No shame

Dear Mr. Mid-life Crisis,

Look, I don't really want to say this because I'm sure you're a really nice guy. But enough is enough already! I understand that you are in essence saying "Up Yours!" to your ex-wife by going on some warped revenge diet. But your exuberance in Bonnie's Sculpting Cardio Class is taking it a step too far. I mean, jumping in and out of lunges? You're not exactly a spring chicken, and I think I can hear your joints scraping together when you do that. Plus, it's distracting. How am I supposed to keep focused on contracting my core muscle group with you bounding all over the place? You bring to mind little Lord Fauntleroy, except I'm betting that you're NOT gay because you're frumpy. The hair is mullet-ish and the shorts are mid-thigh, but not in the I'm-only-gay-for-Brad-Pitt-European-trash way.

My main complaint: your sweat. It was dripping off you so profusely that your step was 50% covered in wet splatters. At first glance I thought you couldn't drink out of your water bottle properly - but OH NO, that was definitely perspiration . One word for you: sweatband. It will match your high-tops quite perfectly. And it will save you from the inevitable lawsuit bound to happen when someone (probably me) slips in your puddle.

The truth hurts friend, but I promise that I hurt more when I am forced to work out next to you twice a week. Take my free advice and run with it. You'll thank me.

While we're on the subject

of being aware, click here to get a glimpse of the troubles of Europe, and the rearing (again) of the satanic head of fascism.

Thoughts?

Bye bye dollar

"Economic crisis" seems to be the tagline as of late. And if you don't know why, then you are a sadly misinformed human who should spend less time reading Twilight and more time reading the news. Or preferably listening to talk radio. Anyway. We all concur that I have some good ideas. And this is my latest stroke of genius: SPEND. That's right. Stop saving, you selfish hoarders. And Congress, don't think you're not included in this. Here is the letter I wrote to Mr. Bush which proposes my idea:

(WARNING: If capitalism offends you, then stop reading. And never visit my blog again.)

Dear Mr. President,

Let's skip the small talk and get right to the point. Don't give $700 billion to the companies who botched all this in the first place, give it to the people! Ya, you heard me. THE PEOPLE. Why? Because we will spend it. If every person over the age of 18 would get somewhere around $535,000, I can pretty much guarantee you that some portion of that will be spent. Smart people will buy real estate, houses, cars, college educations, bonds, stocks, and other smart-people things.

Stupid people will spend it on rims, or cocaine, or Jack Daniels or gold chains and whatever else retards do. But does it matter? No, because it all goes back to the economy. The housing market will start to raise, GM won't go bankrupt, and even WaMu might survive because of those people who will just put it in the bank to save it.

I know people think you are dumb. But I have faith that despite the fact that you are a Bush, you had to work hard for that MBA. Just think about what I have said and don't make a rash decision. I would rather not have to pay over $100,000 in taxes because of the failures of others.

Sincerely,
Tara

PS - I would really like some new pants that caught my eye at Nordstrom, so the sooner you send me that check the better.


A note of credit: Mr. B was the first to propose said plan. I just expounded. Which is what I do.

The streets are alive with the sounds of music

Picture this: You. Atop your trusty steed, Silver. Clay-red desert, hot wind blowing the tumbleweeds across the dry river bed. A drip of sweat rolls down your forehead. You finger your 6-shooter pistol in its holster on your left hip. Your body tenses with the anticipation of physical exertion just seconds away . . . "Hi-yo, Silver!!" QUE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE!

Have you ever wanted to gallop along to that triumphant song? Well now you can! But preferably in a Honda Civic going 55 mph. And only until Tuesday. But yes - there is a strip of highway in Lancaster (designed by Honda) where the grooves on the road turn the noise of the tires into the William Tell Overture. Genius! Congrats Honda for your applaudable marketing schemes. Too bad the Lancaster residents are such pathetic whiners. As if "lack of sleep" should be a good enough reason to repave the highway. I mean, COME ON. These geniuses should never have bought a home close to the freeway in the first place. It's Lancaster for crying out loud. It's not like they suffer from lack of space.

Let me give you three good reasons why the highway should stay musical:

1. A sense of community. I'm all about people doing things together alone. Like getting onto Avenue K, then exiting once they pass the musical strip, and getting back on the freeway to do it all over again. What a bringing together of citizens!

2. How many other places can say that they have a road that plays overtures? It will attract all kinds of people. Probably weirdos. But let's be honest, Lancaster needs all the notoriety it can get:

3. If people drive this road enough, and I'm talking the repeat offenders that just can't get enough, then that means that more and more gas will be consumed. Which means there will be some kind of petrol crisis, and then we will deem it absolutely necessary to drill in the ANWR. And I'm all about that. Especially because there might be the added perk of forcing the caribou into the Arctic Ocean. I have no love for Caribou.

The Curse of the Internet

For those who don't know, I have a very pleasant and simple job that allows me ample time each day to surf the internet. This also gives me plenty of time to post, but I'm not exactly overcome with inspiration while on the job, so I usually don't.

I have something of a daily routine. Think Office Space. I come in, make my tea, chat with Stacey, the real estate secretary, for 1/2 an hour, check the major news papers for interesting things, make my first trip to the loo, and then tackle my projects. Until I get bored, and then I get back online to look at two genres: blogs (of course), and celebrity gossip. Don't judge me!

Truth be told, I love my daily dose of TMZ and Perez Hilton. There is something so delightful about seeing glamorous actors captured on their way back from Starbucks, looking washed-up and nasty, like my meth-using neighbor. I love the downfall. I love the ridiculousness of Hollywood. And since I don't have TV, I've go to have some way to keep up with current pop-culture, right?

I will lean over in my chair and tell Stacey about so-and-so who's now prego, and we will laugh and roll our eyes, and then she will tell me her latest celeb sighting (she sees them ALL the time). But after a few minutes I feel my blood pressure rising and I start to get dizzy and my mouth gets dry. It's the feeling that I often get when reading about China or Russia or Hugo Chavez... something that tastes like rage. And this inevitebly happens when reading "The Queen of All Media", the Perezzers. Maybe I have been spoiled in academia. I suppose I am just used to the pretense of objectivity. I enjoy his open dislike of almost everyone he writes about, and really laugh when he calls Rumer Willis "Potato Head" (perfect example here). But then I see that he actually is Hollywood personified, and that's when I grab my trash can and make a run for the bathroom.

So now I'm pretty sure I have health issues from work. If its not the lastest horrifying case of unjust, frivilous lawsuits in litigation, it's TMZ or Perez pushing me over the edge. I feel a case of disability coming on.

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Friends and relatives of the victims of the 9/11 attacks at the annual memorial at ground zero. (Pool photo by David Acker)

Life's Laundry List

Paige vs. the Wave

So far I am The Biggest Loser. So what if we are only 3 weeks in, and have until mid-October. I am determined I will be the reigning champion. Or at least today I am determined. I MUST call back the IRS. The crooks still aren't giving me my hard earned wealth. I have bought three dresses in the past week, and a tan pair of slouchy leather boots. Saving - what? I am desperately wanting to turn back to the lovely genres of gothic novels, Shakespeare and the classics. But Karch M. continues piling book after book on me and I feel almost burdened by the weight. Summer is closing down shop, but secretly keeps it doors open for all sc dwellers. This is a fact: I saw two white skirts and pants today, and Labor Day is definitely over. The gym is still too hot. And I don't mean the people. Not enough fans and too many old men, yet I go back each night like it's become some kind of addiction. I have rekindled my love affair with British Period Dramas. Currently: Bleak House by Charles Dickens. Thank you BBC and Netflix. Monday was the 5th time I have gone to the beach this summer. Shameful, I know. Thankfully I got a decent tan, and the group of middle-aged hombres who were leering on the sand dune were also told to disband by the cops. 3/4 of the ward has gone back to Utah for the fall. How odd not to be one of them. I walked into church on Sunday and realized I missed them, and consequently haven't thought of those people until now. My brothers are home more, since their summer romances have ended and the books are calling. I stopped studying for the GRE for the present. I stopped looking for another job. Days roll in and out quietly and contentedly. I am living my life and enjoying it.