You're Brilliant. Now Stop Talking.

This afternoon I was in a class and was lucky enough to be sitting next to a professor (whom I adore) because he was listening in on our class for the day.

At one point in the lecture, he leaned over and shared a joke with me. Panic! I was so stoked that he was speaking, much less wasting a joke on me that I forgot to listen. Worsened by the dark room and quiet audience, there was no way I was going to kill whatever special moment he had just created between us by asking him to repeat himself.

So, fight or flight kicked in and I instinctively mimicked his exact expression and mumbled something back with the same animation he had used. I didn't even use words. I literally mumbled sounds. His reaction? He genuinely laughed, nodded, and turned back in his seat, satisfied with whatever he thought I had said.

Then I realized something that I think I probably already knew, but am just now articulating. We are all so insanely in love with ourselves that we sort of just hear what we expect or want to hear unless the person is loud enough to sway our egos otherwise; which can only lead me to one conclusion: all this conversation that we have been having with people is A. just a conversation we have really had with ourselves and B. completely unnecessary.

So what happens now? I propose that we really only need to get one good impression of any person. After that, we can all just mumble to each other, and the recipient can just assume that it was probably intelligent, stupid, embarrassing, inappropriate, etc. anyway. Not only can we do this, but we pretty much do it anyway.

So. If there is one thing that anyone who may ever read this should remember about me it's that mmnb bhmmb bumnbh hhm bbbmbnh.

Ellie Mae Johnson: Immortalized

My friend Wes Joseph's dog died a couple of weeks ago. To console him I told him that legends never die. See, uplifting words are just used as substitutes for anything substantial. This is why when a waitress gets told she did a great job, she will most likely not get a great tip. People think that a nice comment is worth more than money. So do I. So does Wes. It's why I think he is calling my bluff and has now challenged my words of comfort by requesting a blog to tell her story. It's why I am here to prove that I am a better friend to Wes than he is to me. Once and for all, I will overcome 'the Disneyland incident'.

Ellie Mae Johnson, (no not Joseph because the dog kennel, like most people, cannot accept a first name as a last name, and christened her Johnson instead) was born on 4/20/99. Most likely a reincarnation of a Columbine shooter, except this time she came back with a heart that was TOO big, leading to her untimely death of 10/7/08. She is survived by her mother Sophie and her mate Cleo. She enjoyed walking until about a year and a half ago.

Ellie could not only sit, roll over and play dead, but "sitting pretty" was her expertise. She would sit pretty before every treat.

Not a masculine dog, not an intimidating dog, definitely not a hunting dog, but a loved dog nonetheless. There was no other dog more liked by or like his father Wes Joseph.

Legends never die Ellie. I have told your story.

The Results Are IN:

We've been waiting to hear who won the political debate and finally Fox and CNN have delivered unbiased, accurate results. (These percentages are actual results found on the Web sites).

CNN: Obama won 49% to 43%

FoxNews: McCain won 80% to 14% and 6% hadn't decided.

Fox went on to say that Obama didn't even show up to the debate, and in the middle of McCain's speech, God came down and delivered Osama Bin Laden to his arms... and then gave McCain back his full range of motion. It was an American miracle.

Not a Rebel, Not Yet a Leader

Last night I was feeling a bit bored and thought I could do with a scandalous movie of some sort. Age of Innocence: nothing says scandal like New York City in the Industrial Age. The back mentioned love triangle and I was sold. I watched the entire movie. No sex, no violence, no language. I was edified, uplifted, and I think my vocabulary improved. (Any movie that uses the word 'audacity' twice in one scene is sure to dig up some gems in the rest of the film.) Afterward I checked out the rating: PG! I go for scandal and I get Disney.

Story of my life you ask? Yes. It is: Chaste, not necessarily by choice. But why? Birth order. THAT'S why. I've been reading up on birth order lately and my middle child role. Apparently I get ignored but try disparately to be noticed... revert to peace-maker, blah blah blah, but I don't think I've ever been ignored or have tried to win over my parents' love. In fact, my parents' love is as easy as frequent flier miles: the more and farther away I travel, the more they love me. Which, by default, yes, does make me the current favorite. So, this whole time Alfred Adler had it wrong. It's not our PARENTS who are following the divine birth order roles. It's SCANDAL.

"Rehab? Nope, save that for the youngest--that charming rebel. Teen pregnancy? That's more of a older sister role. You? ummm you can have... Oh! we'll give successful and bossy to the oldest." See how all the things that make people interesting get skipped right over the middle children? Here I am jumping up and down and waving my arms and all Scandal tosses me is the Age of Innocence. It just makes me wonder what the rest of us are missing out on because of the birth order that so clearly determines our personalities for us.