National Enqu-liar-er.

28 Feb

Who reads the National Enquirer? Really. Why does this publication still exist? I wonder this as I stand in line at the grocery store, waiting to check out my single carton of Haagen Dazs Caramel Cone ice cream behind a man who is purchasing six gallons of milk, a dozen cans of Chef Boyardee, a handful of frozen pizzas, some off-brand cookies, and enough paper towels to build a house with….if for some reason someone wanted a Brauny house. (?) I know there are plenty of loony toons around town, but are there really enough in our society that support an entire fake newspaper for decades consistently? The news in these prints are not even remotely believable. From Bat Boy to Angelina Jolie killing Brad Pitt and eating her children, the National Enquirer makes even the most fucked up person tripping on LSD seem mild. Who spends money on these? Furthermore, what crack head is writing them? I just don’t understand.

It is officially illegal to text and drive in the great state of Colorado. No doubt, texting and driving has probably caused more accidents this year than drinking and driving has. Shit’s gettin’ wild. But riddle me this: A cop pulls you over because he sees you boring down at your phone while blazing through an intersection. He walks up and knocks on your window, and accuses you of texting and driving and putting other drivers sharing the road in danger. You reply, “Oh, no officer. Actually, I wasn’t texting. I was checking my email on my Blackberry.”

Now what.

The law specifically states that texting while driving is against the law. What about playing Word Mole? Checking stocks? Looking up the forecast? Using your phone’s GPS? Shazaming a song? What’s the policeman going to do, check your message log? This seems like a difficult law to enforce.

...Ugh.

Does anyone remember how we used to wear our pony tails in middle school? It was an abominable sin to have any lumps or bumps in your pony whatsoever. We would take a comb dipped in water and sliiiiick back our hair, making it perfectly flat, as if we slicked it back with olive oil and topped it off with a spritz of Pam instead of hair spray. It was sick. What were we thinking? In no light, country, situation, circumstance, or occasion does a slicked back pony tail look attractive. Some people would take two strands of bangs right smack dab in the middle of their foreheads and slick those down in front of their faces like limp bug antennae. Ugh. Nowadays we quickly throw our hair up and haphazardly tie an elastic in, hoping we got all out hair in it, but not caring if we didn’t, and we look foxy as hell. Well, some of us. Then there was the high pony….or the “hony.” Middle school. Hideous.

When I make pasta, I can’t determine whether the amount I’m using is an appropriate serving for just myself, or a family of four. What is wrong with me? I grab a fistful of raw spaghetti noodles and try to judge if it’s enough to fill a bowl with, or if it’s enough to fill an entire pot with. I can’t tell the difference. Does anyone else have this issue? I end up dumping my estimated amount in the pot, staring at it, and scuttling back to the pantry to add a little more, “just in case.” Then I wind up with more pasta than even Adam Richman could brag about consuming in one sitting, when I thought I had barely enough to satisfy my hunger pangs.

Around 7:15 a.m. this morning, I stepped outside and gasped. “It’s so NICE out!” I exclaimed.

It was 27 degrees.

When it’s been thirty below zero for the past three weeks with winds harsh enough to pierce even the toughest skin, anything above zero feels like Honolulu, Hawaii. Really though, I feel like I should be busting out my shorts and halter tops and working on my tan lines. Relativity is an interesting thing. If it was 27 degrees in March, we’d be cursing and clutching our winter coats to our bodies.

Well, time to go digest my spaghetti. I actually made the correct amount tonight. Go me.

___________________________________________________________________

“When I first tried quitting smoking, it was mostly the physical act of not doing it that was the hardest. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I felt like Ricky Bobby.”

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