Heroes

President Bush speaking today from Arlington National Cemetery...

“Now this hallowed ground receives a new generation of heroes—men and women who gave their lives in places such as Kabul and Kandahar, Baghdad and Ramadi. Like those who came before them, they did not want war—but they answered the call when it came. They believed in something larger than themselves. They fought for our country, and our country unites to mourn them as one . . . The greatest memorial to our fallen troops cannot be found in the words we say or the places we gather. The more lasting tribute is all around us—a country where citizens have the right to worship as they want, to march for what they believe, and to say what they think. These freedoms came at great costs—and they will survive only as long as there are those willing to step forward to defend them against determined enemies."

Ew?

Am I the only person on the planet who eats barbecue chips with California rolls? It seems so wrong, but it tastes so right.

It's the bangs...

It's official: bad bangs have struck again.

In college, when I had shortish hair, I thought I could give myself a haircut by mimicking what I saw the stylists do at the salon. I tried trimming my layers and adding long bangs, but I ended up looking like an insomniac crack addict. When I brought myself, defeated, to the salon the next day, they had to cut my hair super short to camouflage the damage. And it took me a couple months until I no longer felt I looked like a boy.

Today the stylist was to blame. After a brief shopping trip, I stopped into the salon at the mall to trim my layers (it had been months!) and to add long bangs that I could sweep to the side and barely tuck behind my ear. In fact, I do believe this is how I described them to the stylist. You can picture what look I intended, right? Well, after she got the scissors out of my face and I opened my eyes, I see in the mirror the worst bangs I've ever had in my life (and that's including my mile-high bangs of 1993). They are no where near long—they stop halfway between my hairline and my eyebrows. And because of a cowlick, no amount of products or blow-drying could keep the hair from standing up straight in the middle of my scalp. On my way out of the mall, I took a peek at my reflection in each of the store windows and wanted to cry.

Ever since I've been in such a punchy mood that all of my friends are somewhat shocked by my sassy and sometimes mean-spirited comments. All I can do is blame the bangs. I mean, really, am I supposed to be happy when I look like an effing 12-year-old?

It's the bangs...

Celebrity Crush

I picked up my mail from my parents' house yesterday, and there was Paul Rudd staring back at me from the cover of Los Angeles magazine. Mmm... Paul Rudd. There was a length of time in my teenage years when I was obnoxiously infatuated with this actor who played Alicia Silverstone's ex-step-brother in Clueless.



What's with celebrity crushes? Everyone has them. Tweens and teens tear photos out of magazines to post on their school lockers and bedroom walls. Adults discuss celebrities (and celebrity gossip) at the water cooler. The intensity of these unrealistic infatuations fades with age, but most twentysomethings I know would still see a movie or attend a concert because they have something of a crush on whomever is starring or headlining.

I have a friend who recently told me she has two tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert but doesn't want to take her husband because it would be too weird—her attention and attraction would be divided between these two men. Hehehe. I am guilty of uttering a great many goofy statements about Jake Gyllenhaal (I'm single because I'm saving myself for him, right?).

It's harmless, but it's also so silly and so pointless. Why do we even bother to exert the energy?

Music Addict

I've been a music nut for as long as I can remember--even back to my early elementary school days when I had my own record player and a stack of records I'd borrowed from my parents. As the years went by, my music obsession grew and evolved. There was my rap phase, my hard rock phase, my angry chick phase, etc. Somewhere along the way, though, I became concerned that I might one day become too grown-up for good, cutting-edge music, that there would be a magic age when I had to listen to the lame-ass "lite rock" radio station they play in doctors' offices. A magic age when contemporary music became irrelevant to my life. Or too loud. Or too offensive. And I feared this age.

I still believe that. I still believe there must be a point when everything changes, when I prefer the music of my youth to the music of "today," whenever that day is. I wonder when it will come?

In the meantime, I'll keep obsessing. I'm currently in a music phase best described as "wildly eclectic." I bought three new CDs this week: Linkin Park, Amy Winehouse, and Maroon 5. I'm 27 years old, and I still have no problem blasting each in my car with my windows rolled down and the bass rattling my rear view mirror so badly I can't use it.

Think Much?

I did something so ridiculously lame today. I made a wrong turn on the way to work—twice. Now, I've been going the same way to work since I moved into this apartment two-and-a-half years ago! WTF? The first time, I kind of laughed at myself. The second time I could barely believe it. Who does that? Who gets "lost" on the way to work?

I haven't had so much on my mind in a very, very long time. I think I've maxed out my brain. There are so many things to think about that I've lost my ability to complete tasks—small, large, you name it. I'm wholly ineffective.

Why can't brains have a "sleep" mode?

And, Sarah, I know what your comment will be, so I'll just write it: Puppies, kitties, and rainbows... puppies kitties, and rainbows... puppies, kitties, and rainbows...