Technologically Retarded

I just read an article titled something like, "What Your Cell Phone Ring Says About You."

(I don't remember where I read it. It doesn't matter.)

Yeah, it was clearly a slow news day what with the war being over and scientists having cured all of the cancers and whatnot.

This article... I don't even know where to begin. In a nutshell, it argued that:

~If you have a personalized ring tone (i.e., popular music, school fight song, etc.), you are a super-cool, cutting-edge, techno-savvy individual.

~If you have a generic ring tone (i.e., the ring that comes pre-programmed), you are too busy to learn how to use your phone but are a mindless drone with no individuality.

~If you keep your phone on silent or vibrate, you are terrified to disturb others and have no idea how to use your phone or read the instruction manual and so are completely technologically retarded.

Um, what?

Hi!
Heather keeps me on vibrate because she's illiterate.

Instead of having whatever song Carson Daly favors on TRL blast out whenever my mother calls, I choose to keep my phone on vibrate. So apparently I am a grade-A moron with absolutely no individuality.

(Also, did MTV kill off Carson Daly? I don't know. I'm old.)

I abhor it when I hear some un-intelligible blast of cacophony erupt from someone's pocket. If I'm in a closed location, like the purple bus, I really have to take deep breaths to keep myself from shooting a death glare toward the phone's owner.

I mean, what the hell is so wrong about not wanting to disturb others? Cell phones have become such intimate parts of our lives that people no longer excuse themselves from the table (or even the restaurant as a whole) in order to take a call. Cell phones are answered in the movie theater, in meetings, and at the register to purchase items at the mall (except for here, of course). What is wrong with having cell phone etiquette?

I remember when call waiting was new - my family never had call waiting because we had a rotary phone until I was in high school. Yes, rotary. But I do remember my dad being placed on hold once because of call waiting and he was NOT amused. To this day I try to ignore incoming calls if I'm talking to him.

(They do have touch-tone now, but the caller ID is broken. Also, they're still with the dial-up internets. I'm working on it, trust me.)

Call waiting etiquette is tough, though. Do you beep over, tell the caller you'll catch them on the flip side, or do you ignore the call completely and just figure that s/he will leave a message if s/he cares enough? There's always a system, at least between female friends: If you're chatting it up with your friend - let's call her "Kristen" - and her psycho mother beeps in, well, that's an immediate IGNORE and the conversation continues. If it's the guy she met on the metro, don't be surprised if you get a "that'shimgottogoi'llcallyoulater!" instead of a formal goodbye. And it's all understood as acceptable behavior. Anthropologically speaking, that is.

But when in public, the cell phone ring? Should be silenced. End of story.

So I am not, in fact, a retarded loser because I choose to keep my phone silenced. I am smart! S-M-R-T! Also, considerate.

The moral of the story is: if you call and I don't answer, it's probably because I'm talking to my dad.

I MADE DINNER

LET ME SHOW YOU IT:

Mmmm... pad thai.

Note: The chopsticks are a photo prop.
I can use them to eat sushi and for no other reason.
Unless it's to light a pilot light.
Oh wait, that was a piece of linguine.

Nevermind.

Reason to Love Ann Arbor #1

I... have nothing to write about. It's raining, it's cold (38 degrees at my last check), and it's supposed to snow tonight. GRAND. So here is a picture of an Ann Arbor landmark, shot on a much lovelier day.

Mmmm... beer.

(This is the first of my planned "Reasons to Love Ann Arbor" series.
I know you're totally on the edge of your seat for the next.)

On Being An Adult

How do you measure adulthood? Some people consider themselves adults when they go to college. Some, when they buy their first place. Some don't think that they are adults until they have children.

Me? It was when I finally bought myself some real, adult-like towels.

The towels I've been using for years were bought in the summer of 1998 with graduation money. I took the advice of my soon-to-be college roommate that it would be "cooler" to buy things that didn't match, as to project a thrown-together, shabby chic (you keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means) dorm room. Thanks, Katy, that was a great idea:

As you can see, I attacked the mall with a mission. The striped towels were from Target, trying to cash in on the hordes of scared eighteen-year-olds who will buy WHATEVER they are told they'll need in the dorms. The light green towels are from JCPenney, and were bought two weeks after I moved into the dorms when I realized that those striped towels were too small and didn't so much dry the body as move the water droplets around. The blue towel actually has three yellow smiley faces along the bottom hem and was a gift from my first Jennifer roommate (Jenni, if you want to get technical).

Side note: I've lived with three different Jennifers.

There's also this set:

I received these as a graduation present from my parents' friends. Until last week, they remained the best towels I had ever owned and I almost peed myself when watching Friends and saw Rachel using the SAME EXACT TOWEL in "The One With the Boobies." To think, I owned a towel that figured into one of Monica's eleven categories.

Then, one day last week, I knew. It was time. It was time for real towels. Towels that weren't thin as sheets. Towels that actually absorb water. Towels that don't embarrass me on my bathroom shelf.

Lovely!

They're thick and warm and AWESOME. They're like fluffy fleece blankets.

Of course, I could only bring myself to buy two, as they were expensive and as I am poor, but I am at least on the long road to adulthood at this point.

Of course, my landlord considers this to be a towel rack, so...

Oooh, Piece of Candy!

I... get excited about things. I like to point these things out to Mike, whether they're hawks (red-tailed hawks flying around are super cool), 500 thread-count sheets on sale (500 thread-count? That's like sleeping in CLOUDS), or strawberries at the grocery store (strawberries are good).

I realize that this gets... annoying. It all came to a head when we were at Kohl's for a simple return. From the front door to customer service, I must have pointed out twelve different things, and - here's the kicker - I DON'T KNOW WHY. I seriously don't know why I do this! First it was sunglasses. Then insulated mugs. Then the Friends Scene It game. Then towels. Then candles. And everything started with, "Ooh, a ____!"

Mike is a saint, and just says, "wow," and "cool," and "interesting." Or he says nothing at all, which apparently doesn't register with me. He's too nice to tell me to can it, which... see? A saint.

Then he told me about this commercial and once I saw it, I about died laughing. It is ME. I am the pointer. And I don't mind admitting to it:

At Least It's Sunny

Yes, my babies, this is what I awoke to:

My incredibly wonderful neighbor (the same guy to tow me and The 'Scort out of the driveway and also to open his home to me while my keys were locked in my running car) dug out the snowblower for what seems like the millionth time this year, and plowed our sidewalks. Thank goodness - I'm so fucking sore from two ballet classes each week that I think that brandishing a shovel might have damn well killed me.

And of course, tomorrow is Easter, which makes my planned wardrobe choice of short dress with flats a bit improper. Happy Easter, y'all - throw me a sweater. Oooh, and a scarf if you have one.

The thing is? I love snow. I LOVE IT. I love that it's pretty and light and cold. But the thought of cleaning off my car... AGAIN... makes me want to scream and shout and stomp my feet and have a full-blown temper tantrum on my front porch.

But hey, it's sunny, right? Right?

Okay, off to clear some snow from my sweet ride!

N.B. The snow plows just came through and plowed in my sweet ride. FAN. TASTIC.

Heather! Come save me!

An Early April Fool's Joke, Perhaps?

Hello! Today is Friday, March 21. It's the second day of spring, as yesterday was the first day of spring. So, naturally, this is my deck at 3:15:

This is my deck at 5:15:

This is my sweet ride at 3:15:

This is my sweet ride at 5:15:

This is your brain on drugs:

It's ALMOST APRIL.

I kind of want to scream a little bit.

3.20.08

Happy Birthday to my sweet baby!

(Also, look at that pint of cider. Mmmm... cider.)

March On, My Babies. March ON.

Do you remember your best friend from third grade? Did you play together on the playground? Did you pass notes folded in such clever ways that you were positive your teacher, Mrs. Hipple, (seriously, that was her name) would never be able to open them because you were just TOO CLEVER? Did you have sleepovers and watch Troop Beverly Hills over and over and over? Did you plan to start families in the same year and go shopping together and then make sure that your babies were friends 4-ever?

Did you lose touch?

I didn't!

Emily is happy and well, living it up in western Michigan and is still forced to be my friend (she got a call from me the other day in which I pretended to be the voice of my menstrual cramps, saying that I had taken over Heather's body and was going to kill her, and instead of hanging up on me like any normal person, she laughed. See? She puts up with my insanity. Granted, she wasn't the only one of you to get that call... seriously, why are you people friends with me?)

Emily is participating in the March for Babies again this year, sponsored by the March of Dimes. The March for Babies helps all babies - those born too early, those with defects, and those who were born healthy but still need support in order to thrive. Please help her reach her goal and donate! Then leave a comment here so that I can send you my gratitude. Or a dinosaur valentine. Same thing, really. Make the mouse go clicky right here:

You know you want a dinosaur valentine:

"Hi, I'm Valentinosaurus. I realize that it's March, but if you donate to Emily's baby campaign, I'll show up in your mailbox all happy and gay and full of life. Do you have any other male dinosaurs at your house? Because I... sort of like them. Are they purple? I like purple. Or pink. Unicorns would work, too. Heyyy."

Right. Donate today!

Bed-Hopping and Skull Scars

Have any of you realized that you can watch the inaugural season of Melrose Place online at cbs.com?

Oh, BUT YOU CAN. It's crazy!

(I realize that crazy Kimberly Shaw didn't enter the apartment complex and go... well, crazy, until a later season, but you can't mention Melrose Place without referencing the wig removal scene.)

Also: