Bachelor #1, if you were an animal...

It's December 28th, which according to my calculations, means that I have 3 days to achieve my 2010 resolution of not spending another New Years single.

Crap.

Since apparently, the real world is not working out for me, I have decided to explore my options within the cartoon world. Perhaps my 2010 search for a male counterpart has been too narrow. I have performed a deep analysis of my standards and I have decided that the first requirement to go is the mandatory 3-dimensional state.

I have outlined below my list of suitors.

Bachelor #1: Mr. Opportunity

What's not to like? He's got a good job in marketing for one of the world's largest automobile manufacturers. He's a nice dresser and has a full head of hair. He appears to have a decent sense of humor, and my hope is that he likes good wine and sushi. I'm sure his connections could afford me with a 2011 CRV, and if I'm lucky, I could probably get butt warmers in the seats.

What can I say, the MBA has taught me to leverage my network.

Bachelor #2: Prince Eric

He has a boat, and a chef that specializes in seafood cuisine. He's a dog lover, and a philanthropist. He loves to fish and go out on the town. Did I mention that he's a prince and lives in a castle?

Bachelor #3: Clark Kent

He works two jobs, and still manages to maintain a pretty slammin' bod. He has a passion for crime reduction, and he knows the value of a tailored suit. Also, he can fly.

Bachelor #4: Buzz Lightyear

He's in aerospace and is revered among his peers. While he does have a slightly inflated ego, Mr. Lightyear has a good heart and will save the galaxy at all costs. He also flies.

Wish me luck as I narrow this list and choose this New Year's Eve winner. The lucky gentleman will receive a commemorative coin featuring my face beside a lovely scene of fireworks atop the vast Sacramento cityscape.

Perhaps next year I can count on meeting some eligible 3-dimensional options, but for now, I think I'll stick to an animated selection. Think of the benefits:

• Lack of body odor
• They literally have a mute button
• They don't fart

I think I've made my case.

It's the holidays, and I need an extra finger.

There is no better time than the holidays to be constantly reminded that there are certain tasks in life which require more than two hands. From Thanksgiving through New Years, not only does the single, able-bodied, two-handed individual get the pleasure of the constant reminder of singlehood with hand-in-hand couples blocking the mall corridors and invitations to the inevitable New Years Party alongside 25 enamored couples (the culmination of which will be spent awkwardly standing in the corner with a glass -- no, bottle -- of champagne, trying not to make eye contact with anyone), but also does he/she get anointed with the annual reminder that there are just some holiday things that require at least one more hand than the average homo sapien sapien is equipped.

Fear not, this is a problem I will solve. I will channel my bitter energy into something good.

Today, I introduce to you a line of products which will solve the three-hand-need-problem.

I give you: POCKET PHALANGES.

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Bridget Jones "All By Myself" Ribbon Finger

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Those beady little eyes haunt me in my sleep.

For the dedicated CheeseFriesRants reader, it is no secret that I have a low tolerance for annoying people. In fact, I have recently been diagnosed with a severe case of annoyose intolerance, caused by my body's inability to produce annoyase. Symptoms include desire to kick puppies upon annoyose exposure and uncontrollable rage against the stimuli.

My most recent flare-up occurred today in a location which will remain un-mentioned so to protect the identity of the subject, a male in the latter half of his twenties with beady little eyes, raised eyebrows, and a smirk that just oozes "brown nosing smart ass." There is no single person on earth that is more annoying than this individual. Indeed, the Guinness Book of World Records has scored him as "most toolest of all tools" in recorded history. Additionally, the Oxford English Dictionary 2011 edition will feature his picture alongside the definition for "snot nosed little bitch." In recent news, he just beat out Nancy Pelosi for "person I would most prefer to see step in a cow-who-had-Indian-food-for-lunch's manure with bare feet."

I think I've made my point.

Darwin must have been full of crap because this guy should have been weeded out of the evolution chain eons ago. What horrible combination sperm and egg came together to produce a genetic code that built such a horrendous case of annoyose overexposure? Some poor egg must have been quite intoxicated in order to permit fertilization from a sperm coded for such an atrocity. I sure hope she learned her lesson about tequila. (Honestly, what else could it have been? Surely, it was the tequila.)

Truthfully, if my kitten were as annoying as him, I would shave her tail, glue plastic craft googly eyes to her backside, make her walk backwards, and forbid her to ever meow. Ever.

Shouldn't they have some sort of spray-on repellent for this guy? Talk about a perfect recombinant innovation. Sell it right next to the OFF with extra deet. A few sprays will do the trick. I have taken the liberty of brainstorming a quick recipe for those of you that would like to try concocting the potion on your own:

1 cup "nobody gives a crap about what you just said"

3 TBSP "please stop talking now"

1/4 cup eyebrow lowering powder (generic brand will do)

Pinch of "how in the world was that a relevant point"

2 TSP "seriously?"

1/2 cup "are you still talking?"

Mix all ingredients together into a paste, being careful to break up any clumps. Add 2 cups water, bring to boil, constantly stirring. Let simmer for 2 minutes, then let cool to room temperature. Transfer mixture into a Super Soaker and aim directly for the head of your subject. Simultaneously pull trigger and yell Sparta-style the following phrase: "Take that, beady eyed brown nosing tool!" The more Sparta your battle cry the more effective your repellent will be.

Please report back to me with your results. Preliminary studies have shown extreme feelings of satisfaction and among 9 out of every 10 annoyose intolerant patients. FDA approval is only a matter of time.

Until then, be safe out there.

Welcome to the neighborhood.

Today commenced what could be a vicious series of satirical rants covering a single subject: my HOA. As a proponent for the downsizing of government, it is no thrill of mine that my Homeowner's Association bleeds me dry while offering in return alleged services that I have yet to see.

And so I commence.

This evening, while helping myself to a bowl of uterus preservation miso soup with extra tofu, I came across a plain white envelope with the return address to a PO Box located in who knows where. (Apparently, the menial task of creating a nuisance in the homeowner's daily life has been outsourced.) Reluctantly, I began to tear away at what must have been NASA approved adhesive expecting to see a charming $67 bill alongside a newsletter reminding residents to keep their dogs and children on leashes.

I was wrong.

Please examine the following. Some parts have been altered to protect the identity of the blogger. Because it's a "secret."

RE: Lot#XXX -- "Unfenced Area" Landscape/Bark Replacement

Dear Ms. CheeseFriesRants,

During a community inspection on October 19, 2010, it was noted that your yard was in need to maintenance, specifically, your bark needed to be replaced.

My first reaction: "WTF, I have bark?"

Immediately, I verbally compose my soon-to-be-written response:

RE: Lot#XXX -- "Unfenced Area" Landscape/Bark Replacement

Dear Ms. Scribe of all things HOA,

I do not know where my bark is. Please advise.

Instinctively, however, I decide to venture out into my front yard to investigate the alleged lack of bark presence.

Indeed, I have a plot in which bark resides. However, the HOA and I differ in opinion as to the appropriate ratio of bark to dirt per square inch.

The letter then proceeded to inform me that I am in violation of section B-4 f) of the Association's governing documents.

I guess I should have read those.

In my defense, my chihuahua hand was already shaking from signing the 800,000 other loan ad title documents, 60% of which described me as "an unmarried female." Well thanks for rubbing it in, Federal Housing Authority. It's agencies like you that have driven me to eat my daily dose of soy product so to preserve my reproductive system for the long haul.

Please replace your bark with the similar color and style no later than November 4, 2010.

Not only do I have to augment my bark to dirt ratio, but I also have to replace it according the exact color scheme which her Majesty's HOA has selected. And I have a deadline. Well at least they said please.

Can somebody tell me where my $67 a month is going? As I have learned through this emotionally taxing ordeal, it's not paying for bark. My bet is that it goes straight into a slush fund harbored by the HOA Workers Union to keep it in power. Backed by the Committee for Worthless Crap (CFWC), the Union is no doubt involved in back-room deals with corrupt, embezzling politicians.

My options for response are twofold:

1) Ignore the above letter, and wait to see if the HOA is all bark and no bite. Yes, that pun is intended.

2) Replace the bark, but continue to gripe. Upon completion of bark replacement, silently form a mutiny to overthrow the regime in the name of Patriotism.

I'll elect for the latter. Readers beware, the HOA lake may soon find itself tasting a hint of Lipton Chamomile.

My dating life is like the last piece of bread in the loaf.

I just learned a very valuable lesson: when you have a craving for pizza and beer, don't attempt to satisfy said craving with a Lean Cuisine Deluxe Pizza and an MGD 64. No amount of calorie cutting is worth such a flavor tease. As I wash down the rubbery imitation cheese atop a dry cracker with hops hinted water, my entire being is overwhelmed with regret. 64 calories, yes. But it's 64 calories of watered down crap.

The upside? I can drink all 6 of them and not feel guilty. That's the point right? Quantity over quality?

I am reluctant to say that I have come to that awkward age that all single girls in their mid-twenties fear most. The ring-check stage. As I age toward the impending doom of 25 and a half years old (at least it's not 26, thank God *cough*), I have become accustomed to this disappointing practice. See a handsome, potentially date-worthy young gentleman? Before you smile and bend over to show your 13 ounces of cleavage, you have to check the hand. And the older we get, the most sparkle we see on those left hands, am I right ladies? It catches our eye and as our heart drops into our bowels and our stomach tries to fall out of our butts, all that goes through our minds is "Another one bites the dust."

And even if you're lucky enough to meet a seemingly eligible male not sporting the ring of death, that's only the first hurdle of many. While he might not be betrothed, 9 times out of 10, he's on some other girl's leash. I strongly believe that all males in a committed relationship should wear some sort of beacon that will indicate he's unavailable. This would make the life of the single girl tremendously easier. Even better, those that are single should be searchable by a simple smartphone app. Walk in to a room, search the app, and all of a sudden you have half the pre-conversation research done.

I'm all about efficiency here. SingleFinder, coming to an App store, near you.

I'm beginning to see the advantage to the arranged marriage. It's just like having reservations for dinner. You're at least guaranteed a table. And you're sure to have some dinner. Or at the very least, and appetizer or two.

At the rate I'm going, I might as well be anorexic. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about calorie cutting my junk food craving for the ultimate protection of my girlish figure that society has told me I need to snare what very well may be Earth's last single guy.

Facebook continues to baffle me with the live updates of who just declared themselves "in a relationship," "it's complicated," or the ultimate "engaged." I swear, I don't know how some of these people find each other. The coldhearted, the mean, the obnoxious, and the clinically insane are shackin' up, while I -- perfectly sane, only obnoxious some times, warm, and friendly -- spend my Saturday nights putting together Ikea furniture to the sound of America's Country Countdown. There is something wrong with this picture.

Somebody, please tell me "when you least expect it" is going to occur. I need to know if I should freeze some eggs or not.

Your taquitos suck too, even after 8 beers. So I've heard.

I used to sit on my bed in my underwear about 3 Diet Cokes to the wind and blog about whatever irked me at the given moment. Ah, such was one of the plethora of benefits of playing the role of the unemployed grad student. In these days of yore, CheeseFriesRants was spoiled rotten with attention. There was nothing that needed ranting on which was not ranted. (Don't end a sentence with a preposition). Alas, employment found me, and CheeseFries began to be severely neglected. CheeseFries called BPS (Blog's Protective Services, duh) on me last week on account of neglect. How dare I let things go this far?

It's not like I don't have anything to rant about -- believe me. I will attempt to justify my neglect below*:

*acceptable sentence despite the placement of preposition.

1. Try as I might, I have yet to be successful in pulling extra time out of my ass to put toward blogging.
2. When given the choice between bathing and blogging I have selfishly chosen the former.
3. Senility has crept up on me. I can no longer remember what needs ranting much past the time at which an incident sparks rage. Perhaps such memory loss is due to the rapid swelling of my brain from taking on more information than is recommended. I find myself daily cramming terrabytes of acronyms, software coding requirements, NPV equations, bureaucratic-brown-nosing-diction, and marketing jargon into a brain that was built in 1985 on the DOS platform capable of housing a mere 100 MB. As the facts flow in, the rants flow out along with the knowledge of where I took off my shoes and whether the underwear in the corner are clean or dirty.
4. I spent 20 minutes with a roommate discussing foods that start with C.
5. Second Life.
6. LOST, seasons 1 - 4.

I drink enough caffeine to jumpstart a tank. With every homework problem comes a darker shade in the bags under my eyes. With every early morning call to India, my hair follicles conspire to turn themselves grey. With every day gone by without a workout, the fat cells in my thighs invite their friends to come by and have a beer. And with every hour of lecture comes my liver's unquenchable thirst for a glass of wine.

Dear Lord, I've become my mother.


Oh yes, the joys of the GSM WP. I'd better snag a man quick before I turn into a spinster old hag, albeit an educated and well employed hag. But a hag nonetheless. I'm one bad date away from owning 30 cats.

I've found that if my overloaded mind wishes to retain such frivolous information as a good ranting subject, I have to take a picture, and so I did on the morning of Friday May 14th as I sipped my breakfast Diet Coke at the nearby Pray & Pump gas station/Church. Also known as the Gas & God. And the Faith and Fill. They're pretty much synonymous. (Can't believe I spelled that right the first time).




There are so many things wrong with this ad that I don't even know where to start.

First off, how dare Arco, the crappiest of all crappy gasolines align itself with what it allegedly deems to be the absolute genius of Ancient Greek mathematics. Archimedes and Arco have not a single thing in common. Archimedes was a badass dude that discovered concepts and invented tools that are used today, more than 2000 years past his death. Arco is a crappy gas company whose only claim to fame is a decrepit arena with acoustics akin to the quality of a warm King Cobra.

Second, Mr. Head of Arco Marketing: Do some freaking research, or perhaps, consult Google before you align your flacid marketing campaign with THE WRONG DUDE. Clearly, you, Mr. Arco, are attempting a play on the famed mantra "I think, therefore I am." Well, sir. Let me tell you. It wasn't your buddy Archimedes that coined this one. Nope, not only are you about 2300 KM South West, but you're also about 1800 years off. Try Monsieur Rene Decartes in 17th Century FRANCE with "Je pense, donc Je suis," also commonly known in its Latin translation as "Cogito ergo sum." Way to do your research. Who is buried in Grant's tomb, dumbass?

So congratulations, Arco for making yourself look like a complete idiot. Embrasse mon cul, con.

Yeah, that's French too. In case you couldn't figure that one out.

Screw this, I'm freezing myself.

I didn't get the memo that it has become acceptable to treat the University library like a locale for catching up on weekend stories.

I'm currently sitting in the Shields Library in a desperate attempt to get some peace and quiet while I study for the monster of a statistics exam I have later this week. I had hoped that with an evening at Shields, I could avoid the temptation to watch the Olympic Closing ceremonies, which currently reside on my DVR queue. Also to be avoided were unnecessary snacks, my bed, superfluous trips to the Targ, and a bathroom counter that is just begging to be cleaned. Alas, despite having avoided all of those things, my laptop insisted on tagging along, and CheeseFriesRants would have been quite disgruntled had I decided to ignore this opportunity for a good rant. I shall succumb. Avoid sleep a little longer, and I guess cut into my LOST time before bed.

The chatty Cathys at the next table have no idea that in the past 20 minutes, while they gab away about a mutual friend's drunken escapades, they are being blogged, tweeted, and buzzed about by a disgruntled grad student a mere 8 feet away. Ahh, the cyber world: my outlet for passive aggressive ventings.

Apparently, these ladies have a friend who peed on her own car this weekend. And while I love a good drunken peeing story every bit as much as the next girl, there are times and places for everything. Let me tell you, Chatty McShutthecrapup, Shields Library is not the place for that. Nor is it the time. Go back to your sorostitute house, honey, and drown yourself in Arbor Mist. I have work to do. I swear, if I hear another "like" I'm going to launch my mechanical pencils right at your eyes and you'll die a slow death from wretched graphite poisoning. Or at least maybe I'll be lucky enough to break the cornea. Times like these are when I wish that they used real lead in pencils. Ahh, the good ol' days.

These ladies also all have the same haircut. Hazing must have recently taken the form of shoulder length hair with emo bangs. I am a bit jealous of the bag of M&Ms they have on their table. I want to commandeer them in the name of the fact that they look yummy, and God knows these beezies don't need any more sugar. They're bouncing off the walls already. Shouldn't they be home in bed?

I am currently searching for ways to shut them up without having to actually walk over there and play the role of bitchy grad student. While I fully recognize that this is a role I fit quite well, I am more a fan of the subtle hint.

I think they think that because I have headphones on, that I can't hear them. No, kids. I can hear you over my Josh Groban. Hell, I could have death metal blaring in my ears, and I would still be able to hear their screeching echoing through.

I tried the raised eyebrow technique. Ineffective. I combined the raised eyebrow with a touch of eye contact. Nothing. Dare I include a clearing of the throat? Ah! I got some attention this time. Added a rolling of the eyes. That should do it.

Nope.

Let's face it. I'm 5'1.25". I cannot be intimidating.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em? I do hope that my loud typing breaks their concentration. I'll fight fire with fire. An eye for an eye, you little squirts. Babylon reigns.

When I was in college, we respected the quiet rule in libraries. I am currently experiencing evidence of the downfall of the American youth. These are the future leaders of our country. Where to go from here? I think I'll cryogenically freeze myself tomorrow and only thaw out when science has discovered how to eliminate the gene that causes the existence of annoying ass people. Life would be so much easier that way. Imagine: no library talkers, no more always-asks-stupid-questions-in-class-people, no go-45-in-the-fast-lane-people, no more vegans that go to steakhouses and expect a tofurkey burger. Thomas More had something right: Utopia -- but my Utopia is slightly different than Tom's. Just get rid of the annoying people. And you can start right here:

If you can't watch Olympics with the Big Dogs, stay on the couch! Oh, wait....

Every two years, the world's greatest display of athletic prowess takes place under the name of "Olympics." Here, athletes from every corner of the globe (um, sidebar: the globe doesn't have corners. Leave to the idiotic idiomatic idiosyncrasies of the English language to come up with something like that) come together for the most renown competition ever to grace this cornerless planet. These two weeks, a mere 1/52 of every two years (I do math!!), are by far the greatest two weeks ever to be lived by an Olympic fanatic.

I live, breathe, sleep, and eat for the Olympic Games. And for what? The sport? Oh, but of course. For watching a young athlete represent his country and fulfill his dreams? Absolutely. For seeing hard work pay off to be written in the history books for our grandchildren's grandchildren? Definitely. But above all, there is one reason that surpasses all others for which I love the Olympics:

The husband shopping.

Seriously, have you seen the man candy? No one can deny that the Parade of Nations is a who's who of whom I need to make immediate acquaintance. Thank you, NBC for your montage of options. I'm pretty sure that 5/8 of qualifying rounds to make it to the Olympics are based upon whether or not the athlete will aesthetically represent his home country well.

It's a week and a half in, and I have several new husband options. Even the figure skaters, most of which have no desire for the female anatomy are appealing. Mr. Lysacek, I am warm for your form. And I'm also insanely jealous that you got Vera Wang to design all your costumes. Hey girl heeey!

I would like to formally announce that Mr. Ted Ligedy and I are engaged to be married. Save the date for the 12th of Never. (I still haven't told him that we're engaged. Also, I am assuming that he would like to know that I exist first). Balls.

I have taken a hot glue gun to my eyelids for the last two weeks. My Diet Coke consumption has skyrocketed. And I'm starting to experiment with daily energy drink consumption. My chihuahua hands are more chihuahua-y than usual. And coffee, oh coffee: I love thee. But the high caffeine intake is all for a good cause: giving a fair share of my viewing time to each Olympic sport.

The average-joe Olympic spectator is a curious thing. He sits on his couch, beer in hand, wearing a Big Dog t-shirt circa 1995. His toenails are freshly clipped, and his 5 O'clock shadow is developing into a scruffy 7PM. Lasagna from four days ago that has taken crusty residence on the right thigh of sweats that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since Beijing. Surrounding him are Swedish meatball TV dinner trays, Bud Light empties, and a pile of lukewarm reserve beers so he doesn't have to get up. To his right is a mint-condition still-shrinkwrapped VHS of Richard Simmons' "Sweatin' to the Oldies" that an old girlfriend gave him in feeble attempt to beat around the bush that she had little desire to stick around and become acquainted with the gut that was beginning to take shape. Said girlfriend is long gone, and said beer gut has has firmly established itself as a member of the family. Don't make any harsh judgments though, because even though the only exercise he gets is running to the bathroom while the tear-jerking Visa commercials come on, he is the world's greatest expert on all Olympic sports. As he watches figure skating, he shames the athlete for the rocky landing of his triple axle. He shouts expletives as the ski jumper doesn't time the takeoff right. He shakes his head as the halfpipe snowboarder doesn't complete the last quarter turn of her 1080.

You know you do it too. You can't even spell Double McTwist 1260 (d-o-u-b-l-e-m-c-t-w-i-s-t-t-w-e-l-v-e-s-i-x-t-y), but you'll scream at the TV when it's done wrong(ly, use your adverbs).

And while we're on the subject of Olympic sports, I have to touch upon ice dancing: the red headed stepchild of the figure skating world. I am quite sure that the ice dancers get beat up by the other figure skaters in rink parking lot. They're not invited to the cool-kid figure skating parties, and they are probably suffering long term rectal damage from years of wedgies. And what's with all the brother/sister pairs? I would not be ok with my brother holding me up mid-air by my crotch. And I'm quite sure that my brother has no interest in that very same maneuver. I am also quite sure that he would drop me on purpose as some form of vengeance for ratting him out for stuffing his broccoli under his booster seat when he was three. I'm still paying for that, 18 years later.

And here ends my Olympic rant. Broadcast is about to start, I'm fresh out of beer, and I can't find my Big Dogs shirt. Thank God the Olympics only come once every two years. Remember to save the wedding date.

And one final shout-out to Jamie, who reads this at work while he's pooping. Hi Jamie, hope it all comes out ok.

Guess who's coming to dinner? Vladimir Putin.

I woke up this morning to a muffled crash from above. If you've ever been to my apartment, then you are well aware that that crashes on my ceiling both muffled and un are regular occurrences.

These are the loudest people alive. I'm not one to complain about noise -- I have seen my share of very late night noise violations involving rivers of Keystone Light, lewd nursery rhymes chanted at high decibel level, cheers for quarters splashing into pitchers of beer, and cock fight style pinata beatings. (The poor horse never had a chance). But really, these people are the loudest people ever birthed on this planet. This, and my hearing has been severely incapacitated due to four years of spending the better half of my days encircled by 4 discs of crashing metal and 15 high frequency screeching expensive sticks. I can't imagine what these people sound like to a normal person.

Upon stealthy reconnaissance, I have found that the noisy neighbors are anti Huey Lewis and the News Russian twin sisters in their mid-60s and one of their missing-link-loser-God's-gift-to-democratic-society sons.

I know, right?

I don't know exactly how these women have the ability to make so much noise, but I have narrowed it down:

1. They're the nerve center of the notorious Davis based Russian mafia. This would explain the occasional beating as I'm trying to have a quiet Sunday afternoon on the couch with Regina George and the rest of her Plastics.

2. They're training for the 2012 Olympics as members of the Russian Jumping Jacks Team. This would explain the repeated jumping sounds above my kitchen, which I can't imagine are anything other than jumping jacks.

3. They're cloning Cosbys, which explains the stench of Borsch, and the handles of Popov in the recycling. (Cosby #83 is Russian Cuisine Cosby, while Cosby #45 is Alcoholic Cosby). (Duh).

4. They're hiding a very angry and restless Osama Bin Laden. I don't know...I can't understand what they're saying up there, it could be Russian, it could just as well be Talibanese.

5. They've got a UFC ring up there.

6. Their apartment is serving as a safe zone for war torn exiled Soviet commies suffering post traumatic stress disorder. The flashbacks explain the creaks in the mid morning, the screams of terror in midnight hour, and the sound of bodies hitting the wall at any given minute.

I have determined that the above are the only possibilities for the Shchi Sisters outrageous noise habits.

I would call the cops, but I don't think that the witness protection program has an MBA program in which all my six of my completed credits would transfer.

If they read my blog, which I'm absolutely sure they do, I may end up in bed with the head of some sort of prized farm animal tomorrow morning. Anybody want to try deep fried brain nuggets? Bring ranch dressing, I'm fresh out.

Elmo, you're a douchebag.

The holidays are over and school has started again. And this means I must get back to my regular blogging schedule. And by "regular blogging schedule" I mean whenever anything strikes enough anger in me to conjure up a rant.

I am fortunate enough to live right next door to a Target. It opened a few months ago, and it has literally changed my life. Bored? Let's go to Target! Need paper clips, toilet paper, or macaroni and cheese? Let's go to Target! Don't want to do laundry, but need a cute outfit for study group? Let's go to Target!

No, I am not exaggerating. Ask my roommates. I went twice, just today.

A week before Christmas, I was strolling down the fun-filled aisles of Target. I believe we were on a macaroni and cheese mission. (This mission can be read about in full on the imaginary blog "Weekdays with Sara and Ashley." This blog exists, but only in our minds. We reference it regularly. Again, I am not exaggerating.) What did I find on the end cap of a particular aisle?

Valentines' Day stuff.

Honestly, Target: ONE STRESSFUL HOLIDAY AT A TIME!!!

Christmas is already stressful enough: what if I paid more for my present than he/she did for his/hers? Then there's the inevitable awkward moment...Oh wow, you got me multi colored post-it notes! Those cost about the same as a bottle of Dom Perignon, right?

In case you're wondering: In the previous sentence, I WAS exaggerating. Dom Perignon and post-it notes are not comparable in price.

Thanks, Target, for complementing the Christmas stress with the stress of Valentines' Day two months early. If it weren't for my Diet Coke addiction and your low prices on my weekly 24 pack fix, I'd never enter your doors.

For any of you male readers, no, I do not currently have a date for Valentines Day. Applications are currently being accepted through February 1st. Please attach a credit report, references, recent bank statement, proof of voter registration, college transcripts, and a picture.

What? I might as well eliminate the ones that aren't going to survive early on. Save them the trouble, and save me the "It's not you, it's me" speech.

So, Christmas. What an event. It took my family 2 full SUVs to transport 4 people and 2 dogs to Tahoe for 6 days. More than half the cargo space was occupied by a very discreetely hidden Beatles RockBand, a Labrador with high puke potential, and a tiny Schipperke that enjoys pooping in her crate. The other half was occupied by wine. And yet, we still ran out. I'll leave it up to you to decide whether or not I am exaggerating this time.

Plagued with cabin fever on a snowy Sunday, we decided to make the trek to South Lake Tahoe. Naively, I thought this might mean that there was some excitement in store for the day.

I was wrong.

Our destination? Taco Bell.

Yes. A bean burrito with green sauce and 7 mild sauce packets was the highlight of the excursion.

It was that day that I discovered something about aging: you know people are getting old when they like to drive around and see what has changed.

Thank God for my iPhone, because without it, I would have actually paid attention to my parents' exclaims of:

"WOW! That wasn't there last time!"

"Holy Mackerel, when I was here last, that detachable ski lift was just a man with a snowshoes and a rope!"

and

"I remember when that building was the only liquor store in town!"

Technology saved me from the sad realization that one day, I too, will look at new buildings and cry out in surprise at how they have changed. Until then, I will immerse myself into whatever useless app I can find.

And while I'm on the subject of technology:

How in the world did people date before Facebook? These days, Facebook is essential to the dating process. A relationship is not official until it has been posted on Facebook. I'm serious. Not to mention, the whole process of courtship has changed completely with the introduction of social media networks. No longer will a gentleman admirer call on his ladyfriend and actually grow a set and ask her to go down to the drive in for a chocolate malt. No. These days, courtship has come down to the following: Facebook frienship, Facebook wall posts, Facebook links to something both parties see as humorous, and Facebook comments on photos and status updates. Level of Facebook communication is directly related to mutual attraction.

Sad as it is, I have come to accept it as fact.

But what if one party doesn't have Facebook?

Does that mean.... *gasp* that one party actually has to CALL the other? Unheard of. A phone call these days means too much. If you call someone, then you might as well be proposing marriage.

It's a scary world out there. I am not sure how to grasp this issue. How does one proceed? I would ask an older person for advice on traditional forms of courtship, like my mother, for example. But she's too busy gawking at new buildings.

And finally, as the third and final part of today's rant, I wish to recognize all the underappreciated Muppets. I apologize, Elmo, you're cute and red, but it's time that you step out of the Muppet spotlight. You're a douche. And your theme song is stupid.

Modern day Elmo is probably a strung-out porn addict that is spending his 40s passed out on his Mom's plastic-covered couch, living solely on Sesame Street syndication revenue.

Let's take a moment to remember the great Placido Flamingo, truly one of the most underappreciated Muppets of all time. What's more badass than an opera singing flamingo with a passion for early childhood education? Placido sparked the passion for opera for many young children in the 80s. Sadly, I have not seen an appearance by Placido in quite some time. He has probably moved on to bigger and better things.

Modern day Placido is probably working for the Red Cross, teaching undernourished third world youth how to cure aids, ebola, the black plague, syphillis, PMS, acne, and swine flu through music. Placido's performance in "The Bathtub of Seville" moved me to tears. "Elmo's world" has only moved me to extreme anger at the dumbing down of Muppet intelligence just to sell a quick few ticklish dolls. Way to capitalize at the behest of your once stellar reputation, Sesame Street.

And with that, I bid you adieu.

This rant was brought to you by the letter Q, and the number 9*.

*Which, according to Caitlin, is a male and very angry number.