Signs that I Might have been Lying about my College Degree

Remember how once upon a time I updated this blog? Yeah, me neither. Apparently I'm only capable of consistent blogging when the busyness of my life falls at some specific point in the spectrum between doing nothing but watching HGTV all day every day and being too busy to breathe.

Life right now is leaning toward the latter. Work is busy, play is busy, future planning is busy, and as a result, my brain frequently take vacations.

Last week I turned the wrong way down a one-way street. In downtown Greenville. During rush hour. I wasn't even talking on the phone or putting on make-up, the two activities which constitute roughly 85% of my drive time, so I have no idea what prompted such an indiotic traffic maneuver at an intersection I drive through/past/around several times a week. I can at least blame part of it on genetics- my dad once drove the wrong way down 5th Avenue in New York City. But the other part? Totally the fault of my absent brain cells. Luckily there's a parking garage right on the corner, which I immediately turned into. Of course, then I was lost, as parking garages are not my spiritual gift and for the life of me I cannot find my way around them.

I once spent thirty minutes looking for my car in a garage in Charlotte. I kept hitting the 'lock' button, and I could hear my car beeping above me, so I'd go up a floor, search, and hit the button again, only to hear the beep below me. And so it continued. The worst part was, there was a middle-aged woman in the same predicament, and we kept awkwardly crossing paths as we circled back and forth around the same three floors for the better part of an hour.

Was I saying something about my brain being scattered? As they say, the proof is in the pudding- or, in this case, the incessant babble about parking garages.

But, like I said, despite work being stressful, I've been playing hard, too. V held our first annual Dip-Off a few weekends ago, in honor of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss one of life's bigegst questions: Why can't dip be a meal? The answer, it turns out, was that party. I consumed my body weight in cream cheese-based spreadables and woke up the next morning with a dip hangover far worse than any caused by alcohol. That, boys and girls, is why dip can't be a meal.

Not only did I eat myself into a food coma that night, but in another stunning display of mental aptitude, I made a complete fool of myself during a rousing game of Catch Phrase, in which I threw out such guesses as "Scandanavia!" for the clues "Sweden, the Netherlands, Britain" and "Whigs! Torries!" for the clues "Red coats, traitors, communism". In my defense, I didn't hear the communism bit- and how does your mind not jump straight to the Revolutionary War when you hear "redcoats?"

The whole thing was reminiscent of the infamous Outburst game of sophomore year when Kristen and I were given the topic "Battle of the Bulge" and started listing off diet fads like South Beach and Atkins, not realizing they were talking about the historic war battle. Oops.

I topped the week off by trying to buy wine at the store on Saturday and realizing I didn't have my ID when the cashier asked for it. I'm pretty sure she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, especially since (as I realized later) my hair was in pigtails. Awesome. So I left wine-less and full of anxiety, as I had no clue where my license could be, until hours later, when I remembered that I had taken it out of my wallet and into my jeans pocket the previous Wednesday when Alycia and I went line dancing at the Blind Horse. I'm just glad I was discovered by the teenager at Aldi rather than a cop- probably pulling me over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.

It's Like Seven Steps to Kevin Bacon Except With Stress and Television Shows

Everybody reacts to stress differently. Some people get ulcers, others canker sores- I once knew a girl who dealt with crippling anxiety by ripping all her eyelashes out. I'll give you a minute here to thank God that's not your coping mechanism.

For me, it's my eyelids- they twitch. You can't see it unless you're close enough to count my pores, but it's pretty creepy-looking and feels even weirder. Not my favorite.

Due to all my exhausting vacation-ing recently (and perhaps a few other, actually stressful, factors), the twitch has been non-stop lately and after a marathon cleaning session on Friday night, all I've wanted to do all weekend is lie in the fetal position watching television online. It's not... the only... thing I've done, but I would say it has taken a certain precedence the past few days. Hey, I'm still recovering from four blissful days at a world-class resort in sunny Florida, okay? Don't judge.

I did venture out on Saturday for a brief post-Christmas shopping trip with V, where we ravaged the Borders going-out-of-business sale, and I picked up a shirt for the Brad Paisley concert in March, to go with my kickin' new cowboy boots. (One day, the words 'cowboy boots' there will link to a yet-to-be-written post, most likely in haiku form, about my favorite new Western possession)

I also hosted the shortest Christmas party ever, whose brevity was due in large part to my sick roommate. She's got the laryngitis, m'am, and because she's a teacher, she's doing everything possible to preserve her voice for the classroom. Which has made things kind of hilarious, mostly because I keep forgetting that I still have the power of speech. She'll write down on a notecard "what are you making for dinner?" and I'm sitting there thinking "hmm, how can I pantomime 'chili'?" And she's sitting there thinking "I can't believe my roommate is such an idiot". She doesn't say it, of course, but only because she can't.

Anyway, did I have a point here somewhere? Oh yes- fetal position, online television. I won't go on about my deep and undying love for Jimmy Fallon, his twelve days of Christmas sweaters, or the fact that he plays beer pong on late-night with his guests. I'll save you from excessive talk about how adorable he looks in a suit, like an eight-year-old dressed up for a wedding, or how he cutely referred to Taylor Swift as 'Swifty' for an entire segment. You won't find me blathering on about how endearing he was in his first episode, where Robert DeNiro made some of the most awkward late-night television known to man or beast. No siree, not here.

Sidenote: Future husband, if you're out there? Take me to see a Jimmy Fallon show someday. There is nothing I would love more. On second thought, maybe don't. That could spell trouble for our marriage. Might be better to go to the Stars on Ice route. Look, we'll talk about it later.

So INSTEAD of talking on and on about Jimmy, an endeavor in which I have clearly already failed, let me introduce you to Better Off Ted. While Glee won the spot for my new favorite show of 2009, it's a new year and with it comes a fresh comedic slate. Especially since Glee is on hold for American Idol until April. Damn you, Ryan Seacrest.

Better Off Ted has taken the lead for best sitcom by a long shot, and not just because we're only less than two weeks into 2010. It's a cross between The Office and Arrested Development, with a touch of Scrubs bromance via the partnership of the show's two scientists, Phil and Lem. I'm terrible at describing things, so I promise you your time is better spent checking out a few minutes on hulu. Consider it a belated Christmas gift, from me to you.