Three...Two...

Parents seem to be doing the countdown a lot lately.

In my attempt to find the shortest line to checkout at the store this afternoon, I spotted a family of five. Normally I would not choose to get behind a family of five, but I noticed that all they were purchasing is a rather large supply of D batteries.

Why one would need that many D batteries is beyond me.

But I figured they would be quick, so behind them I stood. What happened next was expected. The young child saw the supply of candy that was, of course, placed at eye level.

I think that children get a magnet installed in them at birth. As does candy. The magnet gets weaker with age, of course. Or we just become immune to it.

But she made a beeline and decided on a brightly colored package of gummy-somethings. Shockingly, her parents did not cave. They calmly told her no. She insisted. They insisted more. And then it happened.

Three...Two...

The child got up. She stopped whining and stood next to her sibling's stroller. I felt like I was watching a puppy obedience class. Except I went to one of those once and the dog did not listen quite as well. It was cuter though. But I often find puppies to be far cuter than children. Don't judge me.

Anyways.

I really wanted the mother to get to one. Is that mean of me?

It's just that I have heard it so much recently. The countdown. But I have yet to see what happens when they get to one. I mean, they must have gotten there at some point. Otherwise, why would the child be so terrified?

What happens? And are D batteries involved at all?

I think I'm going to have to get in line near families more often. This will have to be revisited...

i lost my boots.

I hear more people put on weight in the winter. Bears do for sure.

These must be the people who don't leave their homes. They complain about the cold. They sit and eat and watch TV until the warmth returns. It would make so much more sense for these people to not live in a place that gets cold. Then maybe there wouldn't be such a ridiculous obesity problem in this country.

I feel like people should lose more weight in the winter months.

Think about it.

In order to go anywhere, layers are mandatory. Many layers. You wear these layers in the car as it warms up. You don't take them off in the car because you're just running to the store. Ten minute ride tops.

Then the sweating begins.

Sure, you could drive without the heat on. But you don't. And you could take off the coat. But you don't. It's called water weight.

I have a different technique.

I bought boots a couple years ago. These aren't you average winter boots. No, no. They are snowmobile boots. I'd say a couple pounds each. I decided that wearing them daily in the winter months would not only keep me nice and toasty, the extra weight would help burn a calorie or two.

People laugh. That's fine.

We'll see who's laughing when spring rolls around and my legs are toned. Yeah, I said it.

Sheep number 956

I used to be able to sleep. It was phenomenal.

In high school I would sleep in until noon on the weekends. And I would only get up because my parents didn't want me to "sleep the day away."

But I don't know what happened.

And the most annoying part of it all is that I'm tired. So very tired all the time. Tired enough to feel like I'm going to pass out while driving. Yet as soon as I get in bed, nothing. I stare at the ceiling. Or at least what I can see of the ceiling. I reposition at least a dozen times. I sigh. Often. Out of frustration.

I've never tried counting sheep though.

How exactly does that work? Maybe it becomes so repetitive that you fall asleep out of complete boredom. That would be awful. Plus, my sheep would have more character than the average bed-jumping sheep.

They would be average color. Your typical black or white. Wouldn't want to get too psychedelic there. Not a fan of rainbow colored animals.

They would baa. Only because I find that noise to be rather humorous. But it wouldn't be the average sheep baa. It would be people doing impressions of the sheep. Each one would sound a little different.

And of course this would not take place in your typical grazing field. It would change scenes often. All based on the tone of the baa, of course.

I think they would be miniaturized.

I'm never sleeping again...

Walk it out.

I made an interesting observation the other day as I walked across a parking lot.

There are those cars passing slowly, anxiously waiting for a close spot to open up. Hoping that each car you walk by will be the one you get in. These people try to make eye contact with you. And when they do, they don't break it. As if they are trying to read your mind. To figure out if you really know where you're going.

And everyone has their limit as to how far they are willing to walk. It's like an imaginary line people place it their heads. As soon as you pass it, they drive off in a fit of rage. Annoyed at you for wasting their time.

Oddly enough, if you look past the first four rows, the parking lot is empty.

No one likes to park out there. In past experience, however, I noticed that if you do decide to be the first one, many will follow.

I guess it makes sense for some people. But for where I was, unacceptable.

The gym, to my knowledge, is a place where people go to work out. This may be through cardio or weight-training activities.

Now, if you have the ability to partake in such activities, why exactly do you need to get the closest parking spot possible.

Yeah, I'm going to go run a couple miles and maybe work on my quads. Oh, but I need to be creepy and follow this spandex-clad man to his car so that I can walk the shortest distance to the treadmill. Don't want to exert myself too much, you know.

I look forward to the day they replace the stairs with an escalator for the gym-goers. Only in America.

Sonic likes to taunt Michiganders

It's evil, really.

The commercials come on right around the time the hunger pains start. The go on about happy hour specials on the 400 types of beverages they offer. And the ridiculously unhealthy sundae options available. Yet there are none to be found in the gloved state.

People tend to want what they can't have. But if it is not possible for them to get it, what's the point?

Perhaps it's all part of their plan. They put the idea in your head so when you eventually leave the state and stumble upon a Sonic, you'll stop. Because you were so intrigued by the ads for this place that you can't not stop. Because if you go all the way back to Michigan and you tell people that yes, you saw a Sonic, but, no, you didn't stop, they will shun you.

That's what I did.

I was en route from Florida back to home when my windshield wipers decided to stop moving the water from my view. As I pulled off the exit to find a way to solve this problem I saw, you guessed it, Sonic.

Suddenly my logical thinking left me.

I didn't care that I couldn't see. I wasn't even hungry. I knew that eating fast food would make me nauseous for the remainder of the drive. But I didn't care. I had finally found one.

I wasn't impressed. But they had gotten me. Out of pure curiosity, they had gotten me.

Damn you, Sonic. Damn you and your marketing ploy.

I know you from somewhere.

Families are weird. The resemblance. The mannerisms.

Becoming your parents is also weird. It tends to be a surprise attack. You are standing in the kitchen one day and notice a few dishes in the sink. No biggie. Then you really start to think about these said dishes.

You realize these dishes are the same ones you saw yesterday. Except now the macaroni and cheese is now crusted on in such a way that getting it off is going to require way more arm strength than would have been required had the noodle/cheese combination been removed on the day it was prepared.

Arm strength that you shouldn't have to use. Because you did not eat this food. But you need to use the cooking apparatus that the macaroni was cooked in. Which now means that in order for you to enjoy your meal you need to clean up after other people.

And then you become agitated.

And you start mumbling things under you breath about the roommate who did this to you. The grown roommate. The one who is fully capable of cleaning up after themselves. But doesn't. Making you have to clean up their mess after you get home.

And that's not what you want to do when you get home from a long day of work. Or school. Or both. And that's when it hits you.

You are becoming your mother.

Almost everyone grows up claiming that they are never going to be like their parents. As if they can control it. It's about as controllable as looking like them.

Scary thought, yes.

Good thing my parents are so intelligent and attractive.

So...thanks.

Today marks the beginning. The start of the mass text messaging season.

I used to wake up to the delicious smell of our midday meal being prepared. Those were happier times. Today I found myself waking up to the lovely tune of my cell phone indicating a text message.

Not once. Four times.

Happy turkey day they said. That's what it's called now. Turkey Day. No one refers to it as Thanksgiving. Because no one is giving thanks. They are simply practicing the art of binge eating, which is what America is so good at.

Some had an oh-so-creative gobble gobble added on. Thank you, random person from high school, for reminding me of what the bird carcass currently being cooked downstairs used to say. Let's hang out next time I'm in town.

But we won't.

And we probably won't communicate until next year, when you wake me up again.

The same thing happens on Christmas. And of course again on New Years. Don't get me wrong. I am just as guilty as the rest of them. I have sent the mass Happy '08 message. But, in my defense, I was quite intoxicated. It wouldn't have happened had the double-fisting not taken place.

So, thanks wireless communication technology. Thanks for giving people that I haven't talked to in five years the ability to feel like we are still friends.

I hope the food you eat today is more delicious than the food you ate every other day this year.