Call Me Nichole Parks

Well, it's past 12am here. Which means plenty of girls across the Mountain Standard Time Zone are watching Rachael McAdams wake up in a hospital bed with no recollection of her undying love for Channing Tatum.

Some of the movie goers are likely already crying. But they should save their tears. Because, let's face it, it's probably only going to get more sad.

I am not watching this movie because:

1. I thought I would be asleep by now.

2. The last Nicholas Sparks movie I saw was such a disappointment that I vowed to think long and hard before I paid seven and a half dollars to see another movie based on a book by the man who loves dying characters.

I *now* realize this movie is not actually based on a Nicholas Sparks book. BUT I wrote this post before coming upon that knowledge, AND it's close enough to Nicholas Sparksish style for me, SO I'm going to leave this post as is.

Besides, if someone else can turn a based-on-a-true story into a quasi-Nicholas-Sparks sap fest, so can I.

Which is why I have decided to spend the next 20 minutes visualizing myself as the main character of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

--Not the one who dies. Obviously.--

Well that reason, AND because I am bored and am avoiding productive things. Like sleep.

I think if Nicholas Sparks wrote my life, this is how it would go--

(Note: I am changing my name to Nichole Parks for this post on account of using my real name for this display of unadulterated sappiness might make me gag.)

It didn't take long.

Nichole Parks rarely did things quickly. In fact, in fourth grade her classmates issued a complaint about her during circle time, citing her propensity to slowly eat lunch.

But when Nichole moved to a small town in the South and met Brady Bobby Billy Joe she fell in love faster than a kite catches the wind.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the movies and said "Nichole. I like you more than I like peach pie with sugar on top. And that's saying something."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the fair. And the fair was nothing like the temporary carnival set up in the Saver's parking lot that Nichole went to once. So Nichole rode the ferris wheel and nary even fretted for her life.

Then Nichole played the piano for Brady Bobby Billy Joe. After, of course, they walked a few circles around a nearby swimming hole that was filled with thousands of fuzzy baby ducklings.

It was love at first note. For both of them.

Two years later, after having been split by the great earthquake that divided the soft South from the real South, Nichole and Brady Bobby Billy Joe reunited in a trendy, metropolitan cafe where Nichole had started training to become a barista-- a day job, while she worked toward her real dream of being a teacher/crossword writer.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe ran to Nichole to sweep her up in his arms and apologize for not being on her side of the earthquake split (think Land Before Time if you're having trouble picturing the earthquake separation).

Unfortunately, Nichole had always struggled with names, and she stuttered as she attempted o remember all four of Brady Bobby Billy Joe's names.

"B.. b... b... Baby, it's good to see you," Nichole tried.

"You. You don't remember?" Tears filled Brady Bobby Billy Joe's eyes (and the audience sobs).

"I'm sorry. It's just, it's been so long," Nichole said, letting out a desperate sob. "But I'm so happy to see you. I just wish I wasn't married to your brother."

"I'm sick," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said, ignoring Nichole's confession.

"Say it isn't so," Nichole cried.

"It's true. Hundreds were affected after the earthquake. And I'm one of them. I have Valley Fever."

Another sob escaped Nichole's small mouth.

"Are you sure?" Nichole asked.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe looked sullen. "Yes, the x-ray confirmed what I already knew."

"I'll leave your brother," Nichole said. "I only loved him because he reminded me of you. I'll go to the doctor with you for check ups and make sure you get plenty of fluids."

"It's too late," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said. "It's too late."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe walked out of the cafe. And Nichole mixed tears into an otherwise perfect Frappuccino.

The End.

You Heard It Here First

http://www.cnn.com/2012/02/03/living/overweight-pets/index.html

I'll admit though, their photos are better than mine.

My Side of the Bed

Well guys, Roxy has decided she wants to sleep on my bed.

I spent the better part of my high school days trying to coax, convince and coddle Roxy into sleeping at the foot of my bed, so she could be the golden retriever from Homeward Bound and I could be... Oh wait, I don't want to be the teenage boy who goes on playing basketball even after he finds out his childhood pet got lost in the woods and was probably eaten by a MOUNTAIN LION.

But you get the point, I wanted Roxy to prove her unconditional love for me by sleeping at the foot of my bed.

Instead she slept in a corner, under my bed.

I was offended. But after years of self-consolation I finally decided it was probably more sanitary if she slept on the floor.

And now, suddenly, Roxy wants to be Shadow, the unconditionally-loving golden retriever from the movie I haven't seen in years.

So I'm letting her stay.

Sometimes compassion overrules sanitation.

Besides, she was recently bathed.

And I love her.

Until recently, Roxy was snoring away on my side of the bed. Which, incidentally, is why I'm writing in the first place. Because apparently I can only sleep on one side of the bed. And so I decided I'd open my computer and type something in my unsatisfied sleep haze. (You don't know what an unsatisfied sleep haze is? That's okay. Me either. I think it's when you're tired, but you can't sleep, because you have words floating around your head and your dog is on your side of the bed.)

Which brings me to my next point:

Kitchen Aids.

(I know, my ability to successfully transition from one point to the next is awe-inspiring.)

I want to own a Kitchen Aid.

I don't know. I guess it's because I think the red one is really pretty.

Maybe it comes from a subconscious desire to eat cookies.

And bake bread.

Someday I'm going to figure out how to know what I really want.

I'm going to learn how to be brave enough to want things bigger and more important than Kitchen Aids.

But for now, I'll look for a red mixer to sit on my counter.

Actually, on an almost related note, I have a lot of faith in hope. (And after much consideration, I have decided that does, in fact, make sense. So don't question me on it okay? I have faith in hope. So there.)

And, despite my better judgement, I believe dreams come true.

I mean, just look at Roxy. She is sleeping on my bed.

Dear SkyMall

Dear SkyMall:

I want to take my dog on a walk.

I really do.

It's just that, you see, when I walk with the leash in my hand my fingers get so fatigued.

While I've been resting my phalanges, Humphry has grown fat and lazy.

I can't even look at him anymore.

Please help.

Sincerely,

There Must Be a Better Way...

To Walk My Dog.

Dear Lazy Fingers,

Let me assure you. You are NOT alone.

No one likes holding on to the leash.

This, sadly, has resulted in an exponential increase of dog obesity in the last five years.

Please refer to the chart below.

I'd say the data is conclusive.

Exponential.

Increase.

Fortunately for you, there are people--good people--people who want to help.

They're the people of SkyMall.

And they have a solution for you.

It's Name:

THE AERO LEASH

(Please refer to photo below. Which was taken from the www.skymall.com/shopping.)

For the tiny price of $19.99, you too can run with your dog attached to your bicep.

Say goodbye to tired fingers and fatigued hand muscles.

Now you can run hands free.

If you have a blue tooth, you can also talk hands free.

In fact, if you have the computer program that types when you speak, you may not need your hands at all.

Ever again.

Also, as a side benefit, if you're dog is a puller, you're going to get very muscled.

That's right.

Muscled.

Very Muscled.

Best of luck, lazy fingers.

Sincerely,

Monday Morning Reader of SkyMall Magazine

Never stop looking. For a better way.

Disclaimer:

This is not a real SkyMall ad.

It is also not a real letter.

In fact, nothing in this post is real.

Except, incidentally, the product itself.

The Aero Leash is very real.

This scenario is a product of the author's imagination. Anything, (except the actual product as previously noted) that relates to real life is purely coincidental.

This includes the author's dog Roxy.

I repeat. Humphry is not Roxy.

Humphry is not Roxy in an oversimplified shapes form.

Humphry is not even related to Roxy.

They're not even third cousins.

Over and out.

Pistachio Boat Races

I've been eating a lot of pistachios lately.

And every time I see the empty shells, I think about pistachio boat races.

I don't know what pistachio boat races are, but I think I'd like them.

I think I'll write a book about pistachio boat races. It will be like Dr. Suess's Horton Hears a Who. Except it will be the story of a fuzz ball that goes on a grand adventure in a pistachio shell. In the end, he--the fuzz ball--will find out he never even left the kitchen sink.

Now you know.

This is what I think about in my spare time.

My sister says she catches up on my blog once every three months or so. Lately, she said, she's been disappointed, because even after three months, there's nothing new.

I'm writing about pistachios so three months from now she'll have something to read.

I think she's going to be disappointed.

"This?" She'll think. "This is what you came up with?"

In order to, I hope, dissipate some of her disappointment, I'll leave you with this story.

Two and a half years ago I went to Argentina. It felt crazy. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know why I was doing it. All I knew was I couldn't give up on going to Argentina.

So I went.

Before I left, I'm pretty sure my uncle told me I'd be fine as long as the airline people didn't think I was an unaccompanied minor.

They did.

Twelve. Unaccompanied minors are twelve.

I was 21 years old and the lady checking my luggage thought I was an unaccompanied minor.

And then I got on the plane and had the most wonderful flight.

Guys, I watched the sunrise from an airplane window as I flew into freezing Argentina.

They fed me eggs with cheese on them. I think there was basil or something, too.

And I should have been scared. I should have been thinking about everything that could go wrong. But I wasn't. I was thinking about everything that could go right.

I was originally going somewhere else with this story.

But I think I want to say this instead.

Sometimes it's okay to trust what you believe.

You can run around collecting opinions, trying to get everyone to agree with the decision you've made.

But in the end, it's you who has to board the plane. Possibly unaccompanied.

You have to decide where you're going to let life take you.

Now you know.

This is what I think about in my spare time.

Well, this and the pistachios.

Resolving

Last January I decided not to make any New Years resolutions.

(I prefer working toward self-betterment mid-year, or in March, when I'm least expecting it.)

But then I decided, if I were going to make resolutions in January, when the rest of the world is out and about resolving, I would include, but not limit myself to, the following:

1. Wash car at least three times during the year.

2. Find new and creative ways to flatten out the wrinkles in my pants without ever touching an iron.

3. I'm pretty certain a third pseudo resolution existed at one point, but I can't recall what it was.

I know this is why you're supposed to write your resolutions down--so you don't forget them. But considering the third forgotten resolution was not an actual resolution, but rather a would-be, what-if, wouldn't-it-be-fun resolution, it seems it would have been somewhat purportless to write it down. In fact, I think it's standard procedure to forget pseudo resolutions.

Anyway, in the brief bout between January and March, I was feeling pretty good about my fake resolutions that I hadn't actually resolved to carry out.

I had already washed my car once (one down, two to go).

I may have succumbed once or twice to the ironing board, but I can say with almost certainty that the iron wasn't a frequent friend in my life.

And I was probably well on my way toward accomplishing the third non-resolution, whatever it was.

But now, it's the end of another year.

And unless you count wiping the rain water off my car with a micro fiber towel as a wash, I don't think I quite made it to the big three, zero. (And when I say three, zero, I mean three plus zero. Because even in my News Years almost optimism, I didn't think 30 washes was a realistic goal.)

I haven't really discovered new ways to not iron my pants. At one point this year I saw a travel-size de-wrinkeler. I thought about buying it to 1) avoid wrinkly clothes while traveling and 2) accomplish my resolution that I won't admit was a resolution, but then I decided to buy new travel lotion and hand sanitizer instead. In conclusion, I don't think I can count seeing de-wrinkler as an accomplishment.

I guess I can't say for sure whether I have failed or succeeded at the third and final resolution. If my final non-resolution was to have a fun year, enjoy 2011 and turn 23, then I can mark it off as a success.

But, let's face it, I probably non-resolved to stop eating sugar. (This post was powered by Captain Crunch cereal.)

If these were real resolutions, I would comfort myself with optimistic phrases like, "there are still three weeks left in December", and "you can accomplish anything if you set your mind to it".

Lucky for me though, I don't need my phony words of comfort.

All my real goals were set in March.

I still have three months to publish a book, train for a triathlon and fundraise for my irony awareness campaign.

I'll be just fine.

Today I shook hands with Pearl Harbor survivors.

And I stood next to them as a band played the National Anthem.

It felt honest.

I don't know how to explain it other than that.

It made me want to love this country with more hope. And less cynicism.

Maybe that doesn't make sense.

But I was grateful to shake their hands.

Based on my previously posted plan,

I'm supposed to be highlighting December 2010 today.

I'm distracted though, so here is the (even more) condensed version--

Alec goes scuba diving in the ocean, and freezes in the 80 degree water.

Then she plays water polo with a family of strangers, rides a mechanical bull in the teen center and takes/ falls in love with step classes because she has decided to do every single activity the resort has to offer.

Alec falls victim to the on-site photographer of awkward family photos.

I'm not posting the photo here, in order to protect the innocent, and because I'm tired. But, just picture this

with my head pasted on it.

Then you've pretty much got it.