The Snug Wow

I used to think there were two kinds of people in the world - Snuggie people and ShamWow people. Now you can have the best of both worlds. If only you didn't have to walk to the kitchen to use the Magic Bullet or the Ginsu knife...

Twicken Noodle Soup

I'm twying to figure out how to Twitter. I feel the same way I do when someone in the Tax department at work tells a joke. I know I'm supposed to get it, and everyone else seems to be enjoying it, but it makes no sense to me. According to Twitter, it is "a service for friends, family, and co–workers to communicate and stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing?" The Twitter site lists three reasons why you should Twitter. It says:

• Eating soup? Research shows that moms want to know.
• Running late to a meeting? Your co–workers might find that useful.
• Partying? Your friends may want to join you.

First, my Mom doesn't want to know that I'm eating soup. She wants to know what kind of soup I'm eating, where I got it, if I got enough soup, if I'm still hungry, and why I'm eating soup and not working. Fortunately, Twitter limits "tweets" to 140 characters. Second, if I tweeted every time I was running late to a meeting, I'd be on Twitter all day and miss all my meetings entirely. And my co-workers know I'll be late. If I'm ever on time to a meeting, that might be something to "tweet" about. Third, sitting by my computer tweeting is not my idea of a party. And I don't want friends who think it is. Twuthfully, I'm not sure anyone cares what I'm doing. However, it is enough of an ego boost to pretend like everyone cares about every move I make. So I've taken the plunge. I'm twying to Twitter. Now, like I said, I'm a little twetarded. My stubborness won't allow me to give up, though, so I'm determined to figure out what all the fuss is about.

So far, I've learned that there is a whole Twitter language. It is slightly easier to learn than conjugating spanish verbs. From what I can tell, you just add "Tw" to the beginning of every word. This effectively turns the kid with the speech problem into the hip techie with the twendy lingo. As for me, I'm not sure I have what it twakes to spend my twime twacking every tweetable twitch I make. I'll keep twying, but put me in the short nest for now.

I'm off to eat some soup, mom. Some chicken noodle soup from the grocery store and I have two cans in case I'm not full after the first one. Then, I'll get some rest before getting up for work in the morning. Oh, and I'll probably be late for that meeting - go ahead and start twithout me. I might be partying on Twitter.

The Next Best Thing

I've suspended my dream of being warm and dry, of finding the perfect coat with a hood. For this year anyway. I'll try again next year. Don't feel too sad for me though because I've found something else to fill the void in my heart. The next best thing - The Snuggie. I might not be both warm and dry, but I no longer have to choose between being warm and being productive (I use the term "productive" lightly). I know you're probably rolling your eyes and thinking to yourself "It's no different than wearing a robe backwards." I'll tell you it is different. If you don't have one already, I'm confident you will soon. It's ok, you don't have to tell anyone about it. It's kind of like 90210 - everyone watched it, but no one will admit it. You can cut holes in your blanket or wear your robe backwards if you want to. As for me, I'll stay warm while my hands are free for the low price of $14.95. And I know your backwards robe didn't come with a free book light. No, I'm not selling the Snuggie or making any money off this blog post. The Snuggie pretty much sells itself. Someday I'll tell my grandchildren about the olden days when we didn't have the luxury of staying warm while our hands were free. They'll probably say "Grandma, how did you survive?" and I'll tell them how tough it was and then teach them to keep believing in their dreams. I'll explain that if we can be warm while our hands are free, Grandma might even find a warm, black coat with a hood in her lifetime. Dream big, children, dream big. That coat might even come with a free book light.

It's Not You, It's Me

Dear Snow,

There is no easy way to say this. I don't want to see you anymore. I am very sorry. We had some very good times together and I will cherish them forever. I remember when I was a child how I used to hope and pray that you would be there when I woke up in the morning. Whether it was for an entire day or just a two-hour delay, I always enjoyed my time with you. I won't forget staring at the scrolling update at the bottom of the television, waiting for KGW to tell me you had arrived. We would all refer to you by those little pet names "Artic Blast," "Winter Chill," and "The Big Freeze." I won't forget the good times. It's not you, it's me. The truth is, I'm older now. I have things to do and places to go. I can't waste my time with you anymore. I need a more responsible weather system, one that doesn't just come and go on a whim. And you deserve to be in place where you are appreciated. I'm sure you'll find a nice place where everyone has 4-wheel drive and coats with hoods. Where their winter gear isn't left over from a ski trip in 1989. Portland just isn't that place. I am not that girl.

You can still visit every few years if you'd like to. We'd love to have you for Christmas. I just don't think we should see each other as much as we have been lately. It is time for you to move on. I wish you the best, snow, I really do. Thanks for the good times.

Sincerely,

Kimberly

Below Average

Ok, this might be another post about shopping. This time, however, I'm exposing the dark side of consumerism. Occasionally, if I've had a rough day, I visit two of my favorite therapists - Macy and Mr. Nordstrom. Their hourly rates can be fairly high, but I usually get my money's worth and leave their offices feeling much better than I did when I entered. I'm not completely faithful to both of them because I believe it's beneficial to explore all your options when dealing with the events of the day. Today I visited a therapist I only see on occasion. I will identify this therapist by location only - Banana Republic. I visited the downtown office and there were few other patients there, which was kind of nice. This office has different sections for clients with different needs. My condition forces me into the "petites" section (with the exception of coats and long-sleeve shirts - remember my "monkey arms"). If you look up the word "petite" in the dictionary, it offers you an array of synonyms including "baby", "wee", "elfin", and "below average." The last time I saw someone described as "below average," he was wearing a helmet, a harness, and Velcro shoes. The "petites" also have to use a separate dressing room from the full grown adults. Perhaps they are worried we will catch a glimpse of a normal woman and become enlightened to the real purpose of the plunging neck line. What's even worse is that they have to post a sign that says "petites." There were no other signs around, not even "Men" or "Women." Apparently the average person can tell the difference between a woman's shirt and a man's shirt, but needs a sign to figure out that the size 6X sweater that has been relabeled to a double-zero petite is for the "below average" clientele. What if your therapist had signs in the waiting room that said "Depressed", "Distracted", "In Denial", and "Downright Crazy"? Or better yet, "Below Average"? I would have to pull up a chair right in the middle.

My next stop was Albertsons. They allow me to peruse the aisles with average size adults so I began to feel a little better about myself. That changed when I reached the produce aisle. Some corporate genius thought it would be a good idea to put a big flat-screen tv above the bananas. For those of use who are easily distracted, this is the equivalent of putting speed bumps on a wheelchair ramp. One minute I'm practicing the delicate art of selecting bananas with the perfect ratio of yellow to green (you know, ripe enough for tomorrow but not too ripe by Monday), the next I'm watching some lady teach me how to discern whether you can eat the rind on a block of cheese. I was halfway through Rachel Ray's lesson on enchiladas when my husband called. He reminded me that I had stopped on the way home to get groceries for dinner, which usually comes before breakfast. I grabbed some mini carrots, baby red potatoes, Little Debbie cupcakes, and petite sirloin steak...and caught the short bus home.

*Happy Ratification Day

My mother is a teacher. Most of you already know this because I still write letters to Santa, can tell you about Johnny Appleseed, and know when Flag Day is. So the other day we were having an intelligent discussion about education and budget cuts and all that goes along with it. Then she mentioned to me that the district needs to cut expenses and they are considering taking away some of the teachers' paid holidays. She was appalled at the thought of this. Really Mom? What exactly is it you do to observe Presidents Day? Spend a dollar? Chop down a cherry tree? Abolish slavery - again? She responded to my questioning by telling me how important it is to teach the children about our past presidents. It is important, but I bet it would be much easier to teach if the children were actually in school, don't you think? Granted, it does give the outlet mall a good excuse for a sidewalk sale.

Then there is October 12th, Columbus Day. AKA We've Been In School A Month and These Kids Are Driving Us Crazy So We Need A Day Off Day. Why does this guy have his own national holiday? Because he took a wrong turn? Once I turned onto a street under the Burnside Bridge where a few guys were sleeping under cardboard boxes. Had they been sleeping in teepees, you might be getting a mattress and box spring for $99 at the Kimberly Villanueva Day sale. Instead, we give all the credit to Mr. C. And where would we be without Chris? Ummm...right here. We'd just have better tans and more leather in our wardrobe. And I could put a three-inch heel on a moccasin if I had to. Although I do believe he saved us from a life of **mukluks and beadwork . For that, he might deserve a holiday.

My Mom didn't agree with my view of her sacred paid holidays so I suggested a compromise. Maybe we could have a History Day where we celebrate all the people and things from before 1900. Then, we could focus on relevant holidays like Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and Christmas. And we'll reserve some hope for the future so when someone does something really great, we can give them a national holiday. For example, when a heroic soul finally creates a clothing brand that only sells coats with hoods they can have their own national holiday. Perhaps it can replace Columbus Day so when we are shopping the sidewalk sales in October we will be both warm and dry. For that, Mom, you should have the day off.


*Today happens to be Ratification Day, the day the Treaty of Paris was ratified, ending the revolutionary war.

**you would only know what a mukluk is if your mother is a teacher. It was probably in the lesson your third grade teacher had planned for Columbus Day. Too bad you had the day off.

Googling Like A Madwoman

I have a new class this term called Legal Research. They use terms like "information literacy" and it is only an hour a week, but it is the longest hour ever. Basically they teach us how to Google. The only difference is that we use Westlaw and Lexis instead of Google and Wikipedia. Although I don't know anyone who doesn't at least start with Google or Wiki when researching anything.

We also get nice little "what if" lessons. What if you don't put quotes around your phrase, for example "attractive nuisance?" You could get hits for every document with either the word attractive or the word nuisance. In other words, we could perish from too many search results, or worse, we could get the dreaded "your search returned more than 500 documents. Only the first 500 results are displayed." They can't let us loose in the big, bad legal world if we are going to go around getting over 500 search results with reckless disregard for the little hard-working hourglass icon that becomes my cursor.

Then they give us lessons about how to use real books in the library to research. In case Google goes bankrupt and Wikipedia doesn't get enough donations, I'll be hoofing it up Terwilliger to find case law on trespassing. They tell us old stories about when lawyers had to use books for everything and walk to school uphill both ways in the snow. It makes me thankful for each and every one of my 500+ search results.

I spent the class period Googling "boring legal research class."

Wikipedia has a great little article on legal research. Just don't forget the quotation marks.