I have been having a lot of trouble lately with the fact that I'm getting older. I don't mean, Oh, My Back Hurts older. Or even Old As My Parents older. Really, just Not a Kid or Even a Cool Youth Anymore older. Older like that one student teacher that always wanted to be hip to the young people.

Specifically, I started feeling older when I pulled out some old CDs I made in college (I was a very early adopter of the CD burner, one of the only things I can officially claim to have gotten in on near the ground floor) and the song "Good" by Better Than Ezra came on, and I realized that that song had been old when I put it on the CD, meaning it was even older now. Specifically, it is twelve years old. Meaning it would be in the seventh grade now, if it were a person. It would be learning pre-algebra.

One day, I will have kids who will listen to "Good" and tell me what a humongous spaz I was for ever liking that song (I'm assuming that by then, music will have deteriorated into the sounds of actual murders being committed while the trumpet riff from Tom Jones' "It's Not Unusual" is sampled in the background).

Another factor that is really not helping my feelings of oldness is the fact that I am actually looking older, I think. Sort of puffy and wrinkly and my hair is definitely turning white at an alarming rate. I mean, look at me here, circa 1995 (the same year that "Good" came out, not coincidentally), with my brown, brown hair and big full eyebrows. (In an unrelated by very interesting note, that cat that I'm holding was named Sly, and when he died in 1998 my parents had him cremated and the tin containing his ashes sits under our Christmas tree every year.)

All I know is, I only have a few more years before my youthful exuberance becomes "creepy 30-something woman behaving in an upsetting fashion" at parties and sporting events. So I'm going to make the most of them, and spackle every last wrinkle into oblivion (because caked-on makeup is so youthful).

PS: This picture was actually taken for a faux fashion catalog that my friends and I had to put together for French class. So, that should tell you how into fashion I was in 1995. Maybe getting older isn't so bad, after all...

Trombone-tastic!

This fancy trigger trombone is not unlike one I used to play, until the one I used to play was hit with a hammer by someone who shall not be named.

My friend Denise was awesome enough to send me the following letter to the editor to the Daily Iowan, in reference to Iowa's search for a state instrument:

Trombone represents Iowa

If Iowa legislators want to declare a state instrument, the trombone should be it. Not only to honor Glenn Miller and Meredith Willson, but because the character of the instrument is in perfect harmony with Iowa and its folks.

Take a look sometime. Trombones are plain and simple, like the Iowa landscape, yet still beautiful. There are no fancy keys, no valves, no reeds, but still the trombone holds a note with all the rest. Its versatility as an instrument in many styles is in tune with Iowa's land and its people. Its ability to make only one note at a time, unlike many of the strings, speaks best of Iowa people - while we may do something by ourselves, we know that a much better song is played when many work together. And just as Iowa works hard to feed the world, the trombone works hard to hold up the band.

The trombone and Iowa: simple yet versatile, underappreciated but important.

Paul Worrell

UI student & trombone fan

First of all, congrats to you, Paul Worrell, for being as trombone-obsessed as I! It is lonely here, Paul. So very, very lonely. But oddly gratifying in its self-righteousness!

Secondly, I am so jealous that I didn't write this myself, only about Ohio! Because of my slight, we'll probably end up with the effing accordion. Or, like, the hammer dulcimer.

The day the wedding stood still

I've reached a really strange point in wedding planning where phase one-- finding a site, getting a dress, hiring a DJ and a photographer, getting a minister-- has all been completed, but it seems too early to move on to phase two, which seems to involve about eight million small but infinitely significant details-- yes, we have a caterer, but we never told them what we want to eat. We haven't yet picked a cake for the baker to make. We have no invitations, or save-the-dates, or even a master guest list. Or any music for the actual ceremony (note: if any of you play a musical instrument, or know someone who does, and they want to play at our wedding, we will give them a million, billion dollars.).

Even though I know it's too early to start on most of these things (or, rather, I have been informed of such by my mom and by Ben, who just want me to stop freaking out for five seconds), I am already secretly in a panic over them, a panic which manifests itself in these horrible dreams where I wake up and it's the wedding day, only we only have planned what we actually have planned in real life. Which means we have a reception hall, and photographer and DJ and dress, but no menu, or seating chart, or guests, for that matter, because we never sent out any invitations.

And on top of all that, I feel intense pressure to have a really cool wedding, especially since so many people are (theoretically) coming in from all over the country to attend. But this is a fatal flaw in my character-- while I may be a decent creative writer, I am not even slightly creative when it comes to almost anything else, including decor, costume-making, and yes, wedding planning. So in my mind I picture all my cool friends from all over the world arriving in Aurora, Ohio, and going, "eh."

Actually, let me take that (slightly) back-- I DO have creative ideas, but they cost a lot of money. Like my idea to have a photo booth on site at the reception, which would have offered up all sorts of weird and wacky portraits of my guests that I would cherish for decades to come. Yeah, those booths? Cost, again, a million, billion dollars.

Sadly, there's nothing I can really do to overcome this crippling defect in my character, except to artfully steal from other weddings and hope that no one in attendance at my own remembers them.

Behold my sword and scales

About a week ago, I received a very angry letter from the government informing me that I was a wanton hussy who had refused to fill out my jury selection questionnaire and that if I did not do so within ten days of receipt of said questionnaire, Scooter Libby would come to my house himself and beat the crap out of me.

This was highly upsetting to me, as I had not received any of the supposed previous attempts to get me to fill out this questionnaire because the government had my wrong address (which is so weird, since they knew exactly where to mail my income tax forms), and even this one was late-- the deadline for filling out the forms pre-ass-kicking had already passed.

So, like the good citizen I am, I filled them out immediately and returned them.

And was almost instantaneously called for jury duty, about eight days later.

I mean, I knew filling out the forms might meant they might want me to be on a jury someday. I didn't realize it meant before the hiatus of The Office was even over.

After overcoming my initial shock-- I don't know if any of you have ever been called for jury duty, but just getting the letter made me feel like I had dome something really wrong, like this was all an elaborate trick to get me to go down there so they could bust me on some trumped up littering charges-- I am now actually quite excited about doing my civic duty and serving on a jury. I am also excited about the $40/day I could potentially earn as a juror, which I plan on putting toward a sweet new bike... of justice.

Seriously, though, I honestly am kind of excited about it now. Which means that my jury pool will most likely not be chosen, and I'll never get the chance to actually be a part of a jury. Which is too bad, because Ben and I watch a lot of American Justice, so I would probably be quite the worthy candidate.

Whoot whoot!

I'm in the Dispatch again today-- you can see the column here.

I feel compelled to note, though, that this is the first time I have ever ripped off my blog for column material-- it's a rewrite of the Stuck In Traffic post of a few weeks ago. But funnier, I swear!

So check it out-- enjoy! Also, your thoughts on blog ripoff? It was justified, I swear!

"Anything" Was Mine First

I would just like to share my abject horror at the fact that the new

Gap ads feature the song "Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better" from Annie Get Your Gun, as sung by Ethel Merman. Not because I dislike this song-- actually, I like it very much-- but because up until now, I believed myself to be the only person on earth who knew this song existed, other than the rest of the cast of the Aurora High School 1994 production of the aforementioned play. And this somehow made me cool. I'm not sure how yet, I haven't worked that part out. But my knowledge of that song made me cool.

And now everyone knows it. And I've heard like seven people humming it. And I guarantee everyone's going to download it, and soon the whole country will know it, and will have developed Ethel Merman impressions that rival my own, which anyone major dude will tell you is very good.

Come on, Gap people! That was my one theater thing that I had going for me. Everyone knows "Music of the Night," or even "No Business Like Show Business," which, as you may or may not know, was also in Annie Get Your Gun. But this was my one big song. I used to sing it while waiting in line for stuff, which really used to annoy people. I was annoying like that. But still, I bet they couldn't help but marvel at my obscure musical theater knowledge.

What I believe now #3

It is never all right to have rubber testicles dangling from the ball hitch of your truck and van, as I have seen twice in the last two days-- actually, I think it was the same white van both times, but still. What is the message he is going for? My van has big cojones? Ladies, sweet loving is available in the back of my rusty, windowless white Econoline cargo van?

Unacceptable.

Ooo, baby baby!

So I'm heading out on the wide open road again tomorrow, ending my sweeping tour of the south (Okay, North Carolina and Virginia) with a visit to my best friend Megan, her husband Matt, and their new baby Madelyn! This, of course, means no blogging from me, but seeing as how I don't really blog that much while actually seated in my own home, I don't think it will really hurt your hearts too much.

In general, my whole life has been awash in babies for the last year or so, as like a third of my friends have been dedicating their lives to reminding me that I totally want a baby, even if it means giving up laying on the couch and watching cartoons. (But babies like cartoons, right?) Among those prestigious baby-havers (and baby-havers-in-waiting) of the last year or so:

• Angela (and one on the way!)
• Deidre (and one on the way, part two!)
• Megan
• Diane
• Stephanie
• Alyssa
• Cassie (actually, has this baby arrived yet?)
• And finally, one friend who I will not mention by name until she has revealed it on her blog, which is the true sign that it's okay to announce!

Actually, that list seems kind of small, like I forgot someone. Which is really crappy, when you finally realize that you've forgotten that one of your friends had a baby. So if I forgot you, please write in to berate me, so I don't have to spend too much time worrying myself nauseated about it.

So until I can have some babies of my own, which is still probably a few more years down the line (I want to be mature enough to at least watch the live-action shows on Nickelodeon), I will avail myself of these people to play with their bundles of joy. I can even change diapers! I don't like to, but I can.

Oh, and in unrelated news, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEGAN! And furthermore, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DENISE, whose birthday is coming up while I'm out of town-- curse you, state lines!

Dear Aspen Dental,

I hate you.

Here is why:

1. Your bad, evil dentist did all of my copious cavities wrong, leading to a "redo" that inevitably led to a root canal and a crown. (Please note that the new dentist is much nicer, but also gives off a distinct "I hate you" vibe.)

2. The ladies behind your counter treat me as if I were a suspicious dissident.

3. The bathroom in your office requires a screwdriver to unlock.

4. The radio station your reception tunes to is always staticky and tuned to Delilah, which is the worst radio show EVER.

5. And finally, I just received a threatening letter from you demanding the $31.20 I owe you, despite my never having heard of this debt before, especially when I specifically remember asking the dissident-fearing receptionist how much I owed, and she said "nothing."

Your $31.20 is en route. I hope it makes you happy in your cold, cold dentistry heart.

All best,
Kim