Life is Rush

Once upon a time, when I was president of our sorority, we showed a video that proclaimed over and over, "Life is Rush." The more and more "grown up" I get, the more that I am convinced that truer words were never spoken.

For example:

• Job interviews are nothing more than first, second and third round of rush. The first round is generic (What's your major? has been replaced with What are your three good and bad qualities?), the second is slightly more personal...and you get a tour, and the third is when the stakes are high, the possibility of tears is significantly higher, and you will all sing kumbaya together as they try and convince you that this place really is like a family.
• The sorority formal has laid a nice foundation for what would become summers filled with weddings. Gotta find a date, gotta make sure you're sitting with people you like and, above all else, make sure that Like a Prayer is on the playlist.
• And, of course, there are the rules of Positive, Negative, Positive. When tactfully telling a coworker that their idea sucks, it is best to use the rush formula. (Example: I think it's great that you have spent so much time on this and shown your dedication. However, it's not what we're looking for. I feel confident with your talent, you'll be able to find a better solution.) This is the slightly more professional version of, she's really cute. she's not a good fit, but she's really nice.
• And, finally, the most important rules of Rush: Make sure you go where your heart leads you. My heart, for instance, did not lead me to places that circled your fat or required you to purchase pearls. I suggest you use the same yardstick in your professional life.

Falling Off the Wagon

No worries. I haven't started using drugs or become an alcoholic. Thanks to Nancy Reagan, I just say no.

However, today I have absolutely succumb to my own little addiction--shows about D list celebrities. I've been sitting on the couch for the last five hours, with only brief breaks to switch and fold laundry, watching large quantities of THS and Breaking Bonaduce.

In an attempt to pretend that all of this has been somewhat productive, I'm going to pull an Aesop. I've come up with the moral of all the stories of Danny Bonaduce, Webster and the cast of Growing Pains:

Get your head out of your behind, stop trying to be trendy (you will never be cool again, unless you are Neil Patrick Harris and Patrick Dempsey) and grow up.

I think we've all learned a little something here. See, TV can be good for the soul.

Happy Freakin' Thanksgiving

Say it ain't so.

Sadly, in the space of one week, we've been forced to face the sad celebrealities of both the break up of our favorite Newlyweds and the upcoming finale of Alias (and subsequently, Jennifer Garner's spot on the A List).

We saw the signs. Didn't we all wonder how Nick could handle Jessica's spaciness for an extended length of time? After all, he's a good boy from the Midwest who may like his girls pretty, but also values a modicum of common sense.

And, let's be honest, Alias jumped the shark this season. A pregnant spy who's (very cute) fiancee dies (for the second time) and is out for revenge?? JJ, I believe you've officially lost your touch. This has been confirmed by your recent alliance with Tom Cruise, the Mayor of Crazy Town.

Chin up, reader. This is the holiday season. The only thing to do is dry your eyes and hope that you'll find your very own subscription to US Weekly under the tree.

Rest In Peace. Or, Just Give It a Rest

I can't take credit for the above picture, but I sure do like it.

A New Leaf

Upon reflection, I have decided to embrace getting older. Instead of bemoaning the lines that are appearing on my face, I will celebrate each laugh line because it means I earned them. I will welcome each gray hair with delight as it means that surely I must be getting wiser. Instead of cursing the scale, I will be thankful for every pound because it means I have enough to eat. In short, I will be thankful for all my 27 years, even if it kills me.

I am so grown up.

Welcome to Oldville. Grab a Shawl.

Tomorrow I will be celebrating my 27th birthday. Okay, perhaps celebrating is a bit extreme. Maybe the word is enduring.

I'm quickly coming upon 30 and have come to the remarkable realization that the days of being excited about a birthday are over. I've got my license, I'm able to drink, heck, I'm even able to rent a car.

The only thing left is getting a senior citizens discount and joining AARP.

Sob.

A Word to the Schmuck I Parked Next To This Morning

Dear Fellow Parking Lot User:

It is not your right to take up 1.5 spaces in the already crowded and narrow parking lot. Just because your new, fancy schmancy car is sooo important to you does not mean you are allowed to force others to walk an additional block because you are taking up most of two of the closest spots.

You are, in short, a self-centered jerk. Who, incidentally, drives a new but UGLY car.

Sincerely,

The Small Honda Civic Owner Who Was Forced to Climb Out of Her Car Using The Passenger-Side Door.

EstrogenFest 2K5

This morning, I am recovering from what I am lovingly referring to as The Girl Weekend. In honor of our friend's pregnancy, females gathered from far and wide to ooo and awww over pink rompers, snuggly blankies, and very small shoes. Diaper cakes were displayed, pink ribbons tied, and pictures were taken...all the ingredients for a lovely weekend celebrating womanhood.

Of course, we kicked it off with dinner and drinks (of which our pregnant friend did not partake so don't be calling child welfare) the night before, so we had laid the foundation for fun well.

Surely the guys didn't have nearly as much fun--they were out grunting and sweating while taking down some trees. Although they maintain using a chainsaw is more fun than going to a baby shower. Yeah, right.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

PS. What does that phrase even mean? I can't remember ever roaring in my whole entire life.

Let the Urban Legends Begin..An only Three Times Removed Story of terror, grief and a dead dog in a suitcase

While I got this story from a friend of a friend who was friends with the girl involved, you may all feel free to take it as your own and spread it far and wide, as it is quite hysterical, although unfortunate for one much-loved pet.

Once upon a time (that's how all great stories start), a Midwestern girl fresh from college moved to The Big City. Upon arriving on the crowded, but magical island, she set about moving her belongs into her new apartment, finding her way around and making new friends.

About a week after her arrival, she got a call from a friend of a friend back home who was looking for a dog-sitter while their family went on vacation to a much warmer, more tropical island down south. So the girl agreed.

On the arranged day, she went to the apartment building, got the key from the doorman and let herself in to feed and walk the dog. Upon entering the apartment, to her shock and horror, she discovered that the dog, a friendly black lab, had recently left Manhattan for Doggie Heaven.

An emotional wreck, she called the friend of a friend on vacation and sadly told them the news. They were not shocked, they said, as dear Fido was getting old and tired. Call the vet, they said, and he'll pick up the dog and prepare him for doggie burial.

So the girl called the vet, who told her the unfortunate bit of news about the state health department and their inability to pick up said dog. She would have to transport him to the vet and they would take care of him there.

Calling the grieving owners back, she explained the situation. To which they replied, "The big suitcase is in the closet."

Yes, dear reader, it's true. She had to carry the dead dog to the vet in a Samsonite.

Our intrepid Midwesterner loaded the dog into the suitcase and set out for the vet's office, via the subway, like any true New Yorker. (we can only hope the suitcase had wheels and a nice long handle)

While on the subway, she sat next to a rather shady looking, but seemingly friendly guy who inquired about the suitcase, where she was going and what sort of travel plans she had. Before she could think up a suitable answer, the train stopped, the doors open, the guy grabbed her suitcase and ran out.

You may think I am making it up, but it's true. She got mugged on the subway while carrying a dead dog in a suitcase. Now this would be better if we knew somehow what the mugger though upon opening the suitcase and discovered the body, but sadly we are left to wonder.

Ahoy, matey!

Have you all seen this? On Saturday, a cruise ship off the coast of Africa WAS ATTACKED BY PIRATES!

I'm imagining the job posting:

WANTED:
Pirate to sail the seven seas, most especially those off the coast of Africa. Must be a team player with a thirst for gold, rum and drinks that come with tiny umbrellas on cruise ships. Previous experience and references required. No parrots allowed. Special consideration will be given to those who have previously held positions of captain, first mate or cook. Booty (that's the pirate word for "salary"--get your minds out of the gutter) dependent on experience.

Like, totally, 2005

It has entered my consciousness that 2005 might very well be the year the 80s return. Yes, for those of you who have been waiting, it may be time to tight roll your jeans, break out your hypercolor sweatshirt and put Tiffany in the boombox.

You see, this is the year that Patrick Dempsey has returned to pop culture, Jason Bateman is hitting his stride and Neil Patrick Harris truly shines.

The best part of all of this? They have grown up with us and can inspire the same level of crush that we had when they graced the cover of Seventeen (and, let's be honest, our bedroom walls).

So, while we may be beat over the head with the 2000's, never fear. The days of our childhood will always rein supreme.

Democrats, unite!

In honor of the leadership session I attended today, I've composed a short list of soundbytes to clarify the D possition. After all, it seems we can only absorb two sentences at a time.

And so, here we go:

• Civil rights are good. Taking them away is bad.
• Diversity is good. Not having it is bad.
• The Man should work for The People. Not the other way around.
• Donkeys are cool. Elephants, not so much.
• Christians can be Democrats. So can Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and even Madonna and Britney Spears.

So, break out your sandwhich boards and sharpies, folks. The revolution is upon us.

The Nasty Underbelly of Democracy (which actually isn't nasty, just slightly inconvenient at times)

Well, friends, it's that time of the year. The time when individuals all throughout the office are in a panic over the choices in health insurance.

Each year, we get a packet of information detailing the benefits of each plan, designed to have us asking bizarre questions about what prescriptions and services are provided. Then, we all ceremoniously pretend to ignore said packets until the last possible day (which would be today) to make our decision.

At such time, we start screaming questions down the hall about flex plans and tax savings and eye care as if we, 15 rather rational adults, can't figure out these mysteries without heavy hand holding and pats on the back.

And so, as I've just proclaimed to my insurance-induced-comatose coworkers, I wish I didn't have a choice. I just want them to choose for me and then let me bitch about it. I don't want to regret my decision of A over B in 6 months because it didn't cover a broken toe; I want to blame someone. The Man, if you will.

Which has lead me to the following Carrie Bradshaw-like epiphany: Why do we have so many freakin' choices? When our founding fathers threw tea in the harbor, do you think they were thinking, hmmm, I hope someday Americans have a choice of 55 different kinds of brewed delicacies in a large 15-acre store that looks like a box? No, I don't think so.

We, as Americans, are over-choiced. Since when did picking toilet paper require major thought and consideration? I could write a dissertation on the benefits of two-ply over single ply with ripples.

For the love.

Editor's Note: This in no way means that I want my choices taken away. This is a rant, folks, not a lifestyle change.

Hey Xzibit, Pimp My Ride

Yesterday, on my way into work, I started feeling a vibration. As I was going through a construction zone, I thought maybe I was driving over hidden rumble strips or some such thing.

I was wrong. Within two minutes, the gentle hum of my car had turned into a growl that brings up images of nitrogen-helped cars and Fast and the Furious. I am not Vin Diesel.

So, for the remainder of my ride into work, and then back home, I had to endure the many stares and blatant laughter of my fellow commuters and the odd pedestrian on the street. Apparently my muffler had tanked out and taken all of my pride in my little Civic with it. Suddenly, I was embarrassed, if not ashamed to be driving such a crass car. It was like my Honda had farted in the middle of rush hour.

Consequently, I'm now sitting in the car dealership waiting for my new muffler and the opportunity to hand over $490 to cure my car's flatulence problem.