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.

Mickey Mouse Recylces

In addition to seeing over rotating tea cup functionality and basic theme park maintenance, MM also does things that not too many people know about. He's green.

Or at least houses the events where recycling gurus congregate.

But that's the same thing, right?

I was witness to one of these said recycling conventions back in the day. And by witness I mean, I went along solely to stay in the hotel and visit numerous theme parks free of charge. At no point did I actually learn about recycling first hand.

Apparently other people did. Then they passed the information along to me.

Which leads me to believe that recycling is far more confusing than it needs to be, resulting in not very many people doing it. it is completely unnecessary to have eight different numbers when all it really comes down to is can it or can it not be used again.

Or perhaps another way to solve this problem would simply be stop producing things that can't be recycled. Eliminate garbage all together. That way, everything that is picked up curbside would go right back to the shelves. Sounds delicious.

And it sounds completely possible.

Me:1 Pollution:0

No pictures, please.

For a while I loathed cameras. Whether of the video or digital variety. Still not a fan of disposable, but that's neither here nor there.

It was around the latter part of my secondary education years. Also known as the "are you seriously going to videotape me opening my birthday (Christmas, flag day) card?" years.

NOTE: Yes, I was always aware of flag day growing up only because my dad got every pointless holiday off, which meant he was around to take more pictures.

I would say that the only event in your life that should be documented by your parents post ability to drive is graduation. And that's only because it's an event in which a mother is most likely to cry. At that point, denying a picture is just mean. Anything after that has to be a likely to cause tears situation. i.e. getting married or the birth of a child.

My life documentation began early.

And it wasn't only still images. No, no. My dad was that guy at Disney World who would not only sport the fanny pack and some sort of neon apparel (it was the 80's), he would be carrying 3 cameras. And he would always be at least 5 feet behind or in front of us at all times. Because we all know how important it is to get footage of your family walking. Hours of footage.

I have been able to relive some of my most traumatizing childhood memories.

But I guess in his defense, I have also been able to watch some of the most entertaining.

The question I have is, where is the happy balance? As much as I grew to hate the slew of cameras, I recently grew more accepting. But that may just because I live 700 miles away from them.

I suppose child documentation is fair. It's when you go home for Christmas at the age of 23 and find the camera on the coffee table, father on the couch, and both waiting anxiously for the gift opening that it becomes a problem.

Irrational fears: An exploration

I grew up watching Sesame Street. I would consider it to be quality programming. Not nearly as creepy as some of the things kids watch nowadays. (Using the word "nowadays" just made me feel old.) But really, Teletubbies are terrifying. I don't know if that is considered the same age group or not. It's beyond the point I'm attempting to make.

So, Sesame Street.

I've heard that watching the show caused ADD in kids. From changing story lines so fast and whatnot. I guess that makes sense. But that is also not my point.

Muppets are scary.

Not all of them. Obviously I was able to watch the show without having nightmares. And I was quite fond of the Fraggle community. In fact, most are not even remotely scary. That was a generalized statement. I take it back. I will rephrase.

Big Bird is scary.

Let's take a deeper look at this bird, shall we? It's eight feet tall. It's innards are made up of a 75 year old man. I can only imagine the resemblance being uncanny. I suppose it's inability to fly makes me a little more comfortable.

It's not the bird, itself that I fear. It's the movie.

I can't even remember the name of it. I may have unconsciously blocked out every other memory of it as an attempt to get over it. I don't remember the story line. Not sure when I saw it. There it just one short scene that plays in my head those rare times I drive by farmland. Weird, I know.

All this scene consists of is that massive bird running through a field and hiding behind the rolls of hay.

Terrifying.

Now, every time I see those rolls of hay, I wait. For the giant bird. This is completely irrational, I know. But I feel like the day I drive by a field and not think about it is the day that it will happen. Big Bird will run in front of my car. I feel bad enough when I hit already killed road kill. Imagine the guilt that would come with destroying a child's happiness.

It's not muppets. It's not even BB. It is rolls of hay that I fear. Hay and the ability creatures have to hide behind them.

I hate penguins.

They are not as cute as everyone seems to think they are. If anything, I would say they are full of themselves. Trying to get all sorts of attention for doing things that everyone can do. Like walk. And swim.

Yet people love seeing them at the zoo. I'll admit it. I used to. Maybe it's because they were the only animal guaranteed to be out and moving. Everything else would be sleeping and not even remotely entertaining.

But not anymore.
I will not visit the penguins at the zoo. I am boycotting.

My hatred for this "bird" is somewhat recent. Actually it happened about 5 minutes ago. No, I take that back. It really started about 6 months ago. The final jab they just made at me was 5 minutes ago. And I've had enough.

I blame my dad, really. (It should be noted that I blame many people for why I am the way I am.) But, maybe that's just a perk of being a parent. You have the ability to form another human beings mind into believing whatever you want them to believe.

He probably sat up one night and thought to himself, wouldn't it be funny if I raised my daughter to despise a specific breed of bird?

Yeah, Dad. Hilarious.

No. He didn't think that at all. He was simply passing down his love of hockey, and I gladly accepted. And now look what happened. It has morphed into an unhealthy obsession. Making me do things that I don't want to do, but convincing me that what I do do is the right thing to do.

Ugh. The Penguins have ruined me.

I can't talk about it anymore.

The holiday's must not be feeling well...

they're throwing up everywhere.

As a product of the north, it has always been easy to detect the upcoming holiday season. Temperatures would drop and multiple sheets of ice would make their home on every major intersection. So when the Christmas decor went up in the local mall, it made sense.

Here, it sneaks up on you.

My only indicator of the quickly approaching season lies in the hands of my daily coffee supplier. When that decorative red cup was handed my way, I was caught completely off guard. Sad, yes. True, also yes.

But then I began to wonder: How would someone who is calendar-ly challenged know that the season is upon us? Had Christmas not suffered from yearly indigestion, would people even remember to celebrate?

That's where "that one neighbor" comes in.

You know the one. They do things like let the grass grow to annoying levels, then decide to cut it wearing nothing but a stylish pair of jorts. Some leave their garbage can street side for days. None of them recycle. But they all have one thing in common.

Christmas lights. All year round.

And maybe they are smarter than the rest of us. Maybe they are the one's getting the last laugh as they drive by in their heated cars while the rest of the neighborhood is in the frigid cold trying to decide between multi-colored or blinking, or both.

My guess is that they were originally implanted in neighborhoods to serve as a yearly reminder that the holidays will happen. A marketing scheme so perfect that no one has caught on to it yet.

Nice job, Christmas. Tomorrow, my reminder will be in the form of a grande regular, with room for milk.

And so it begins.

As I sit on my bed and look around the disarray that is my room, I can’t help but wonder how such a mess happens. Seeing as I only stay here for a few hours at a time, it doesn’t seem plausible that the strewn about items are getting there by me.

And then it hits me.

Perhaps I am unconsciously making the mess to have something to distract me from my future writing. After all, how could I possibly get any work done when there are so many things in the wrong place?

I would blame it on OCD, but the truth is, it’s simple procrastination.

Which has now been made quite clear by the fact that this is being posted a mere hours before class.

I guess admitting it would be the first step towards fixing it. But then again, it’s been happening for years, which leads me to believe that it can’t be fixed. Or just won’t.

Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe all of my weird tendencies are my way of procrastinating.

Take, for example, the car locking obsession:
In order to leave my car, it is essential for me to lock it three times. It’s not that I don’t have faith that it is, in fact, locked after one hit of the button. It may just be my way of wasting a second of time after each departure, seconds that could be spent doing far more productive things.

So now I have a new goal.

Instead of wasting time away doing ridiculous things like questioning my car security, I will waste time here.

At least that way, writing will happen. It may not be on the headlines that are due the next day, but at least it will happen.