MOOSE.

   It's that time of year again.  The time of year when my mother and I mercilessly harass each other with a small, dollar store, ceramic moose figurine.  If this seems at all ridiculous, read an earlier post that I wrote a while back explaining "moosing" in some detail.

    I feel sort of bad because last year there was not a whole lot of moosing going on between my Mom and I because I was a bit preoccupied with various personal things, and our tradition sort of fell by the wayside.  I realize now that I was letting things that were very important to me slip away in the name of something new and exciting, but the new and exciting isn't always what it's cracked up to be.  It is very important that you keep special traditions alive, no matter how ridiculous they may seem.  I've learned that over this past year.  When the new and exciting doesn't mesh with the old and traditional, then perhaps there is a problem.  I am not willing to let a special (albeit insane) tradition with my Mom slip away, and I feel that last year, I was too close to forgetting what was important.  There are certain things in life that cannot be replaced, and should not be forgotten, and for me, moosing is one of those things.

   So with that lesson learned, and a renewed vengeful spirit to have the ultimate moose prank this year, I am planning early.  Moosing is fair game from Thanksgiving to Christmas Day, and since it takes a plane ride for my Mom and I to be together, then my prank time is limited to the days I will be in Nashville visiting for Thanksgiving, and the three days that I'll be there again for Christmas. 

    Naturally, I cannot divulge my evil plans here, as the enemy (my Mom) is a reader, and we cannot ruin the element of surprise.  But consider this your warning, Mother.  I am heading down to Nashville fully armed with all kinds of sneaky tricks up my sleeve.  Beware.  You never know where the moose will reveal himself.  BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Demon Birdies

   As a former world-class late sleeper, I am not particularly tolerant of what most people would consider minor annoyances waking me up in the morning.  As anyone who has shared a residence with me can attest, I am not the most pleasant person in the mornings.  When woken up by something other than an alarm clock, it could be said that I am something less than charming to interact with.  There is usually some kind of growling, hissing, and throwing of objects when I am woken up by someone or something not of my doing (alarm clocks hold a slightly different rank of hatred in my world).

   For instance, I was informed that while living in a flat with 5 other people during a study abroad program in London, that everyone was terrified of being the one who had to wake me up.  I apparently instill that much fear in my roommates upon awakening.  Also, there is something about the last 10 minutes that one gets to sleep in the morning.  That time is sacred.  It is as if you are cheating the world by lying in bed when you technically could  get up, but you just don't feel like it yet.  Damn the man!  I cherish these minutes so much, that I purposely set my alarm at least 40 minutes early so that I can hit snooze several times, and exacerbate that feeling of getting away with something illicit...

   With this background in mind, consider my reaction when I wake nearly every morning these days to the incessant chirping and rustling about of birds, INSIDE THE VENT in my bedroom.  Right above my bed.  Seriously.  I'm surprised I haven't found feathers and bird excrement on my bed.  I've been awoken in such a manner an average of 3 mornings per week for the past 5 months.  The birdie awakening instills in me an instant homicidal rage that is very difficult to shake when that is the very first emotion I register in the mornings.

  Upon further investigation, I have seen the rotten little buggers flying in and out of the soffit of my apartment.  From there I'm sure they have tunneled themselves into the heat/A-C vent and essentially into my bedroom where they become the incessant-morning-awakening-committee.  I am really not sure how to remedy this, but I am hoping that once the heat comes on, they will either figure out that it is time to fly south for the winter, they will refuse to go in the vent because it is too hot, or they will become little birdie BBQ in there and I will be able to sleep in peace.  I'm hoping for the latter...

Everybody is Still Alive

  I posted a few weeks ago about my new plants and my fear of unintentional herbicide.  I am happy to report that my fears were unnecessary and all three of my botanic acquisitions are alive and well.  Here is Petunia:

   She's gotten a bit scraggly in her old age (old = 1 month), but she is still alive, which in and of itself is a minor miracle.  She clearly doesn't like me though.  She constantly turns all of her flowers away from the patio window and out facing the parking lot (it's not my fault that is where the sun is...)  It's not very nice to constantly sit with your back turned toward the person who FEEDS you, Petunia.  Learn some manners.  For this picture I turned her pot so she would be facing the camera.  Notice how all the flowers are facing the same direction?  She is like a petulant child.  I just think of her as the crabby old lady who lives on my balcony.

   Next up, we have Viola:

   I feel kind of bad for Viola.  Apparently my apartment was not her favorite place because all of her pretty purple flowers shriveled up and died... so I decapitated her.  I cut off the stem where all the flowers were because it looked icky.  Aesthetics are important to me.  I suppose it was something akin to rhinoplasty.  But at least her leaves are still growing very nicely.  I also noticed today that she is growing a few new stems with tiny flower buds on them, so really, she's more like a flatworm than a houseplant... just regenerating pieces of herself that I cut off.  Creepy...

   Finally, my favorite child, Tom!

 
   Tom is, in a word, awesome.  If you compare his photo from a month ago to this photo, he is clearly the botanical superstar of my house.  He has kicked both Petunia and Viola's butts in the dramatic makeover category.  But more than that, Tom makes FOOD.  Behold:

    These are the latest of Tom's amazing sustenance providing talents.  I already ate the first tomato that he provided (see my other blog; Tom's offspring were included in the Spinach and Ricotta Agnolotti recipe, appearing in the role of TOMATO SAUCE). 

   So all in all, my plants are still alive and well.  We have the cranky old lady out on the balcony, the decapitated violet in the living room, and Tom the Amazing Tomato Sauce Producing Prodigy!

Green or Black Thumb? Time Will Tell.

   I decided recently that it was about time I got over my phobia of killing green things and get a few plants to have at home.  I have a bit of a bad history with being able to keep plants alive... I distinctly remember moving into my first apartment on my own with about 5 houseplants.  Within 6 months I had no houseplants.  That clearly makes me a serial plant killer.  But I am hoping that my days of unrelenting violence toward foliage have come to an end. 
 
    I bought three living things yesterday to bring home, enjoy, and (hopefully) keep alive.  I immediately named them all as well.  I am a strong believer that houseplants require names.  It makes them feel included.  In college, my roommates and I had several plants around with lovely names.  We had a spider-plant named Spike (Spike subsequently had babies that I believe may still be living to this day); and we had an ivy plant called Medusa (and when Medusa died at my hand, we got another one named Medusa Dos).  So now to join that illustrious group are my three new babies:

Viola (my new African Violet):

Tom (my cherry tomato plant):

And Petunia (my Petunias - clever, I know...):

   I think of the three, Petunia has the best chance at survival.  However, according to my aunt, African Violets are difficult to kill (she has several that have survived for years), so I am going to hope she's right and my bad history with plants ends today.  Maybe Viola stands a fighting chance...  Tom, I just don't have any idea about.  I'm going to have to Google "how not to kill your tomato plants" today to make sure I'm doing everything right.

   So here begins my new botanical adventure.  All three specimens survived their first night in my care.  Here's hoping for night 2.

Simply Unnecessary.

   I am not the kind of person that self-righteously reminisces about "when I was their age"..., because I am, after all,  only 28 and am not sufficiently far away from their age to have anything profound to say.  However I had a rather interesting encounter today wherein the phrase "Kids today!!" was entirely apt.  Let me lay the scene for you:

   I was sitting in my local Verizon store waiting my turn to be helped.  I couldn't help but overhear the conversation between the nearest Verizon rep and the CHILD with the Android phone in her hand, complete with pink and white cover (no offense to my pink-loving readers out there, but the pink and white just struck me as so appropriately juvenile in this situation).  The conversation went something like this:

VZ Rep:  No, I'm not sure why Facebook isn't working on your phone.  Do you have a Facebook account?

Overindulged child:  Yes.

VZ Rep:  How old are you?

Overindulged child: Nine.

VZ Rep:  Well, I believe you have to be at least thirteen to sign up for a Facebook account.

Overindulged child:  *guilty silence*  My friend made the account for me.

VZ Rep:  Then you need to ask "your friend" to give you the email address and password they used to create this account for you.  I can't help you.

Overindulged child:  *makes that defiant throat-clearing sound that indicates to all in her immediate vicinity that she is superior to the Verizon miscreant who deigned to speak to her in such a flippant manner and who refused to assist her in her ongoing Facebook tragedy, worthy of committing to writing by a Greek author of epic tales of woe*   **

**  Incidentally, this is the same sound that anyone who has had the pleasure  of being a teen-aged girl knows how to make, and has mastered to the point of an art form.

   I could just see in the poor rep's eyes how badly she wanted to use air quotes around the phrase "your friend".  Really?  This nine year old girl has an Android phone with access to the Internet, and her own Facebook page (which, incidentally is against their terms of use because you do have to be at least thirteen to have an account...).  Is this really necessary?  I can understand a basic phone to check in with Mom and Dad and assure them that you haven't been eaten by rabid alligators or something, but an Android?  Come on now.  Give me one good reason why a nine year old requires technology like that and I will eat my words, but from where I sit, this is completely unnecessary.  Sigh.  Let me just get back to my rocker on the porch with a shotgun and a garden hose to keep these d@mn kids off my lawn...

This is why I HATE Johnny Cash

   I am sure that I will incur some Cash-fan hatred with this one, but it is time that I made my point, and the reasons behind it, very clear.  The truth of the matter is this:  I hate Johnny Cash.  Yes.  I said it.  HATE.  My reasons have nothing to do with the man in black himself, but with the malicious and vindictive use of his music as a torture device.

   Anyone who knows me well can attest to the fact that I am physically incapable of not lashing out irrationally at the mere mention of Johnny Cash.  Should one of his songs happen to begin playing in the immediate vicinity, one can expect a series of irritated and loathsome words to escape my mouth, along with a face similar to this:

Or this:

Or even this:

   They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  Well, readers, you now have 3,000 words about how much I can't stand the incessant intervals of that bass preluding into lyrics about prison and rings of fire.  "How did she become so angry and cynical about one of the greatest artists of all time?" you must be wondering.  Well, I will tell you. 

   It all began when I was studying for the Wisconsin bar exam.  As the devout student and study-er that I was, I naturally would leave my studying for the evening, as I was working full time during the day.  Now, to fully appreciate the depth of my hatred, you really need to understand the pressure that is involved when one is studying for a bar exam.  Some of you out there are very aware of what that pressure is.  For those of you that aren't, let me give you a brief glimpse into the head of a studying bar examinee... you begin with mild anxiety about the test and whether you will pass.  When you first begin studying, the test itself seems so far away, that true panic seems unnecessary.  You fall into a sense of false security that "it will be fine" and "I will pass this exam" and "vomiting is not necessary".

    As the days pass and the exam grows nearer, that false security seems to wane.  You begin thinking that clearly you are the dumbest person on the planet because you can't remember the difference between a unilateral and a bilateral contract and you're really not one-hundred percent sure of how to spell "jurisdiction" or "causation" anymore.  It is at this point that because of the mountains of information you keep stuffing into your brain, that other things like social ability and motor skills take a backseat.  You begin to stutter and your eye begins to twitch (true story).  The stress and pressure of it all has reduced you to a blathering idiot who can only think about law.  You wake up thinking about law.  You go to sleep thinking about law.  You dream about law.  You lose the ability to say or even spell the word "statue" without turning it into "statute".  Some of us will never recover from this one (you know who you are).

   It was in this state of severe mental disarray that my hatred for Johnny Cash was bred.  There I was, sitting on my couch, books and papers scattered all around me, when I heard a strange sound.  "Bum, bum... bum, bum... bum, bum...".  "What the hell is th-that?", I stuttered as my eye twitched involuntarily.  I ventured into my bedroom and the noise grew louder.  From there I could hear the unmistakable lyrics to "Ring of Fire" (we've all seen "Walk the Line"; I can recognize that nonsense anywhere).  The music was coming through the wall at such a volume that I could make out every lyric in every verse.  This was not OK.  This was not the first time my neighbor had irritated me, but given my mental state at that moment, I was irrationally angry.  Seeing red angry.  Throwing pillows around the room angry.  Pounding on the freaking wall angry. 

   I took this opportunity to calmly and collectedly call my apartment manager and politely inform him of the ruckus next door.  Translation:  I called him up and demanded that he get his butt over here NOW to tell that idiot next door to turn that crap off because I have to study and pass the bar exam otherwise I will never get a job and I will live in poverty for the rest of my life selling all of my worldly possessions to pay for my student loans.  The manager arrived not 10 minutes later, had a chat with the neighbor, and the auditory assault ended, at least for that evening.  But the damage had already begun to be done.

   To lend a bit more background to the situation, it came to my attention that the Cash-loving neighbor was actually one of my apartment complex's maintenance men.  As such an individual, one would at least infer that he might have a heightened sense of public responsibility, compassion for his fellow man, and consideration for his neighbors.  We all know the saying, "don't poop where you eat".  Well, in the case of a maintenance man who lives where he works, he should be especially cognizant of his surroundings and be on his best behavior.  But alas, he evidently was not.

   Fast forward to 2 days later.  I am again sitting on the couch, surrounded by all my study materials, and the INCESSANT bass notes begin again.  Tonight however it is louder and more irritating than ever before.  I pick up the phone and ever so politely call the manager over again.  He shows up and proceeds to pound on the neighbor's door.  He pounds again.  And again.  He pounds for a full 10 minutes.  Manager then informs me that neighbor is probably drunk, as he was fairly inebriated on the evening of his previous offense.  Neighbor is likely PASSED OUT with the offensive music playing and there is really nothing to be done if he won't come to the door.  So sorry for the inconvenience.  You've.  Got.  To.  Be.  Kidding.  Me.  This is when the law dork portion of me begins her internal diatribe about "breaching the warranty of habitability" and other such prattle.

   At this point is is nearly 10:30 p.m.  I am in a complete state of emotional upheaval.  I am panicked about the impending bar exam, I am livid at the idiot next door, I am reacting irrationally, and the soundtrack to all of this is freaking JOHNNY CASH.  I made the decision to drive the nearly 45 minutes out to my parents' house in order to ensure at least some sleep that evening, because no one could tell when the aural onslaught might end.  Not impressed.

   At least there was a happy ending in all of this.  Despite the idiocy next door, I did manage to pass the Wisconsin bar exam, and I did manage to put the fear of God into my imbecile neighbor so as to prevent any further auditory trespass of Mr. Cash until I moved out.  It is amazing what a threat to break a lease and a nasty conversation with your apartment complex's regional managers will do...

   Nonetheless, long story short: I do now, and I will forever more, hate Johnny Cash.  I hope that by providing my tale of woe, the true Cash-lovers will forgive me for my hatred... and simply tolerate my fits of rage whenever those tell-tale bass notes enter my consciousness.

The Tragic Demise of Umbrella

  My umbrella is (was) fabulous.  Purchased for a mere $5.00 at Wal-Mart (don't judge), it was a picture of fiscal responsibility.  Black with white and yellow flowers, a soft, sponge-y u-shaped handle; it was lovely, affordable and useful.  A rare buy in my experience.  Unfortunately, umbrella has definitely celebrated his last hurrah.  Due partially to my abuse, and mostly to the inhuman wind yesterday, umbrella will shortly be laid to rest.  Here follows the tale of the the untimely demise of Umbrella:

   Umbrella has been a silent stow-away in my work bag, and sometimes in my purse, for quite some time now.  It sits there quietly waiting for a rainy day during which it can fulfill its simple purpose: keeping me dry.  I decided to put umbrella in my purse, rather than in my work bag, for a short trip to Wisconsin last month.  I was sitting at McDonald's with the fiance, Ninny-Muggins and Baby Ninny-Muggins, and suddenly I felt an unnerving POP from inside my purse.  What was that?  Did a mislaid bottle of soda just explode?  Is there a rubber band-snapping purse gremlin hiding in there?  Should I be afraid of putting my hand inside for fear that it might be covered in lotion/contact solution/makeup/whatever-other-viscous-fluid-was-lurking-in-a-not-safe-for-purses-container?  But alas, it was poor umbrella that had caused the ruckus.  Umbrella had twisted himself in such a way that his poor squishy handle snapped off.  Inside my purse.  WTF...???  Anyway, despite losing a limb to a violent, yet unintentional accident, umbrella and I persevered, and although injured, umbrella lived to shield me from rain another day (yesterday to be exact).

  Yesterday's weather definitely left something to be desired.  Rainy and very windy.  The perfect day to stay inside, but for those of us that had to leave the house, it was, to say the least, unpleasant.  I got to work at my usual time, and proceeded to patrol the parking lot looking for a space.  Ordinarily I am able to find a parking space in the closest lot, however apparently the universe thought yesterday was the day to poo on me so naturally there were no spots available.  I had to park essentially in Guam, which instantly put me in a bad mood.

   I grabbed trusty Umbrella and got out of the car to brave the long trek into the building.  Immediately, the wind caught poor umbrella and flipped his innards out and bent his hinges in unnatural directions. It was like a scene from a bad horror movie. Reminiscent of Linda Blair crawling down the stairs upside down and contorted in "The Exorcist". Luckily, umbrella was able to flip himself back into a decent shape, but the wind had not finished its cruel ordeal.  As I began the long walk to the building, the wind was relentless.  It continued beating and battering umbrella within an inch of his life.  Umbrella did his best to protect me from the rain and wind, acting more as a shield in front of me, rather than as a canopy over me.  His hinges were all bent around me as the wind proceeded to flip him inside out several more times before I reached the safety of the lobby.

   Once we got inside, I surveyed the damage.  Umbrella was sufficiently beaten.  But he had to live to fight for one more journey from the building back out to my car.  After my shift yesterday, we again made the journey from the building to the car.  Umbrella tried his hardest to perform his umbrellical duties.  He was again rendered inside-out several times, but he has finally been put to rest down the trash chute it my apartment building.  It was a sad day, but umbrella will be remembered fondly.  R.I.P. umbrella.


Update:  I just found out that the evil wind and rain from yesterday claimed another umbrella victim.  A sad day for umbrellas everywhere.

Automated Bathrooms are the Devil.

  We've all been there.  You're in a public bathroom stall, minding your own business... literally... just letting your mind wander as your body does what it was designed to do, and all of a sudden WHOOSH!!!!  The flippin' toilet flushes all by itself causing you to receive an uncomfortably damp hiney; damp with nasty toilet water and all the other unspeakable things which were recently deposited.  What folly is this?  The toilet just flushes by itself?  As if operated by some demonic toilet troll who relishes in delight at the prospect of causing severe uncomfortableness in even the least zealous of germ-o-phobes?  Who's idea was this?
 
   It truly is a sad commentary on the world we live in when expecting individuals to merely FLUSH after themselves is simply too much to ask.  I like to think that we, as a human race, would collectively be able to handle such a menial expectation.  After all, no one wants to look at that.  There is such a nice and convenient little lever provided just for the purpose of ridding the world of such ugly sights.  It is almost even satisfying to be able to just press a button to clean up after oneself.  If only everything were that easy.  But alas.  Even the simplest of expectations is sadly not met by everyone.  I was the victim of just such an individual a mere three days ago.  I entered the public facility, opened the stall door and to my horror, I was greeted by a most disturbing sight.  I won't go into detail, but there is just something about seeing the digestive remains of another human being that is, in a word, gross.  So the rationale behind creating automatically flushing toilets is not completely lost on me, but I am still deeply disappointed in humanity for necessitating such an invention. 
  
   I am convinced the automatic flushing apparatus in these toilets was designed by some twisted sadist that enjoys causing havoc in the lives of his invention's unwilling users.  It is simply impossible for the stupid thing to work properly at the appropriate time.  It will flush when you are not at all prepared or ready for flushing to occur, creating the damp and germy hiney situation described in some detail above; or it will simply refuse to flush when appropriate, causing the user to unnecessarily fret that she will be labeled as one of the "dirty ones" on whom flushing etiquette is lost.  This cannot and should not be.

   Moving on.  Only slightly less sinister than the automated toilet is the automated sink.  The automated sink coupled with the automated soap dispenser is the Devil's Duo from Hell.  When one works, the other invariably malfunctions.  You will either have wet hands with no soap, or worse, soapy hands with no way to rinse them.  The user is forced into engage in a ridiculous dance of jumping from sink to sink trying desperately to find at least one sink and one soap dispenser that will function properly so as to rinse the germy splashes from the evil automated toilet from her skin.  We have all engaged in this dance and if you deny it, it is clear that you are a fibber.
 
   Finally, it is an undeniable truth that automatic hand dryers will never operate properly at any time.  You will stand there like an idiot with dripping wet hands, waving them wildly under the dryer, trying to appease the sensor which relishes in your damp helplessness.  Eventually you will come to a mental crossroads.  Do you stand there and continue flailing to attempt to make the dryer work?  Or do you give up, admit defeat, wipe your wet hands on your pants and leave the bathroom a lesser person than when you entered because you were foiled by the automated beast?

   Now I understand the rationale behind these automated bathrooms.  Germ-o-phobes will tout their praises to the heavens (I'm talking to you, Ninny-muggins), but in my humble opinion, I'd much rather take my chances with the Ebolas and Bird Flus of the world than prepare for automated battle each and every time I enter a public restroom.  But maybe that's just me.

A Shambles.

   You know that old saying, "when it rains, it pours"?  Well dear reader, it is freaking pouring.  I have been hunting for a new job for longer than I care to admit for several reasons.  First, it is simply time that I moved on because although my current job has been amazing and I have learned more than I ever expected to, I have reached the point where it is simply time that I branch out and take on a new challenge.  Second, as many of you know, I am currently living in what I affectionately call "the sticks", and I have been more than ready for a LONG time to get back to civilization (a.k.a. the Twin Cities). 

   So, fast forward to last MONDAY... a mere 6 days ago, when I got the phone call I have been begging for over the past year and a half.  I GOT A NEW JOB.  Is this really happening??  Am I finally getting what I've wanted for so long and have been cruelly denied??  Do I actually get to move back to a place where "going to Target" is not a day long escapade???  YES!!!  That is a huge affirmative!!! WAHOO!!!!!!!!!

   Now that the excitement of "getting back to civilization" has worn off, reality has set in.  And reality is a tad overwhelming.  I will be starting said new job one week from tomorrow.  New job is 3 hours away.  This requires moving.  I have not started packing...I have a lot of stuff...I should go through the stuff..the stuff is EVERYWHERE..do I have time to go through the stuff or do I just shove all the stuff in boxes?  Do I have enough boxes?  I need to find a truck... and helpers... and boxes... and change addresses and forward mail and find a new apartment and pay security deposits and find a subleaser and BOOM!!!!!!!!!!

That was the sound of my head exploding.

   It is indeed pouring.  One big part of my stress was alleviated yesterday when the fiance and I found a great apartment and signed our lease.  Now at least I have an address to start using for changing addresses, etc.  I will, for the first time since I last lived with my Mom and Dad, have my own DISHWASHER (this is cause for celebration), and my own WASHER AND DRYER in our apartment!  No more lugging huge laundry baskets through the snowbank, into my car, to the laundromat, back into the car, and through the snowbank and back into the house.  I can simply toss my clothes in the washer that only WE get to use which is a mere 15 feet away.  SO EXCITED.  And the most important part of all???  I won't feel the need to hoard quarters away every time I find one in my wallet because I need them for laundry.  I can go buy a gumball if I want and I don't have to feel guilty.  Yes.  These are the things I think about.

   I am a very type A person and I am a huge fan of lists, therefore this is quite obviously a time when lists are my best friend.  I get great personal satisfaction from being able to cross something off my list when it is completed (no matter how minuscule).  I'll even consider putting stupid crap on my list just for the joy it brings me to cross it off... for example, I may put something like "clip toenails" on my moving list because it serves two distinct purposes.  First, it is something simple that I can do in minimal time and then I get to cross it off my list... and feel a sense of accomplishment.  Second, it is a relatively unimportant and not necessarily productive thing I can do to procrastinate and distract me from the important and pressing things (read: packing my entire household into boxes) that actually need to get done.  A girl needs priorities.

   That being said, I currently have T-minus 6 days in which to pack my entire house into boxes capable of withstanding a move in the dead of winter.  Clearly, it is time to clip the toenails and cross that off my list.  I am a pure example of productivity.  

New Year's Eve Musings

   I distinctly recall a New Year's Eve (NYE) several years ago where I just HAD to have a certain outfit to wear and HAD to have a perfect party and HAD to go out to the bars afterward and HAD to have a perfect night.  I remember finding an awesome top on line and spending nearly $90 on it (plus expedited shipping) so that I would have my awesome NYE outfit.  Despite the fact that it had a gorgeous beaded peacock on it, even I have to admit that $90 was a tad excessive.  Not to mention the money and time spent in preparing for my party/paying cover charges at bars/drink expenses.  And quite honestly, it was a fun night (I suppose) but honestly not much different than any other night out, other than the higher bill.  I thought that the whole evening was just a prelude to the magical moment at midnight when everyone cheers and drinks champagne and kisses one another.  And when that moment came, your whole night was supposed to be transformed into one of those movie moments where you are having the time of your life and champagne rains from the heavens.  Get real.

   I've had several NYEs along those same lines and all of them seem to end up being a bit of a let down because we put so much pressure on one night to be this magical end all/be all of awesome trophy worthy nights.  I've actually had plenty of nights out that end up being so much better than NYE because they were very unplanned, unchoreographed and impromptu so that you focus on the good time you're actually having, rather than the amazing time you're supposed to be having.  (An evening of speaking Arabic to cab drivers and getting cheese in one's hair comes to mind).  So for the past few years, I've eschewed the pursuit of grandeur and had significantly lower key NYEs and had way more fun in the process.

   Last year, I recall my "prefect outfit" consisting of my ratty UWO sweatshirt, socks and jeans.  I spent the evening with good friends drinking a few beers and playing Nintendo Wii all night.  Who knew that 4 player Super Mario Brothers could be so amusing... I had a great time.  Then this year, I again spent the time with great friends and my new fiancee.  We all went to dinner at a fun new Italian place in St. Paul, then went back home and watched a movie and completely missed midnight because we weren't even paying attention.  And again, I had a great time.  No pressure or expectations, just fun (and an awesome olive selection... seriously, try out Scusi, you won't regret it).

   Maybe I'm just getting old and lame, but these days I'd prefer a good meal and a good movie to a bar and a crowded dance floor.  So happy New Year and Happy 2011 to everyone from this fallen away NYE partier!!!  I'll sit here with my sweatshirt and beer and go to bed early and leave the insane NYE partying to those that are much cooler than I!