What’s more Hipster than wearing a T-shirt of your favorite band? Wearing a T-shirt of your favorite band’s record label. These were the words from my friend, Jason, when giving me my birthday present on Friday. Lost Highway is the record label of The Jayhawks and other bands that make me swoon. Paired with my slim fitting jeans, black emo glasses and black messenger bag, I’ll walk the Hipster walk like nobody’s business.
Now that’s deck.
Damnit. I ripped my favorite knee-length, red corduroy skirt last night. Don’t ask me how, but a gaping hole now resides along the back seam. Grr. The rip is too big. The skirt is now in the garbage. Can anyone (boys included) recommend where I could find a similar skirt? I purchased this particular item on sale at Von Maur last winter for $10. It looks good with black sweaters and the like, but it really has found a home with a multi-colored stripped sweater I picked up a few weeks ago at Target.
It’s here. I’m 25. I’ve been 25 for 12 hours now, and it feels no different than when I was 24. Hmm. What’s it all mean? Nothing, I suppose. I’ve got a new year all to myself. What’s around the corner? I’m excited.
I turn 25 in two days. TWO DAYS. That’s one-quarter of a century. What have I accomplished? What’s left to be done? I need to start thinking.
I was thumbing through racks and racks of greeting cards at Hallmark today when I came across a title of card that, literally, made me do a double take. Did I read that right? The title read “Marriage Proposal.” I’m not kidding. On the outside, the elaborate font spoke to the female recipient, about how life has been so wonderful since “we” met. And on the inside: “Honey, will you marry me?”
I’m still laughing. This is, perhaps, one of the most important questions of your life, buddy, and you opt to let Hallmark do the work for you? Sure, I suppose there’s those shy guys out there longing to propose but can’t find the words to do so. But a greeting card? Ick. At the very least, write her a letter yourself on lovely stationary or in sand on a California beach. Just be honest. Speak from the heart. Don’t pay $2.29 to do it.
My good friend, Carole Snow, had her baby on Monday. Welcome, Jordan!
Name: Jordan Josie Schmitz
Born: Monday, Nov. 24, 2003 @ 1:42 pm
Size: 8 lbs. 4 oz./ 21 inches
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
While my Macintosh quivers in anticipation of an Internet connection inside the Denver International Airport, I shall write about my Thanksgiving holiday on skis.
To begin: I was not born to ski, or play any sports, for that matter. I simply don’t have the build or muscle or grace or coordination or skill. I didn’t injure myself beyond a connect-the-dots pattern of bruises across my ankles and shins. My dad, his wife and I took a three-hour skiing course at the Keystone resort in Colorado. The ski boots weigh an easy 15 pounds each. Then there’s the skis. They’re not heavy, mind you, as much as they’re clumsy to carry. And wearing the boots while carrying the skis? You’re an accident waiting to happen. Despite my palsy performance on the slopes, the views from atop the Rocky Mountains were gorgeous, simply breathtaking this time of year. That was worth the two gondola rides up and down the mountain.
That was Friday.
On Saturday, we drove back to Denver and relaxed. It was 60 degrees, a nice change from the howling winds and snow of the day before. I did some shopping at Cherry Creek, this fantastic shopping mall near Denver. The stores were packed and lines were long. I found a handful of adorable skirts and sweaters at Forever 21, but, alas, I didn’t feel like fighting crowds to try them on. Such is life, I suppose. We later ate Thanksgiving leftovers — including the Boston cream pie! — and watched “Bruce Almighty” and “Lara Croft: The Cradle of Life.” There’s four hours I’ll never get back; the flicks weren’t that great.
It’s good to be back home again, though. I missed my bed, and I’m sick of turkey.
Here’s another cartoon for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy, online readers. Thanks for your loyalty. Let’s keep it up, before I have to beat some ass. Kapeesh?
An indication that I’ve eaten too much: I can’t lay on my stomach, only my back or side. Yikes. Food started flowing early this morning and didn’t stop until after turkey was served around 5 this evening. The meal was great; the day, certainly an unconventional Thanksgiving. Some of my dad’s neighbors stopped by for a pre-dinner cocktail. They’re nice on the surface, but I found them to be drunk and a wee bit mouthy. (I shouldn’t say too much, however; I had plenty of vodka/cranberry juice cocktails today.) Our “guests” only stayed about an hour.
My dad grilled our 16-pound turkey. There was some debate/yelling about when our bird was done, but all in all, the meal went well. By the time dinner was served, everyone was drunk. It was great. Yelling, people talking loud. I’m kind of upset, though. We had a Boston cream pie for dessert, but everyone (including me!) was too full for a slice. When it comes to dessert/candy/cake/cookies, I’m an addict. I have the diet/taste buds of a 7-year-old boy, I tell you.
It’s been about two hours since we finished eating. I might sneak downstairs later tonight for a slice of the pie. Yum.
We leave tomorrow for Keystone. The Weather Channel says it’ll be about 30 degrees with high winds. As if I needed more obstacles on this new adventure. Wish me luck. Please.
Happy Thanksgiving.
