Move Over, Stephen King...

You know that inexplicable urge to scare yourself silly with horror movies? Or to look at the gruesome car wreck on the shoulder of the highway? You know you'll regret it and won't be able to erase the images from your mind--but you just HAVE TO LOOK.

That's exactly what happened with my roommate's "Maternity Care" textbook. It was just sitting there, deceitfully innocent with it's snuggly-little-baby-printed cover--and I decided that there'd be no harm in having a little look-see into the world of pregnancy and labor.

And I'd give ANYTHING to go back and undo that monumentally terrible decision.

There were NO snuggly baby pictures anywhere on the inside pages of that wretched book. But there were pictures galore of placentas, massive vaginas, deformed fetuses, pain, grotesquely shaped bodies, and indiscernible bloody objects.

It was truly the stuff of nightmares. (And in my opinion, the absolute best way to cut down on teenage pregnancy rates in this country would be to make homeroom classes sit through a live birth. Convents would have to add entire new buildings overnight just to accommodate the influx.)

My one question is WHY? WHY does the earth continue to re-populate if this is what it takes? WHY would anyone be foolish enough to try natural birth? WHY is it possible for something that big to come out of something so small? WHY, in the year 2006, has science not found an easier way (like growing them in sacs outside the body...or in cartons of warm cream)?!?

And I'd really like someone to explain the phrase, "gift of childbirth". If that bloody horror is synonymous for "gift" in your book...you're obviously getting the wrong damn presents.

Quasi-Grownup

Since I'm getting on in years, I thought I'd change my blog look to something a little more sophisticated (and original). After hours upon hours of sifting through the mystery that is HTML text, I figured out how to change the generic colors and fonts. I'm downright impressed with myself, if not a little incredulous.

At the opposite end of the grownup-spectrum, I went skating last Friday night. And it was amazing. 1 full belly of Mexican food, margaritas and jager shots + 1 jam-packed rink of 13-year-olds + 10 friends = the perfect recipe for a good time (especially since Shane showed up wearing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle protective gear).

We all skated--and fell--and laughed at both ourselves and the self-conscious pre-teens trying to look cool in front of each other. (I was fully intending to clothesline a few of them as I whirred around the rink--until I discovered that most of them were taller than me.) The only downside: they kicked everyone out at 11:00--if I had it my way, the Skate Center would stay open till dawn.

And finally, exciting news: TRAVIS STORK WORKS OUT AT MY GYM. (Which is probably the last place I'd want to meet him...but beggars can't be choosers.) This is great incentive to really whip myself into shape. Example: "Gah, I'd much rather lay here and watch a fourth rerun of MADE than wear myself out on a treadmill... Wait. Travis Stork might be there. I'll go find my tennis shoes."

Alas, it might be the closest I get to seeing his sweaty body doing something physical. :)

"Don't Sweat the [MINISCULE] Stuff"

I hate cold, rainy days. Hate them. Unless I'm napping...which I can't feasibly do at my desk. So I'm stuck (being sleepy) in an upright position.

Yesterday, Jenn and I interviewed a possible intern candidate for this semester...she was a super girl and we're going to hire her on...but it's weird. I feel like an imposter. It felt like just the other day that I was the intern. Now I'll be overseeing one. (Before you know it, I'll be saying "young hooligans" every other sentence.)

Speaking of crotchety adults, my landlord is dancing on my last nerve. We've had to put up with alot from that side of the house: fighting...bouts of drinking...moving out with furniture...incessant knocking on our door. And I've been patient. Admirably patient...until this weekend.

Jennie and I went out Friday night, had a good time, and *gasp* forgot to turn off the front porch light upon our arrival home. So the little thing burned all night. The next morning, said landlord is perusing the property and sees the offending light. AND HE CAN'T BELIEVE WE'D BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE. He bangs on the door--and is so concerned--that he immediately lets himself in to turn the damn thing off. Apologies were offered and we thought the episode ended there.

The next day, we hear clattering sounds on the porch and open the door to find him switching our (perfectly good) lightbulb out for an energy-saving fluorescent bulb.

Because we obviously can't be trusted with regular wattage.

Every fiber in my body was poised to knock his ladder out from under him and run. But we settled for slamming the door in his face. Gah, I'm getting pissed just thinking about it. I mean, MY GOD. Being that concerned with a little over-used lightbulb might just be God's way of saying that you need a life/hobby/better personality/job/counseling session.

TGIF

I'm so glad the weekend is rapidly approaching. After three straight weeks of 4-day weeks, I feel like I'm working on a Saturday.

I'm so thankful that I've grown up and can go out and do fun things on Friday nights...and not have the highlight of the weekend literally be "TGIF". Back when I was rocking the DJ Tanner swoop bangs and loving Jordan Knight from NKOTB. Gah, the 90s had a thing for initials, huh? Must be like the 2000s have a thing for combining celebrity names. But I'm rambling...

Wednesday, Jennie and I held our first ever book club meeting. Since it was our first time, we chose A Million Little Pieces simply based on the wealth of information available on it right now. And it was a dang good book. Engrossing and (grossly) descriptive. Coincidently, James Frey was on Larry King that night to defend his book against accusations of false misrepresentation (wow, you can tell I date a law student).

Personally, I think this "scandal" is silly and people are getting into a big stink over nothing. Who cares if he embellished his criminal record? It does nothing to change the essential story line of the book. The man essentially overcame a horrible addiction with self-will and this is what people are focused on?

To all these whinny babies who feel "cheated" and want their money back: if the book kept you even slightly entertained while reading it, you need to shut your pie hole and find something else to complain about.

I called the Larry King live hotline for 20 minutes to try to say that on the air, but it was always busy. Some hooker from New York (and her obnoxious accent) beat me out.

The best part about book club, to me, is getting to hear different opinions. You all read the same book, yet each person experiences it differently, reads different things into it, relates it to her own life. You discover things you never once considered just by listening to someone else's experience. It's fascinating. Hopefully this will continue as a monthly tradition. Next up: Gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson.

And I officially have 8 more minutes of desk-sitting before the weekend commences. Mexican and margaritas with the girls tonight? Maybe a little dancing? I think so.

Holy Mother of Hotness

Travis. Stork. Is. Absolutely. Incredible.

I'm officially in love with a celebrity--my first one since Joey Lawrence in the 6th grade. How could I not be? Watch The Bachelor ONCE and you'll be hooked. Totally ga-ga. Because he's brilliant, genuine, kind and gor-geous. And that's just scratching the surface. He just seems different than the other bachelors--not so into himself--like the type of guy who'd be just as content sprawled across a bed with you, mugs of coffee, newspapers, and a gaggle of dogs as he'd be at a nice restaurant. Okay, I'll stop obsessing now...

But for those that didn't watch the show, a woman on it actually uttered the words, "my eggs are rotting" and point-blank told him that she wanted to reproduce. As soon as the words left her mouth, I got cold chills. It was awful. Absolutely awful. Maybe she was lulled into a false sense of security by his last name...but there really are no excuses. What was she thinking? You just don't do that. I don't care how loud that maternal clock is ticking...ignore the damn thing and attempt to talk to him like a normal human being for godsakes.

It's just so fun to know that he and I live in the same town. He works several blocks away from me...he could live right down the street (but I'll never know because he's not listed in the phonebook. What? So? I looked. Big deal. I was just curious. You would've done the same thing). AND I have access to his email address...but am too embarrassed to ever do that again.

On an optimistic note, there's actually a chance that I'll run into him in the grocery store, or running in a park or...with Andrea and Jennie (in their borrowed scrubs) as we stroll through the Vanderbilt Medical Center trying to look official.

What? Yeah, I said it...

AARP, Here I Come

It finally happened. The (constantly fighting) neighbors broke up. There goes our evening entertainment...and a good portion of our furniture. We'd been using some of her (super nice)stuff that she didn't want to put in storage...but every bit of it left with her this weekend. Leaving us with an entire empty room and a TV sitting on the floor.

She told us that she doesn't really have room for it in her new place, but doesn't want to temporarily leave it with us for fear her ex-fiance will go crazy, break in to our place and chop it into tiny pieces. [She's a tad psychotic--hence the end of the relationship.]

After weighing the idea of taking down the chandelier and installing a disco ball to make a dance floor...I decided to put my big girl panties on and actually buy some furniture. I spent all weekend shopping for a decent looking/priced dining set...and discovered there are none. Because furniture is effing expensive and there's no way around it. Either you fork over money for a nice, wood dining room table...or you buy a card table and feel like a hobo. I chose the first option...and paid $137 dollar in taxes alone. It made me feel so old.

I just don't understand WHY furniture is so expensive. Nowadays, it's all made in a huge impersonal factory somewhere. It's not like it's hand-whittled from redwoods by a homeless blind man in the Rockies. (Which mine SHOULD be, judging by the price tag.)

But despite the anxiety of signing my life away to a payment plan, it feels kind of good to actually own some decent furniture. Like an adult should. But I'm taking babysteps in this area. Just say the word "mortgage" and I might throw up.

Screw Times Square

I had the best New Year's Eve yet...without being crushed by a million bodies in -4 degree weather.

Jennie and I had several people over to our house for pre-drinks and pizza to start the evening--and then headed out to the real party. It was at the Stadium Club and was thrown by a professional party planning company. [Think: fraternity formal x10.] There were well over 500 people there...and all were determined to have a good time. My favorite part (besides the free champage): the complimentary New Year's tiaras. With feathers.

There was a great 80s band that played about every hit imaginable. And the female lead singer wore a tacky 80s prom dress for the ocassion (a woman after my own heart). We were quite content to dance in front of the fog machine while singing our hearts out.

About 20 minutes till midnight, waiters passed around champagne flutes. Admittedly greedy, Jennie and I decided that ONE flute wasn't enough...and searched out new waiters. To the point we had 6 champagne flutes. EACH. The band counted down, balloons fell out of the ceiling, everyone kissed...it was great. Just what New Year's should be.

And if anyone could explain why/how we have the band's cowbell sitting in our living room, I'd be grateful.