But this isn't you," they say.

First name. New last name.  "Who the fuck is that?" I ask.

Middle name. New last name. "Who the fuck is that?" the bank asks.

You see, my parents decided to call me by my middle name and I dropped my maiden name entirely, so the bank is basically looking for a person who (to me and my husband) doesn't exist.

But to my point, shouldn't they have a record of who I used to be?

Perhaps I should carry two drivers licenses around with me (which is illegal).

Dude, I just wanted a cooler name and health insurance. Geez.

Perhaps you shouldn't stalk your potential customers.

I am a home renter. I've been a home renter for the last eight years (holy crap, really?).

More specifically, I've been an apartment renter. And I like it.

But the American Dream includes owning a small piece of land. And my husband and I will be pursuing this dream in 2011. So I joined one of those harmless real estate websites where we can innocently browse neighborhoods.

You know, do some research in advance.

Only, it's become creepy.

Yesterday morning, for example, I received a phone call around four in the afternoon.

"I noticed you were looking for homes on our website earlier today ..." said the voice.

Um, what?

I know a freaky amount about Internet analytics. I worked at a company that created websites, for crying out loud. And I still freelance for websites.

I know about analytics.

I know that companies will track web users to understand their habits (the average amount of time people spend on Website X is twenty-four seconds).

So I'm not at all surprised that the website a) knew I was there and b) logged in.

What surprised me is that only hours later, a human called me and then called me out on it.

"You seem to be interested in the ___ area."

Creepy. Very creepy. You know, my computer has a webcam, too. Did that freaky ass monger hack it? Because now I'm paranoid as shit.

What else does that guy know? Does he know that my hair was in curlers and I was wearing a robe? That I was drinking a lukewarm green tea? That Bridezillas or some equally embarrassing show was on in the background?

Don't call me saying you know where I've been. I'm pretty sure that's legally stalking. And if not, it's damn close.

I'm so excited, I can't sleep.

The queen will be blogging from a shiny new iMac very very soon.

Not that I'm going to abandon my faithful PowerBook G4. We've had some crazy times together over the last five years.

We've been to New York a few times. LA a few times. We've consumed countless cups of tea in coffee shops across the DFW. 

My PowerBook lived beside me as I recovered from surgery. And then I fretfully paced as it went to the hospital itself.

It's been my faithful companion on nights when sleep couldn't be found. And it's also kept me up way too late despite being completely tired.

We've laughed. We've cried. We've worked. We've played.

And although my devoted PowerBook G4 is going to be used less now that the big iMac is moving in, it always will be important to me. 

No woman ever forgets her first true love. 

Cheers to Stone Fox, my first Macintosh.

I am appalled, channel guide summary writer."

"Batman battles a vicious criminal known as the Joker."

That's the summary for "The Dark Knight." Perhaps the greatest movie ever to be filmed, scored, edited, and created.

Perhaps the shittiest summary I've ever laid eyes on, too.

Excuse me, but saying, "Batman battles a vicious criminal known as the Joker," is like saying, "World War II was a skirmish between Germany's friends and the U.S. just so happened to get involved."

"The Dark Knight" is so much more complex than Batman vs. the Joker. At least give the movie another sentence.

Or just describe it like I would:

Watch this movie now. Even if you've seen it a hundred times, you haven't watched it enough.

Thanks, chicky movie, for making me stupider.

I love action movies. I love comedic movies. And if there's a movie that has both explosions and laughter, I'm all over it.

I'm also a female. Which means that I should like chick flicks.

Should.

I admit, there are a few that I'll consider good. But my all-time list of favorites doesn't contain a single chick movie.

Because most of them suck balls. Big, sweaty, buffalo balls.

The characters are weak and predictable. The story lines are weak and predictable. The endings are weak and predictable.

Seeing the pattern?

But they're tricky, too, these shitty feel-good, girly movies. A preview will show some powerful NY woman laughing with her friends, or getting into a funny brawl. And they make me think, "Hey, I would enjoy that."

But I know better. I will save my money. And then DVR the movie when my husband isn't home (since we already pay for satellite).

Then, I will watch the offending movie. And I'll get mad at the end. Because the movie is always bad, will always be bad. It's always lackluster and will always be lackluster. It's always a horrible (suicidal) way to kill ninety minutes (and myself).

Call me crazy, but I want to think.  I should refuse to watch anything from now on unless Chris Nolan is working on it.

Anyway, I haven't learned my lesson. I will continue to watch the chicky dicky sticky movies when no one's around.

Maybe I should wait until it's lady time. Perhaps I'll like them more.

Chicken breasts save human breasts?

As a vegetarian, this may come as a bit of a shock. But I'm not grossed out by the KFC Double Down.

I think tomatoes and lettuce sandwiched between two pieces of fried chicken isn't a bad idea. Because most people would eat two or three pieces of fried chicken without the added nutrition of sandwich fillings. So what's the harm of deleting buttery slices of bread (which, if you have read Chick-Fil-A's health info, is actually worse than the chicken).

But one thing KFC advertises that raises my eyebrow is their "Buckets for the Cure" campaign. Something like fifty cents goes to Susan G. Komen for the Cure for every greasy, most-likely-cancer-causing bucket of kentucky-fried chicken you purchase.

So you buy fried breasts, and then you theoretically save some breasts.

But eating fried chicken isn't healthy. So you must eat something bad to do something good?

Not that I'm anti breast cancer prevention and research, but perhaps KFC should focus on, I don't know, heart health? And perhaps stop selling chicken by the bucket?

Just a thought.

I'm sleeping alone.

The husband is out of town on business.

So the Queen has the bed all to herself for seven nights.

You know what sucks? Having a husband-less bed. You know what sucks worse? Having a husband-less bed for seven nights.

One night? Okay. Doable.

Two nights? Sure. It gets lonely, but not achingly so.

Three? That's pushing it. That's when the familiar smell of him starts to be overtaken by my shampoo.

But seven? Seven is a number of bad shit. Seven deadly sins. Seven years of bad luck. 7-11.

I should go to bed. But that Queen-size is looking really really big without my king in it.

The Queen is a little bitter.

The problem is that the Queen doesn't want to complain too much about the situation because she tries really hard to keep the personal life (and blog) separate from the professional life.

Granted, the two can't help but cross once in a while. But for the most part, names and specific situations are kept mum.

So the Queen is forced to sit and stew and is unable to vent in the written word on this blog. Like she so needs to do.

Should've worked a little harder at that anonymity thing.

Congratulations are in order.

I admittedly have no idea who (still) reads this blog.

But there's one person who (when we are lucky enough to see each other) never fails to tell me she still reads it. And she makes me feel awesome.

Well, that lucky lady and her love just had their first baby. And as the Queen of Awesome, I must say that having a little baby is pretty awesome.

Congrats, K. Your son is lovely (And I hope he eventually gives you the time to stop by the blog and read this!).

I thought this was a family friendly affair.

I went to a MLB game with the majority of my family last night. And it was pretty fun.

We ate peanuts. It was dollar hotdog night (and my husband probably downed five of the things).

And I always get a kick out of the animated videos that play on the big screen. Especially when the pindrop music they use is the same music that HBO's Real Sex documentary series uses for their opening sequence.

Pair that with suggestively dancing CGI ball caps, the racing red dot/period, and those throat-plunging hot dogs, and I start to doubt the wholesomeness of major league baseball.

At least that splash I felt on my back was some drunk girl's beer instead of ... well, I don't even want to think about that.

I love this video.

A few years ago, my buddy (who always find cool things before I do) sent me this link:
http://www.duelity.net/

It's two separate videos. It's creationism presented scientifically. And also evolution presented in story fashion.

And then you can watch them side by side. It's awesome. If you have a few moments, I suggest you watch it.

Some things just stay with you forever. 2.

Eighteen years ago ...

... I was nine and in the fourth grade. Although this might have happened when I was ten. Because I turned ten halfway through fourth grade.

At my elementary school, kids who came early went to the gym. And we sat in long lines. Each grade had a different line.

That morning, many many kids were early. And the fourth grade line became two lines. And a boy ended up sitting next to me.

Also that morning, our P.E. teacher (who always watched us before school started) was absent. I think she had had a baby. Or maybe she was just sick. But I loved her. She was amazing and fun and full of energy. Her sub wasn't very nice.

And she was watching us that morning.

And she told us all to be quiet. And she shouted it to us.

You couldn't hear any noise in the gym except for the lights. They would buzz.

And I was bored and I wanted to draw. I unzipped my backpack to get some paper and a pencil. And I had to take out my garage door opener to get to my pencil.

"What's that?" the boy asked me.

I didn't know what to do. The mean lady told us not to talk. No matter what. And I never broke the rules and I never got in trouble. But I didn't want to be rude.

"What is that?" the boy asked me again.

I pointed to my big grey garage door opener and looked at him. I wanted to make sure that was what he was asking about. He asked me again.

I put my finger to my mouth. I wanted to tell him to be quiet. I wanted to warn him to be quiet.

And then I heard shouting. "What did I say!" the voice asked. And then there were dirty sneakers in front of me.

I looked up and saw the mean lady. I opened my mouth. I wanted to tell her I didn't say anything, but my mom and dad had always taught me to not talk back to grownups. Was this talking back?

"Go sit under ORANGE," she demanded. I looked around. Several kids were sitting under COLORS against THE WALL. When kids were bad before school in the gym, they had to leave their lines and go sit under a COLOR. They were the last to leave the gym and go to class. That day, more kids were under COLORS and against THE WALL than any other day.

Was I really being sent to a COLOR?

I looked up at her again. "GO!" she shouted at me.

I grabbed my bag. I grabbed my coat. I grabbed my garage door opener. And I looked at the boy. He looked sorry.

And I went and sat under ORANGE. And I cried. Because I was embarrassed and sad and I knew that I didn't talk. I stayed quiet. But I was sitting where bad kids sat and I wasn't bad. And I felt so small against that big cold WALL.

And I watched all of my friends get up and leave and go to class. And then one by one, us bad kids were sent off. And I was the last kid to show up in class. And by that time, my favorite teacher had heard that I sat against THE WALL that morning.

"Why were you sitting against the wall, Veronica?" she quietly asked me so no one else could hear.

"I don't know," I told her. And I didn't.

And I thought about that stupid garage door opener in my backpack. I only had that stupid thing because our front door lock sometimes didn't work. And my mom gave me the opener so I could let my sister and me into the house. And I only had to do that because my mom had to work and couldn't be at home because my parents had just gotten divorced.

And right then I hated that garage door opener. And I hated our stupid front door lock. And I hated divorce. Because it all made me sit under ORANGE against the WALL.

Some things just stay with you forever.

Twenty-one years ago...

...I was six years old and in first grade. I loved my teacher. She was the sweetest, prettiest, and kindest lady in the entire world and I wanted nothing more than to be her favorite student.

And I was. I was one of those genuinely good, kind-hearted little kids that just wanted to please please please everyone.

I kept my desk neat. I turned in my papers early. And I was quiet unless addressed. Because that's how mom taught me to be.

One day, my wonderful teacher was out. And the vice principal subbed in. She was notoriously mean, not very pretty, and not very kind.

We were working on a spelling worksheet. It was early in the morning--I think around ten-thirty or so. I can't be sure. We didn't know how to tell time yet.

But we had recently learned about drugs. And I found an odd object in my desk that I thought might be a drug. It was a small black pill. It looked like a little space ship. And it smelled bad.

I didn't want a drug in my desk. I couldn't have a drug in my desk! So I picked it up and took it to the trash can.

"What is your name?" the assistant principal screeched at me.

Shocked at her tone, I meekly responded. "Veronica."

She went fishing through THE ENVELOPE where THE WORMS were kept. Kids who did bad things got WORMS.

"Why don't you have A WORM in here," she hissed.

Completely confused and caught off guard--how could I be getting A WORM?--I said to her, "Because I have never got A WORM before."

So the evil assistant principal grabbed a BLANK WORM. And she wrote my name on it in permanent marker. And she taped THE WORM to THE BOARD.

And I quietly cried at my desk as the other kids stared and whispered in shock. "Veronica got A WORM."

And the next day, my favorite person, my first grade teacher was back. And I was so happy, I gave her the biggest hug ever. And after class started, she saw THE BOARD and I heard her say to herself, "Veronica got A WORM?"

And she quietly came to me, crouched down, and asked me, "Veronica, what did you do to get a worm?"

Confused and ashamed, I almost silently answered through my tears, "I threw away a piece of trash."

And my wonderful teacher removed THE WORM. And it was never seen again.

Enjoy two phobias for the price of one!

The office where I'm working today is an acrophobics nightmare.

In order to get to the restroom, I have to walk down a three-story high balcony/hallway hybrid from hell. Every time I need to go somewhere in this office, I have to psych myself up to even get out there, and then I stick to the wall where I'm least likely to plummet to my untimely death.

Right now, I have to pee. Ten minutes ago, I had to pee.

So ten minutes ago, I walked along the wall towards the restroom when I was a tiny speck descend from the ceiling.

Take into consideration that I don't have the world's best vision. But I'm fantastic at spotting spiders. Which is what I did.

That little eight-legged fucker was dangling in my way. And I couldn't get to the bathroom.

It was already bad enough that I had to pee very very very badly. And that I had been holding it in for an hour trying not to go down the hallway. And that my desk is within earshot of a fucking fountain!

But even the pressure on my overfull bladder couldn't get me to cross paths with a spider. Three stories in the air. Over concrete. That's a long way down, even without an arachnid attacked to your neck.

Had a clown walked by, I would have surely died.

Luckily that didn't happen. But now I'm just going to sit here in my desk and probably piss myself. Cause there's no way in hell I'm touching a spider.

I hate spiders.

I really hate spiders.

And I really hate heights. So much that I'm too embarrassed to type about the time I nearly fainted at a museum in Paris and Cooter had to carry me out as I was having a panic attack.

But I'd rather pee my pants then cross a spider in the air while I myself am in the air. I can always wash my pants.

There she goes blogging about food again.

I love rice.

I really and truly love rice. It's great with any meal. You can eat it salty or sweet. It looks great on a plate (or in a box with a fox).

You can serve your protein on a bed of rice and it looks like you might know more about cooking than you really do.

And rice is just delicious.

So when BzzAgent invited me to be in the Mahatma Jasmine & Basmati Rice campaign, I got giddy. Because I was going to be getting free rice (not that rice is in any way expensive in the first place, but it's RICE!).

So my rice came and I've been eating it every day since (not on the honeymoon, though, seeing as I wasn't at home). And so I'm going to do my word-of-mouth (er, type-to-eyes) duty and tell you that you should eat Mahatma rice, too.

Why? Because it's freaking delicious. Jasmine rice just ... feels better. It's kind of sticky and goes so well with salmon. And with a rice cooker, making it is easy. Hell, I can do it. And I've done horrible things to rice before. One time in high school, I had to make rice pudding for a class party. Well, there was rice and there was pudding, but I'm pretty sure the fact that it crunched was why no one ate it. Seriously. No one touched it. It might have been because some of the grains were black--which I'll never figure out why. Come to think of it, was it even rice?

Anyway, Mahatma rice is easy...like Sunday morning, only without the hangover. As for the Basmati rice, just try and say that word without smiling. Baaaahz-mah-tee. Not to mention, kinda tastes nutty and smells good.

Which may sound weird. Because most of the time, rice doesn't smell or taste like anything. That's because, my friend, you're probably eating that crappy microwaved instant stuff. That's not Thai rice (whisked over here on the backs of magical unicorns*). Mahatma rice is aromatic and aged so it's premium. And the packaging ain't bad.

So that's my Bzz. Go get yourself some rice. It's a great mid-afternoon snack. I should know.


*Mahatma rice is not whisked over to the states on the backs of magical unicorns. It arrives via Yeti.

The friend suggestion on Facebook leads to embarrassment.

We all have someone in our past that we pretend never existed.

Don't deny it. There's someone out there that will make you yack upon site.

And now, with the handy dandy Friend Suggestions on Facebook, they might just randomly pop up on your computer screen.

Which will cause you to vomit all over your desk, and your boss to stare at you like you're infected.

Then you'll have to find some paper towels (which are never close enough to the cubicles) and get them damp, then proceed to clean the upchuck from your keyboard, computer screen, and probably floor.

All because Facebook likes to instigate awkwardness.

I can't update my privacy settings fast enough anymore.

I'm scared.

Over the last few days, some insane videos have been traveling through the cables and onto our screens.

They show the latest-and-greatest PhotoShop capabilities and forensic image enhancing softwares.

They give us a small taste of how easy it's getting to completely manipulate photos or make teeny, pixelated images clear again. (It's possible now, it just takes hours and hours. This new software looks like it slices that time into hundredths.)

This is tragic.

Nothing is going to be real anymore. And clients are going to expect us to be able to do anything (and they kind of already do---and it sucks).

So when the insane, frazzled client calls the designer at 10:30 at night demanding that she wants a photo of her cat to be her company logo, here she took a picture with her camera phone in the dark and she can email it right now. And since the fancy designer has all of this awesome software because that's what designers have because "designers make so much money," the designer won't have any excuses. Because the designer WILL be able to use that awful image of a cat. And salvage it. And clean it up. And make it look usable (but not good because using a photos of a cat as a logo is a stupid idea, although it gets asked all of the time, trust me).

Clients already don't listen. And now they'll just shout louder because technology is now matching their impossibly insane demands.

We're fucked.

Yes, I am changing my name.

It comes as a shock to many--I'm taking my husband's last name.

After all, I've been branded as a loud-mouth, girl-power, independent woman. This usually translates into feminism of insane proportions.

But I'm taking my husband's name. And here's why.

Before I met Cooter, I thought I would keep the family name that has been mine since before birth. After all, why should I have to change "who I am for some man?"

But as I dated and fell in and out of love, I got a bit soft. I thought that I'd take my future husband's name, but keep my birth-given one for business purposes. Or at least where the future kids were concerned.

Then I hooked up with THE ONE. And sharing became so easy--second nature actually.  I happily share my bed and closet. There's no hesitation with merging our funds. And we'll (hopefully) be mixing DNA someday to create teeny, super-awesome people.

So what's the big deal with sharing a last name?

I'm stupid in love with the guy. And I will be for a very very very long time. Taking his name doesn't seem like something that society forced upon me. It just seems natural, organic, right.

Plus, his name (our name) sounds really good with my name. And how badass is it that I get the option to change my name? That in itself is very empowering.

In all fairness, though, he gets my name, too. I dubbed him the King of Awesome. Funny enough, the business card that started the whole queen-of-awesome thing was put together by him.

Coincidence?

No one wore jeans. And then they all ate pie.

So I'm a married woman now. And it's no different than before except for the new ring and fancy plates.

It's just as joyful and happy as before. And believe me, we are joyous.

So my advice to those who are getting married--do what you want.

We had pie instead of cake. And it was the bomb.

We wrote out own vows. And they were epic.

We banned Beyonce and Fergie. And the people danced all night.

We risked the weather. And we had scullers row past our nuptials.

Even if every plan didn't pan out, it was still perfect. And now I have a great husband and a trunk full of memories.

'Til death, my friends.

My watch is smarter than me.

I'm scared.

Of my watch.

Because it is aware.

It's one of those watches with the day of the week and the day's number displayed (no month, mind you).

So when I put it on today (totally expecting to have to adjust the date seeing as last month was 28 days long and the watch usually runs through 31) I go to adjust the date.

And it was already set to 3.

How did the watch know? I haven't set it myself. I haven't worn this watch in over a week.

How did it know?

When I saw the 3, I had to question myself. Because I wasn't even sure today was a 3.

But it is.

My watch is smarter than me. Because without me telling it what month it is, it ... just ... knew? Is that possible?

That or I'm officially insane. Both are plausible explanations.

It's like rai-ai-ain.

Dear sky,

I see that you plan on releasing water this coming Saturday. I also understand that I, as a simple human, am at your total mercy.

But I am going to take the role of humble supplicant, get on my knees, cup your chin with my palm and beg---please, please, PLEASE, if it must rain, will you end it around 3?

I'm not being greedy and asking that the rain cease all together. I'm going to aim for a more attainable goal and simple ask that it end by the late afternoon. Please.

My mother once pointed out that every significant event in my life is accompanied by rain. And I hoped that my wedding day would be different.

It hasn't rained on this date in Dallas in over ten years. I've checked. And now the weather readers say it's going to.

So please, prove my mother wrong. Let me have an open sky. Just for an hour.

Please.

This is an equal opportunity blog.

I was just using my handy phone to search for a nearby ATM when I noticed the small text on my bank's app.

"[Bank name] is an equal opportunity lender..."

I can't help but laugh a little. I mean, I'm glad my bank isn't racist. But I just think it's odd that banks (and all employers, for that matter) have to shout out, "Hey, we're not racist and discriminatory and you don't have to be a rich white dude with a mustache to work/shop/come here!"

At least I know that if I want my black friend or my brown friend or my yellow friend to come to the bank with me, they won't be sent outside.

Geez, but after really thinking about this---I guess if banks have to proclaim their equal-opportunityship, then the situation isn't funny. It's sad. It's like we expect every company out there to be full of racist asses.

Isn't it 2010?

One plus one equals two. And it'll stay that way.

One odd thing I've encountered since being engaged is the topic of divorce.

Or perhaps I shall call it the comedic subject of divorce. Because since announcing my plans to legally fuse my life with another human, people like to jest about their past separations.

"Oh, you'll love getting married. I loved it so much, I did it three times!"

"Oh, honey, you don't want advice from me. I'm working on divorce number three!"

"It's even better the second time. You get to finish your china pattern!"

No lie, I've heard all of these. Some of them numerous times.

And at the risk of sounding a little offended on purpose, I'm offended. It just seems a little crass to so casually joke about divorce when I'm not even wearing my wedding band yet.

Not that everyone has to do cartwheels when I announce my marriage plans. But in the very least, just don't mention divorce. I get it---people joke about divorce as a coping mechanism. But it's not funny. Especially to a bride. Especially to a bride whose childhood was shaped by divorce.

Yes, tons of marriages never see it through 'til death. Statistics are not in my favor. And divorces aren't as taboo as they used to be. 

But do you know what? We don't care. We're in this thing until the end because we promised each other. And we're both committed and in love and we have good people supporting us from all sides. And we're not entering this union lightly.

And next time some snarky bitch jokes about divorce when she sees my ring, I'm just going to have to tell her, "It's too bad you didn't get Craig first."

Having allergies is stupid.

It snowed in Dallas. But it wasn't Dallas snow, which will come in the middle of the night and frost everything and then melt throughout the day.

Oh no. It wasn't a Dallas snow at all. It was real snow. It snowed for hours. I know, for I was glued to the window/door/TV watching massive flakes flip and flutter down to earth.

For this native Dallasite who had NEVER seen snow fall before (like I said, it always comes at night and melts), it was the most epic thing that's ever happened (next to being in love).

I frolicked. Cooter and I made snow angels. We got into a snowball fight. We performed plastic surgeries on various snowmen around our neighborhood (and not Dallas snowmen made from the muddy ice collected off of car bumpers, but real snowmen!). And we even ate snow! It was the coolest thing ever.

Then the allergies started to kick in. I'm not sure how. I'm not sure why. But two days after the snow fell, most of the people I know got pillaged by their own bodies' inability to push out ... pollen, perhaps?

I still feel like I have water in my head. Chewing is abnormally loud and echoey. And if I talk, it rattles the mucous from its various homes in my sinuses and clogs up my through mid-word.

Lovely, right?

But for snow, it was worth it. I'll chew antihistamines for a week if it'll bring more snow.

I'm so tired.

First thing's first. If you got the Beatles reference, kudos.

I'm very tired lately. I'm tired in that I-can't-process-information way. In the I-have-no-attention-span way. In the I-can't-classify-sounds type of tired. (In fact, it took me a few times to remember how to spell "tired." I kept trying to stick a Y in there.)

It could be post-bachelorette-party-pre-wedding-itis. But I think it's more than that. I think it's because I've been getting up mega early everyday to go sit in a desk at 8:30.

I know, sarcastic boohoos from all around. Most people have to go to work early and I should just suck it up.

Well, I am sucking it up. But it's sucking me up.

Because I can't sleep at night. Waking up at seven would be easier if I could fall asleep before one. But I just can't. For some reason, the moon catalyzes my idea machine and I can't put it to rest as easily as most.

As a kid, my parents would tell me to just go to bed early. So I would. And then I'd lay there for hours frustrated. Counting sheep would only add to my aggravation because math is already hard for me--adding boredom just made it torture.

In my last two years of high school (for the most part) I managed to get my days to start at nine (my school began at 7:30 in the morning) with clever scheduling and the help of my journalism teacher. In college, I didn't attend any classes before 10. And it saved my ass.

As an adult, I've usually had pretty cool bosses who didn't mind that I rolled in after nine. Because I'd make up for it later when my brain was awake. But for the meantime, I'm sitting in an office at 8:30  in the morning. And I'm exhausted. Because my pillow wasn't soft enough until sometime around two last night.

It isn't the pillow's fault. It isn't my fault. I've just never been able to sleep early.

So here I ramble because the real work is hard to focus on. Maybe I should start drinking coffee.

Don't throw away that bra!

I saw this and thought that it was cool. Ladies (and perhaps the occasional fellow), take note.

Donate your old bras.

I am a warrior.

For some drunk reason, I signed up for Warrior Dash.

It's a 3.5ish mile run through the brambles of Forney, Texas, that's peppered with crazy obstacles like running over cars and swimming across a creek.

I've never entered a running thing before. Well, I was forced to walk a 5K for work once, but walking isn't the same as running.

But Warrior Dash seemed fun. You get muddy as hell and chug a beer when you're finished (because that's hydrating). Oh, and you get a viking helmet.

So the absurdity of the whole thing made me sign up. And now I'm having to train a bit so I don't look like a total jackass (not that you look particularly cool in a viking hat while racing through the trees).

But at least Dash is forcing me to run more. And that's good for my health and stuff. I've always wanted to be a good runner, but I've always sucked at it. But now I have my ugly finger shoes and the intriguing call of a Warrior Dash T-shirt to get my legs pumping.

And believe me, they're pumping. Pumping all the way to the finish line and a cold brewsky.

Insanity approaches.

Not long after hooking up with Cooter Brown, I posted a blog about my future bachelorette party. Aside from the fact that CB should have gone running upon this posting, things have changed.

Well, not much has changed. I plan on having a veil at my wedding (hey, weddings make even the tomboys act girly), but all of the other  fears remain. Those being phallic symbols aplenty, jeweled crowns, and getting mushroom stamped.

My final hoorah is this Saturday. And I'm completely in the dark about it. I know who's going to be there. And I know that ... well, that's all I know.

And that's how it should be. I'm actually pretty excited about being surprised. Let's just hope that surprise isn't in the form of a wang dangling in front of my nose.

It's my birthday?

Well, today isn't my birthday. But it's only days away.

And I've hardly given it any thought. A small handful of people have asked what I'm doing or what the plans are.

The truth? There are no birthday-related plans. My birthday isn't really a big deal ever. And it's certainly not a big deal this year.

The funny part, though, my parents haven't mentioned it once. Part of me thinks they have no idea it's on Saturday. Mom will probably remember the day of. Dad's missed it before. Not that it matters.

I've got other things to think about. Like shooting my own bridal portraits this weekend (with the help of my stepsister and aunt, thankfully--an aspiring photographer and an art director). And on my actual birthday, no less.

So there. That's my birthday plan. Being a model. Wearing my full bridal getup for the first time. Feeling beautiful and running around in my shiny shoes. Not bad, right?

I think that's the best way to celebrate entering the late twenties. I'm looking forward to it.

Just butt out and say, "Thank you," when it's over.

There are several reasons I wanted to elope. But I was overruled with fierceness.

So now I'm running myself to the bone trying to please everyone. Trying to please people whose opinions don't really matter because they aren't getting married at this thing. Trying to please people with HUGE opinions so early in the process, that they really just get in the way. Just hinder the overall process.

I really just want to shout, "Hey, butt out. If you weren't involved until the day of, until you're lifting a forkfull of beef to your mouth, then you'd have no opinions other than, 'Hmm. Good.'"

Because it's true. People are insane critics for no reason because we give them the option to be. If they would just butt the fuck out and wait until the end, they'd have no idea what they're missing. They'd only see the pretty colors, taste the delicious food, and dance to the hopping music.

But instead, they labor over stupid shit. Like the silvertone of the forks. Or the creases ironed into the table cloths. Or even how the programs will look in pictures.

The bride isn't concerned. She just wants to dance with her husband, raise a glass, and make some memories.

Can't you all just let her do that?

Why so blue, iTunes?

Years ago, the iTunes icon was green.

I loved that little green icon. It had a way of standing out against my blue Safari icon, the blue iChat icon, the blue Word icon, and the blue Preview icon.

I knew that if I wanted to flood my cubicle with tunes, that I should look for green. It took no time at all.

Then one day, iTunes had an update. That update, along with adding fun new gizmos to my favorite music program, changed the icon's main color from green to blue.

This was over three years ago. And to this day, I still look for that small shock of green when I want music.

All of the conditioning, all of the days of knowing that it's blue now haven't helped. It's imbedded into my brain that iTunes is green.

So just now, when I wanted to hear the soft crooning of my favorite musical artists, I searched for green amidst the sea of blue. And then I remembered that I  should be looking for blue among the sea of blue.

Alas. I miss green.

I hate award shows.

Nothing bores me quite as much as watching award shows.

Well, maybe watching the movie "the Fall." That was pretty damn boring, too. Beautiful, but slow as frozen molasses waiting on Christmas.

But I'm not griping about the pacing of art films. I'm griping about how watching people I'll never meet endlessly say thank you to other people I'll never meet. Sure, sometimes the outfits are cool, but I can see those on the internet.

And I could really give two flaming farts about who wins best picture. It's not going to change my opinion about the movie. I'll still like it or hate it based on my own awesome ranking system:

Did it entertain me? yes/no
Was I bored? yes/no
Am I mad that I just spent 8 bucks watching it? yes/no

And award shows (which are not movies, but usually about them) get all of the wrong answers in my little test. So I don't watch them (unless Cooter is watching them; he, unlike me, cares and we only have one TV).

Geez. An award show is on right now. And it's so boring that I can't even concentrate to write this rant. Fail.

Are we haikuing again?

Once upon a time,

The Queen of Awesome blog-ged

“Haikus have returned!”

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I am now engaged.

This means I’m getting married.

To my Cooter Brown.

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I hear, first comes love.

Then I hear, then comes marriage.

Let’s wait for babies.

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I write about food.

I write about food a lot.

Perhaps I should eat.

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Let’s go to London.

Then, let’s go to Ireland.

Honeymoon hooray!

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Had someone told me

That I would marry ginger

I would laugh out loud.

But I’m going to

Marry a real gingerman

He’s sweet like candy.

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A shotgun wedding

Would make my parents angry

How about rifle?

Kidding. I’m not preg.

No ginger kids for me yet.

Or ever. Strong genes!

I write this for the avocado.

Oh, sweet little avocado. Sweet, plump, humble little avocado.

Your subtle, creamy greenness improves everything I eat.

I even made cookies out of you once, and they were delicious.

You blend in so well with dips. You add gentle flair to sandwiches. You're even a soft standout in soups.

You're the perfect food, avocado.

Now, get in my mouth!