Domestication.

I'm sitting on the couch looking at my nephew rocking away in his stereo-phonic swing. The base for his car seat currently resides in the back of my MINI. To my right, a diaper bag, to my left, pacifiers and a burping cloth. I'm loving every minute of it.

I walk by a mirror and I no longer recognize the reflection. When did I start liking kids? Correction: when did I start wanting to hold, rock, soothe and dare I say it. . . change small children (in particular, my nephew)? For those of you who know me, which if you are reading this blog, I imagine you do, you know that I do not particularly care for miniature-sized humans. They lack the intellectual stimulation that I crave with those that I interact with on a regular basis. Even when I was a wee lass, I never cared for children. I was the weird, precocious kid who would rather go over to a friend's house and enjoy a cup of coffee with their mom than play barbies. In fact, I decided at the age of five that I was too old for barbies and by the age of eight I made a conscious decision to close the Disney animated movie chapter in the book of my life. And for a non-sequitur, I am also holy opposed to children who are sticky. Sticky children are those who have a permanent kool-aid stain around their mouths accompanied by fragments of encrusted animal crackers and Chips 'Ahoy. I'm fairly certain you can Google the term. I will always love my nephew, but as soon as that sucker becomes sticky, he is no longer welcome at my home. Don't scowl, my sister and I have had this understanding for years now.

Back to the new man in my life. My nephew is the coolest thing since the other side of the pillow. Basically, from the first moment I held the little stinker, I fell in love. All I want to do is hold him and buy him clothes, both of which things have proven to be problematic because I live 1500 miles away and my sister has complained that her son has more clothes than she does. What concerns me about all of this is that I am kind of a natural. Is it possible for the girl who doesn't want to have children to posses maternal instincts? Moreover, could I be changing my mind about having kids? Stay tuned.

Another reason why I love my nephew, he just spit-up all over my little sister.

Yule-Tide Exterior Illumination

As a child, nothing brought more joy to my heart than the gentle glow of Christmas lights outside my bedroom window. My dad would tuck me in, kiss me on the forehead and turn off the light leaving me snuggled in my blue blanket while the hues of red, green, blue and yellow filled my room. The cold wind would gust against the glass panes, but the shadows of the tree branches would dance across my wall keeping me entertained until I surrendered to the warmness of my bed. To me, this is Christmas.

In the Lessly household, Christmas lights are an important part of the holiday season. The house is lit before the tree goes up and is a month-long source of pride for my father (even if he chumps out and doesn't outline the roof like he did on the old house). Last night, the crew took the 'ole 4 wheel drive sled out for the annual Christmas light looking/my sisters doing everything we can in our power to annoy our parents trip. For the record, I could be 80 and this will never get old. We typically end up critiquing, and by that I mean criticizing, the lights we see in the neighborhoods around North Texas. It is from these trips that I have formed a rather strong opinion about Christmas lights: they should be white, straight, C7s that outline the roof and other defining characteristics of the house.

Now I realize that this might be a bit extreme, but if you are going to display your holiday cheer to the whole neighborhood, why not do it with a little class and a hit if dignity? I've never understood why people think that crooked lights are socially acceptable, or moreover, why icicle lights are appropriate in places like Phoenix. It's 60 degrees outside, the jig is up, we know they are not real. And since when did icicles light up anyway?

Once upon a time, a friend of mine decided to put lights up on the residence hall we both worked and lived in. After a long, and unnecessarily intense discussion about what said lights would look like, I was under the impression that we had come to a compromise and though the lights would be multi-colored, they would at least be straight and function free. One evening while I was passing by his door, this friend of mine called me into his apartment. As soon as I walked in, he closed the door, grabbed my hand and turned off the lights. Being that this now friend was my boss at the time, I was a little confused and a bit nervous as to what he was up to. He led me into the kitchen and fiddled around until it was illuminated with a prism of colors. I was impressed by his selection. "Wait, there's more," he slyly said. Uh oh. Just the white lit up. Acceptable. Then the red, then blue, then they began to flash, then travel, then go in reverse. 24 functions later, the lights in the kitchen came on to reveal a very proud man and his disapproving employee.

Much to my dismay, the lights soon found their very caddiewomper way onto the roof. 24-hours a day for the next two weeks, the lights haunted and mocked me. When I would come home, I would readjust the lights so that they would look clean and crisp. The next morning, I would rise to the gentle flashing of green and red bulbs outside my window. Each day revealed a new function, each evening would provoke my animosity.

The morning after the students checked out, I headed out to do some last minute Christmas shopping. On my way out the door, I found myself sidestepping little pieces of colored glass on the sidewalk. I looked over to find my friend reaching up with his and and pulling the lights off of the gutter, allowing the twinkle lights shatter on the concrete. "What are you doing?!? We could have used those for next year," I exclaimed. "What," he relpied. "You never liked them anyway." And another strand hit the ground.

A Public Service Announcement

Dear Persons of the Feminine Persuasion:

Tights are not pants! Leggings are not pants! Stirrups should never be worn and only used when riding horses and going to the doctor. And you can quote me on that!

Today I was walking across main campus and noticed that a young lady and I were sporting the same tights, the only difference is that I was donning them as an accessory to my pencil skirt and sweater ensemble, she was substituting them as pants to complement her longish-flannel shirt. I imagine it was a bit breezy, especially since I could see where the patterned stopped and the control top began (guys I know that just went over your head, but trust me, it was not a pretty sight). Heading up the stairs and turning the corner, I see another female student wearing black leggings and blazer. And nothing else. I asked her why she was so dressed up and she sad, "Oh, I'm giving a presentation in class, we're supposed to dress professionally." I'm not an advocate of nylons and shin-length skirts as the standard of professional dress, but VPLs and an exposed lacy bra do exactly scream CEO material to me.

Com'on ladies! What are you thinking? I too once balked at the idea of stretching up a pair of lycra infused material up my leg as a grown woman, but tights today are a far cry from the white and pink heart number that my mom would make me wear as a 5-year old going to church. I now embrace them as an extension of my wardrobe and quite frequently rock the boots, tights and sweater dress combo (I call it the triple threat), that being said, it does not mean that tights can be used as a substitute. Use this good rule of thumb: if when even on your person and your unmentionables are still visible through said article of clothing, do not use as pants. You are a Glamour DON'T waiting to happen.

And, oh, 1993 called, they want their leggings back.

Boxing Gloves

I've spent the last week in the Motherland, aka Tejas to all of you out there who don't speak Texan, for the Thanksgiving holiday and waiting for my nephew Andrew to arrive. No baby yet, but I've been able to fill the time reconnecting with friends, both from my youth and college years. Meeting up with people has required me to go all over the place and has led me to two conclusions: 1) God has blessed me with a good sense of direction and 2)Dallas is much cooler than for which I gave it credit. I moved away from the Big D almost a decade ago and during that time, my hometown has changed just as much as I have. How is it possible that I spent 18 years of my life living the metroplex and know almost nothing about it? Needless to say, it's been a surreal week.

Over the past six months, I have had several people, important people to me, talk to me about moving back to Texas, to which my reply mimics that of a scoff, and after a brief moment of existential thinking, claim that I would only move back to Texas if it were to Austin (as it is the closest thing to LA that Texas has to offer). However, after this past week, the main thought that has been rolling around in my head is the question: can you ever really go home again?

Let's let them fight it out, shall we? In far right corner of the ring, we have the rough 'n tuff Lone Star State herself, Texas; and in the opposite corner we have the king of cool, California. In the department of economics, Texas throws a right cross at Cali and breaks his jaw. The killer combo of no state income tax and gas under 3 dollars a gallon brings round one to a quick close. Cali fires back with a sucker punch and upper jab when it comes to culture. Texas blocks with exponentially better food, but begins to lag at the end of round two after ingesting a lethal amount of butter and barbeque sauce. Round three ends a draw after California swings and misses when it comes to politics and Texas missteps in the category of climate. It all comes down to round four, sudden death. Will Texas pull it together to defeat Cali's fun in the sun? Can California must up enough strength to combat Tejas' Southern charm and hospitality? After a brief moment of silence and a tension so thick you can feel it in the air, Cali winks from across the ring and kicks Texas in the teeth: the Pacific Ocean, baby! TKO.

This probably won't be the last throw down for my two homes. . . but for right now, the PO is where it is at. Thoughts, anyone?

I'm Having an Affair

Well, being that it's the Lord's Day, I figured that now is as good a time as any to come clean. I'm cheating on Thanksgiving with Christmas. Yes, I, Michelle Heather, have broken the cardinal rule of my family and committed the mortal sin of indulging in the Christmas spirit before the carving of the turkey. For this, I may have my nickname status revoked, but this year, I just can't help myself.

What led to this blasphemy you ask? Well, a long series of events and influences culminated into my concession today by putting up the tree. It all started with seeing my first Christmas commercial on Halloween eve and it all went down hill from there. Starbucks busted out their holiday cups almost three weeks ago and stores have been blasting Jingle Bells since the Santa Annas started blowing. Even the Colony has trimmed the town with tinsel and garland. A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) is a November 1st kinda guy and has been talking about Yule Tide Cheer for quite sometime. He convinced me to start watching Christmas movies, so this week, I decided to kick the season off right with my annual viewing of my favorite, Miracle on 34th Street. Thursday night I made my famous fudge, a Christmas staple in my household, and yesterday my roommate busted out the carols. I even broke out my apple cider body wash this morning in the shower. But it didn't become official until this afternoon.

I was at the mall picking up some last minute items for my trip home (and by that I mean buying another sweater dress) and could sense that the pre-holiday rush tension was in the air. I managed to wiggle in and out of the dressing room unscathed and waited in line at the register while the crowd swelled around me. Finally I made it to the front of the line and cringed as the total began to rise, but my buyer's remorse was quickly interrupted by a yelp to my right. Nondescript words and hand gestures soon followed. Then I heard it, "Oh no you didn't." People actually say that? Who knew? Then a woman in line behind me began to yell at the sale associates behind the counter to do something. She then took it upon herself to intercede and try and stop the fight. . . that's when the punch was thrown. The gentleman behind the counter smiled and handed me my receipt. "Happy Thanksgiving and an early Merry Christmas," he said to me. "Thanks," I said, "and be sure to keep you scan gun handy."

Peace and joy to all mankind.

Chicks Dig Scars

Working with college students usually keeps me abreast as to what is now considered cool, that my daily dose of E! News. Though I do a pretty good job of keeping up to date on fashion, music, film, etcetera, I rely on them to give me the inside track on being hip. For this week, the word on the street was HP.

No offense to my students, but I don't understand how wizards are cool. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the artistry 0f a British pre-teen version of Friends that involves wands, but I'm not sure it constitutes patronizing a midnight showing. Under the recommendation of a few friends, I once cracked open a copy of the supposed monolithic children's book and three chapters in gave up the ghost. Boring. Everyone who hears the tale of my Harry Potter debacle tells me that I must push through the first few books in the series in order to get to the goods, but I have more important things to read, like this month's issue of Cosmo.

I get it, they (my students) grew up with our beloved HP, but what concerns me is how they know more about the Black family lineage than they do about pronouns and antecedents. Okay, no one gives a rip about the parts of speech, but my point still remains. Harry Potter and his epic tale of epicness/wonder-some wizardry/broomstick bodaciousness is not real. Owls haven't served as carriers for years as they were replaced by pigeons long ago, and according to Back to the Future, cars won't fly until 2015. The Jig is up J.K.R.(insert additional and superfluous initials here) Rowling, Hogwarts is merely a figment of your little English imagination.

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh, I mean, I truly believe that Zak Morris and I will meet and fall madly in love one day, but at least he drives a jeep and has a band. Harry Potter is the chosen one and only has two friends in his entire school. Lame. He has been chasing the same villain for 6 movies and still hasn't come close to catching him. Not impressed. HP's confidant and BFF is a sexually frustrated 186-year old man. Creepy. So, to all of you who love you some sorcerer 's stone, knock yourself out, but as for me I'm sticking with season three of Saved by the Bell.

I also suggest checking out the following link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u981JhkK46o. Let's just say it includes the quote, "And it was another tequila sunrise for our hero, HP."

Choc-a-vin

So, I'm experiencing a bit of buyer's remorse about my most recent posting. True, I did have an amazing week surrounded by friends, food and frivolities in my home, but I failed to include one of the most incredible experience I have had to date: chocolate wine. Yes, I know that sounds a bit dramatic, but you weren't there, you didn't experience the magic. Though I knew at the time I initially tasted said deliciousness that it would be important to me, but after three nights of dreaming about this cocoa goodness, I think it has seriously changed my life. To be more specific, this was no port with chocolate on the side, but rather bottled burgundy bliss that bursts with bouquets of hazelnut, milk and mahogany confections.

At first I spied the glass with suspicion, not sure of what would come. The woman behind the bar smiled and calmly stated, "Enjoy!" My friend turned to me and nodded her head in excited approval. I grasped the goblet and inserted my nose into the glass. The aroma was intoxicating. Sweet currants of cocoa coupled with the heavier notes of oak made my head spin. I lifted it to my lips, and saluted the potent potable with a wink and a smile. Sip. Ahhhhmazing. I literally went weak at the knees at soon as the wine rolled across my tongue. Mom, Dad, I know you are probably going to read this, so avert your eyes now. . . words cannot do justice to describe what tasting this wine was like, so I have no other choice than to say that I think my mouth had an orgasm. Seriously. Okay parental units, you can look again. It was deliciously delicate with smooth trickles of dark chocolate and amaretto while at the same time being robust with deep layers if aged port and old vine Zinfandel culminating in an explosion of sweet serenity. I think I saw God.

So yes, I realize that this was a bit of a melodramatic retelling of a simple wine tasting, but to sit idly by and not share with the masses what decadant d

Star Sightings, No Map Needed

Whoa! It's been almost a week since the World Series came to an end, and though I am still licking my wounds from the Ranger's demise, it's been full of friends, shenanigans and baking 34 dozen cookies for my students. I've discovered the key to surviving a loss in this post post-season life is to stay as busy as possible, and today was no exception. What started out as a trip to WeHo for a milkshake led to a spontaneous 4-hour excursion through the streets of L.A. While roaming down Rodeo Drive doing a little window shopping, something white and sparkly caught the corner of my eye. No, it wasn't the stunning diamond pendant drop earrings in the Cartier window, but rather the crowning glory of a one Jay Manuel. For those of you who don't know who that is, he is the stylish sidekick of Ms. Fierce herself, Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. One of the girls I was with got a little star-struck and we ended up scoping out the store's windows so that she could catch a glimpse of the fashion "icon." While driving down PCH, I began to think about some of the more infamous star encounters I've had since moving to the 'Bu.

My first legit celebrity citing was standing in line behind John Cusack at Malibu Yo. Let's just say I have a whole new appreciation for frozen yogurt. I also sat next to John Goodman at the movies a few weeks later. It's a very surreal experience sitting next to someone when you are watching them on the screen in front of you. Sitting one table down from Pierce Brosnan at Corral Beach Cantina was pretty awesome. Jason Statham even struck up a conversation with me while waiting in line at Starbucks after seeing each other there a few days in a row. In all of these situations, and even in the ones that haven't mentioned, I've been able to keep my cool. But the one time I couldn't contain myself was when Michael Keaton waddled into the coffee shop behind me.

I was with a group of friends at a local coffee shop when Mike, as I like to call him, sauntered in sporting his walking boot behind right behind us. In order to be compliant with the rules of celebrity encounters, we allowed him to cut in line in front of our crew. He ordered his drink and went to stand by the bar, leaving us with a look of wonderment in our eyes. A student of mine saw me from across the cafe and could tell that star power was among our midsts. "Who is it" he mouthed to me. I opened my mouth and felt my hands slowly rise to the level of my head. Unable to stop to stop myself, I extended my pointer finger and began to wiggle them about. "It's Batman," I silently retort. "Who?" Horrified and quite taken aback by my behavior, I repeat the same gesture, forming my digits into bat ears and moving them about. "It's Batman" I whisper more exuberantly. The inner monologue began to explode in my mind. What did I just do? How did I do that? And over Michael Keaton?

After Mike exited stage left, I walked over to my student to clarify any confusion. With a disturbed face, he inquires again, "Who was that?"

"Michael Keaton."

"Who?"

"Michael Keaton"

No response.

"Batman."

"Christian Bale was just here?!?"

"No, Michael Keaton, the original movie Batman, the dark knight of the silver screen."

Blank Stare.

"Beetlejuice."

Nothing.

"Mr. Mom. . . Multiplicity. . . Jackie Brown."

Apparently I am speaking a foreign language.

Out of desperation: "Jack Frost?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember that movie from when I was a kid. I didn't know he was a real actor."

"Yeah, I was in high school when that movie came out. I'll see you later."

Hanging my head low and shuffling my feet, I walked out clutching my latte a little defeated. The generation gap between me and my students just became a chasm.

It may have worked for Maverick, but. . .

The last weekend of October served as a suiting benchmark for a month filled with interesting interactions with members of the opposite sex. It kicked off with a bang when while at the airport headed home, I not only got hit on by a TSA agent (which proved to be advantageous as I got to cut through the security line), but also I encountered a gentleman whose winning pick up line was, "You've got to put that book down, it's keeping me from seeing those pretty eyes," and then proceeded to hold my hand until I conceded in joining him for a drink. Fortunately for him, that move led to date, but unfortunately for me, that was about the smoothest he'd ever be. I should have known then that it was going to be a rough few weeks.

There were a few gents who put themselves out there, including but not limited to the skeezy guy at Starbucks who in his words claims that "as long as [he] keeps me laughing, he's bound to score." Not likely. There was also the student who approached me from behind and as soon as I turned around and to look at him, his face turned bright red and became paralyzed upon the realization that he had just hit on his professor. And to the guy that I met a Drescher, I'm really bummed that you didn't ask for my number. But the one that takes the cake was from a man on the sidewalk in Santa Monica. A group of my girlfriends and I were enjoying a night out on Main Street and while on our way to our next activity were garnering a few glances from the men nearby. As we approached an intersection, a group of guys began to clear their throats and squeak out a few cat calls (which NEVER works, to all of the fellas who may be reading this). As we quickly strolled past them, one of the brave souls called out, "You ladies look like you've got some higher education. Junior college, maybe?" My friend turned and smiled at the man, more out of humor rather than flattery, and he responded with, "My girlfriend's home asleep, what do you think about that?" Needless to say we kept walking. His follow up line, "And I'm also a billionaire," simply caused caused us to expedite our journey. Little did we know that Creepy McCreeperson was awaiting us. As we breezed by him in the darkened room, he not so subtlety shined his phone in our faces to check-us out. Shocked by his brazenness, I questioned his actions. "Did you seriously just do that?" "Yeah, I've got to make sure you're worth talking to, and I've also taken your picture." Upon reflection, this one might just be the winner.

Splash from the Past: A lesson in Peer Pressure

Since I went home to Texas earlier this month, I have been living in a fit of nostalgia, not by my own choice, but by the people and everyday situations around me. Recently, I've been "be"friended by several of my childhood pals on Facebook, including a one Beau Thompson (my kindergarten boyfriend and first kiss), and even today when purchasing flowers upon seeing a bunch of tiger lilies was thrust into my seven year-old self and instantly remembered the scent of the lilies wafting from my neighbor's side yard just asking to be picked (to which I always obliged). But most recently, during my first trip to the beach in two weeks due to all of the rain, I was reminded of one of the favorite stories of my youth: the day Megan Owens fell into the creek.

It was beautiful day in the fall of my third-grade year. The air was crisp on cool, with the scent of the previous night's rainfall hanging in the air. Graciously, my teacher appealed to our requests and allowed us to run down the hill to the old playground, our favorite place for recess, complete with a fort, cannon, running tree and creek. The creek separated the men from the boys: those who could jump over it and those who could not. Today was Megan's day to prove to those far and wide that she was cool, but not under her own fruition. Though I would not admit it at the time and still hesitate to take full ownership for the events that were soon to follow, a few of my lackeys and, um, I may have provoked young Megan to take the plunge.

Looking into her reflection in the newly crested creek, Megan swallowed and turned to look at us. "You're sure about this?" "Yes," we said in unison, "if you want to prove that you're cool, you can do it." Her face white with fright, she started hiking up the hill to the tree-line to give herself plenty of room to pick-up speed. "Megan's gonna jump" someone exclaimed, and before I knew it my entire class congregated around the poor soul. Forming two lines for her to run through, we began chanting her name and sticking our hands out to make the already dramatic scene even more spectacular. Recognizing the stakes at hand, Megan had no choice but to go through with her attempt to launch herself over the three-foot wide body of water. A flash of courage flickered in her eyes and off she went, full throttle towards the creek. She jolted past us, and quickly reached the edge. Pressing her feet into the ground to propel herself, Megan quickly found herself sliding, not flying over the water as her feet slipped and glided in the mud below. Kerplunck.

The splash ebbed in and out of the water with ease, freezing the moment in silence. Megan's hand popped out the water and clawed its way to the opposite bank. My classmates and I looked at each other, realizing the desperation of the situation and immediately enacted the tried and true king rule of the playground: every man for himself. We all scattered to the winds (I swear I even saw some of my peers climb trees to flee the scene), leaving Megan to find her own way out of the creek. Slowly she emerged, her face as red as the pink and black polk-a-dot top she was wearing, her hair matted to her forehead, steam billowing out of her ears. He shoes squished with water and mud she mustered up her dignity and marched herself up our teacher. "I fell in the creek," she squeaked out. Without a word, my teacher look compassionately into her eyes, grabbed her hand and escorted her into the building. Before she walked through the door, I saw my teacher turn her head and release a smirk and a giggle hoping the Megan would be none the wise.

She did not come back to class that day, but she did secure herself a top spot in the Meadows Elementary recess lore. Moral of the story: peer pressure can make for a great story.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

For approximately 45 minutes today, a part of the West side of L.A., along with a portion of the Valley, was without power. Hysteria abounded.

At the time of the blackout (what has now become an instant urban legend), I was in the library talking to a friend. A collective gasp echoed through the darkened halls as the students who were putting their final touches on their term papers now stared at an empty screen. Hands flew in the air, eyes weld up in tears, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. The poor souls jamming out to Justin Bieber on their iPods (19-year old guys are powerless against his gentle coos) studying for their mid-terms flocked to whatever beams of light they could find to preserve the precious few last minutes to cram before their noon class. Alarms began to sound, students became enraged, staff members found themselves at the mercy of the hurry up and wait game. It was hysterical.

Curious as to what the haps were beyond the confines of Payson, I bravely traversed the great outdoors and and headed towards the Tyler Campus Center. The Plaza was hopping with students complaining about not having a wireless signal, but hoping that the power outage would last long enough to cancel classes. "I don't know what to do. I can't get on the Internet to check Facebook," I heard one student exclaim in frustration. "It's the amazing the impotence that comes with technology," I thought to myself in one half of my brain. "But, she does raise an excellent point," I said to myself in the other half.

Down the stairs I went, headed towards the Caf, anxious about what I could witness. 500 hungry, study-crazed college students ready to eat without the hope of having a hot meal during lunch time cannot be a happy scene. A dull roar floated down the hallway as I approached the entrance. To my right, cooks scurried around a dark kitchen trying to salvage anything they get their hands on, to my left, students salivating in line at what would be their fuel for thought. The Caf manager rushes by me, but takes a second to say hello and let me know that they are working on getting things up and going. Realizing that a feeding frenzy is just on the horizon, I have an epiphany and realize that my apartment, just a short hike up the hill (of course made a bit longer by the wet, slippery sidewalks and my heeled boots-poor wardrobe choice for the day), is equipped with a gas range. Score.

Trotting back up the stairs, I stop to say hello to a few cluster of students and dispel any rumors of an impending apocalypse or food shortage and reassure them the the power will eventually return. Walking past Smothers, I see a group of current and former RAs and begin to catch up on life and other frivolities. Mid conversation, I begin to hear the pitter-patter of water droplets; much to my dismay, it was not coming from the sky. The fountain began to seep out water. Highly doubting that the fountains (even if they are a source of pride for Pepperdine) were on some sort of back up generator, I begrudgingly squeaked out the words, "I guess the power's back on." "You seem disappointed," one of my students says. "This just means I have to teach class today," I reply. "Are all professors like you?" "Yep. Secretly, yep."

P.S. I am writing this from the front of my classroom while my students are working on an in-class assignment.

The 8:00 Showing

Tonight my roommate and I went to go see The Social Network, which I am going to take this opportunity to give it my enthusiastic recommendation for it's incredibly subtle yet clever writing and overall appeal. There were several moments in the film that harkened to my work as a Student Affairs professional that made me proud of my field (e.g. the scene with the college president is very similar to the judicial hearings that I have with students), and therefore must offer forth my approval. Also, I think it is only appropriate to commend my students who made the parody of the film entitled The Video Website.

Anywho, though this movie has topped the box office for two weeks in a row, the theater was quasi empty and thus prompted me to inform Caitlin of Lessly's Law: that even in a desolate theater, someone will always sit in front of you thus forcing you to put feet down off of the back of the seat. Is it not a universal principle that the person who was there first has all rights and privileges to both their seat and the seat immediately in front of them? I don't understand this.

Granted, as an avid film buff and a occasional movie-goer (let's face it, most of the flicks made today are barely even worth my Netflix subscription), I have my own little quarks of when I go and see a film, but they all have good reasons. For example: I don't like sitting on the left-side of the theater. Call me superstitious, but every time I sit on the left, something bad/strange happens including but not limited to the movie sound going out, the film melting and a tornado blowing through the theater. Secondly, I am very picky about the seat backs in a theater. Most seats are not built with someone like me in mind and if the headrest is too high, it kills my neck (ah, reminds me of college). As far as I'm concerned, stadium seating was the greatest invention known to man since caller ID. Third, I can't sneak food in, it's unethical. Yes, one could make the argument that it is unethical to sell a bag of popcorn for 8 dollars a pop, but that's the beauty of capitalism, baby. I once sat next to a couple who I swore brought a three course meal in with them. That's either genius, or really cheap, I have yet to decide. Forth and finally, I love the previews. I rate them with a thumbs up or thumbs down like Caesar in the days of yore. If we're running late and you say to me, "It's okay, we'll only miss the previews," I might reconsider my friendship with you. And finally, finally, I am always that one person laughing in the theater when no one else is, tonight was no exception.

But back to my main point, there should be a code of conduct for movie theaters, just like in certain restaurants that make me wear jackets. People who text, check their email or actually answer their phone during a movie should be thrown out of the theater like Uncle Phil does to Jazz. While we're on the subject, take your Bluetooth headset off. The only person who is going to call you is 2005 and it's to tell you you're not cool anymore. And, if you are going to sneak in food, at least smuggle in some booze too for you and enough to share. Large groups of friends should sit in either the front or the back of the theater so that they can be noisy but minimally distracting. If you are a loud whisperer, forewarn the people around you. Chair kickers need not apply.

That being said, I am a fan of the moveable armrest. . .

Flying the Friendly Skies

I don't think I travel all that much, but when I go back and count how many times I've flown this year, it averages out to to a little more than once a month (or at least I think this is a lot). Sometimes I travel for work, sometimes I venture out for fun or to see friends and family, but no matter the reason, I always take the time to sit back and soak in the experience that is the American airport. I believe that a person's true character comes out while traversing the friendly skies, and not so friendly jetways.

From the first step into the ticketing kiosk, flying can prove to be an overwhelming experience from some. It's always a little bit funny to me to see the person flipping out behind the counter because they somehow missed the memo (that went out 3 years ago) that you have to pay if you want to check your bag. Unfortunately for them, the fun has just begun.

Next up: security. Now, I will admit that I have been that person who is cutting it a little close and gets a little anxious while waiting in a security line a mile long, but there's always that one woman who is flipping out because the line is not moving according to her expectations. Of course, the ironic thing is that she is wearing more jewelry than Liberace and ends up holding up the line because she keeps setting off the metal detector. Which brings me to my next point: the elderly. Now, I'm not knocking those proud card carrying members of the AAPR, but apparently they prepare for a blizzard whenever they get on a plane because they just keep peeling off the layers until I think they are going to be nude (gross), but there's always more to go (thank God). Bonus, they don't seem to understand that you cannot bring liquids through the security checkpoint.

Now that we've made it passed TSA's finest, there's the trekking to the gate. Granted, this can be a bit frustrating if the airline changes the gate, but its not the end of the world, right? This past weekend, a gentleman was rather upset when the intercom announced that his flight had been moved one gate over to the left. Another woman stood at the desk for twenty minutes and reprimanded the flight attendant because the flight she was on was not at the gate she expected it to be at, only to discover that she had the wrong flight number. Also, I know it sucks when your flight gets delayed, but what can you do about it? Don't take it out on the people around you.

Waiting for the flight usually tends to be eventless, but a great opportunity to get in some quality people watching time. Maybe its my good 'ole southern values, but isn't just good manners to move your belongings so that someone can have a seat? I also find it interesting how individuals will leave their trash behind when their flight begins to board. Which reminds me, boarding works just fine when everyone does what they are supposed to do, but there is always that one person who is not paying attention and misses their group or is so anxious to get on the plane that they stand right in front of the boarding lane, blocking the rest of the passengers. I know that overhead bin storage is at a premium, but it's not worth trampling over a family, two friends and an old woman to store your coat. Carry-ons can also pose a problem (I once saw a business man hit a flight attendant over the size of his laptop case), but that's too much to go into right now.

Now all we have to do is get on the plane.

Five Minute Rule

I’ve once heard it said that life is merely a series of conversations as one person shares their story with another. I am certain this is true. When I reflect upon the events of the day, my thoughts often drift to the people I encounter and the exchange of words between us rather than the minutia of the daily grind. There are several conversations that have become a part of my soul and will remain that way for the rest of my life. For example, I will always remember talking to my Dad as he escorted me out of Moody Coliseum, clutching my college degree in one hand and his arm in the other, or my sister waking me up in the middle of the night to tell me I am going to be an aunt. Of course there are some that I would rather forget (ironically those are the conversations that have been the most formative) and there some that stick out in my mind because of peculiarity, but mostly the exchanges that resonate with me are the ones that cause me to change the way I view the world. One of these conversations took place on Monday afternoon.

Unsuspectingly, I was waiting for my drink at a local coffee shop when a man walked by and commented on my shoes. As a fashionista wannabe (I’m too cheap to be a real one), I willingly accepted his compliment and engaged him in conversation. “I very much like your tattoo. You’re a rebel, aren’t you?” he inquired. Blushing, I smirked and said, “Yes, in my own way I have always been a bit on the rebellious side.” “I knew it,” he said, “I can tell there is something different about you. It is the divine.” Intrigued, I continued talking to the man trying to decipher if he was speaking in more spiritual terms or if he was referring to The Divine One. He asked me a slew of questions but inquired about them in such a way that it was almost as if he already knew the answers. Bizarre.

No topic was taboo for him and he began to tell me about his immigration from Africa to America. Fascinating. His smile was honest and sincere, his eyes piercing as if he was looking not at my but in me, searching to discover who I am. He then paused as if an epiphany jolted his brain. “You are very well balanced. You are very feminine, but you have a masculine side, which is why you are a rebel. Many people are attracted to you and they think it is sexual, but what they are drawn to is The Great I Am.” Though it was a little awkward to receive (and a bit more awkward to write), I had the answer to my question. This man, who has only interacted with me for five minutes, knew more about me than friends I have known for five years. Unsure of what just happened or what was going to transpire, I looked up at him with a glance of affirmation. His eyes were kind. “Now Michelle, what can I do to add value to your life?”

I had no response, not because I did not know, but because of the depth of the query. “No one has ever asked me that question before,” I told him. “Especially with such genuineness.” “Let me rephrase, what can I share with you that will impact your life?” Again, I was dumbstruck. We continued the conversation and exchanged information so that we could, as he put it “celebrate together” (I’m still not sure what this means). I left the coffee shop with a new friend, but I also left with a profound clarity. Everyday I have interactions with people that contain the ritual pleasantries and life catch-ups on my way to the Campus Center or as I walk the halls of my building, but rarely do they involve such intentionality. Do I take the time out of my day to actually see the people that I talk to? Do I have a positive influence on the people I call my friends? Do I take the time become a part of their story, or do I rely on my knowledge about them to maintain the relationship? What can I offer to bring value to peoples lives and why don’t I ask that question to the people that I care for the most?

I don’t know if I will have another interaction with man from the coffee shop, but I do know that he impacted my life by merely posing the question.

Scuttle was full of Crap

Being a native inlander (if that’s even a word), my exposure to all things beach related was limited to a trip to Galveston when I was four, a trip to South Padre when I was fifteen, and whatever I could garner from watching the Malibu Sands episodes of Saved by the Bell. However, upon my move to Southern California, I quickly learned through a self-guided crash course that the sandy inlets bordering the Pacific Ocean have their own distinct culture.

First of all, for the most part, anything and anyone goes. This is one of my favorite features of the laid back So Cal vibe, and if you’re are brave enough to venture into the wilds of Venice, you will learn the true meaning of the afore mentioned phrase. Secondly, the beach at sunset is breathtaking, but chilly (seriously, bring a jacket). Most of the tourists have gone home and the waves are calming down, so it is the perfect time to grab a good book, a cup of coffee and watch the nighttime creep in over the mountains. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sun sizzle as it kisses the water at the horizon. Third, it’s a great place to people watch, if you’re into that kind of thing, but then again, who isn’t.

Among its delights, there are a few drawbacks to being by the water, that namely being seagulls. Don’t get me wrong, I love animals and even aspire to be a dog owner one day, but in my humble opinion, seagulls are basically vermin with feathers that can squawk. I hate them. . . and with good reason.

Seagulls are portly creatures that lack self-awareness. For example, I was having coffee with a student and out of the corner of my eye I see a white sphere of fowl float down from a rooftop and bow onto the umbrella underneath which we are sitting, above my student’s head, to be exact. Within seconds, I hear the green fabric being to seize and cringe under the weight of the bird. “You better move,” I say to my student who was blissfully unaware of the fate that literally was about to befall her. As we are in the process of relocating ourselves to the neighboring table, the umbrella rips under pressure and the seagull crashes onto the concrete slab. Stunned, it inquisitively looks over at us and then jumps to the ground only to continue its pursuit of gluttony as it waddles over to a trashcan and digs in.

Seagulls are selfish and lack intelligence. They will literally stand in the middle of the road and look at you. Chicken should be renounced and renamed seagull because those little buggars aren’t moving. Can’t they read the signs? The specifically say “Be safe on PCH, share the road.” How rude of them. Even if their almond-sized brain does not allow them the mental capacity to learn how to read, illiteracy is no excuse for poor manners.

Seagulls walk strangely. While most creatures of the animal kingdom have a pleasurable if not simply an amusing gait, a seagull’s stroll harkens to that of a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test. Perhaps it is their enormous bellies that infringe upon their athletic abilities or maybe it is their natural lack of dexterity, but whatever the reason, I find it odd that they can shuffle their feet side to side with the ease of a gazelle, but walking in a straight line posses a challenge for them.

Finally, but most importantly, seagulls lack tact. If you are enjoying a picnic with your pals, a seagull will come and join you without invitation. And, if they want a little sample of what you are nibbling on, they take it without regard for you or your feelings. They cut you off when walking down the sidewalk and carry on loud, screeching conversations their fellow seagulls as if they were one of those people who use speakerphone in public. Plus, one crapped on my shoe while I was running at the beach today and it pissed me off.

Anywho, in the animal world, I am sure they serve some sort of redemptive purpose, and I’m sure they are wonderful creatures once you begin to pull back the layers and discover what happened to them in their lives that makes it okay for them to follow you in hoards as you leisurely saunter in the sand and then peck at your toes when you stick them in the water, but as for me, I’m not buying it. Basically, seagulls rank right up there for me with alligators and Sylvester Stallone movies: unnecessary and nightmare evoking.

I feel much better now that I got that off of my chest.

Wild Kingdom

Well, it's Friday afternoon on the first week of classes and looking back, I am proud to say that it went pretty well. Four successful CLOMs, a minimal three roommate change request came my way, I did talk to two "concerned" (and by that I mean clingy) mothers who had not spoken to their children in three hours and needed a little reassurance that their wee babes were probably off living their own lives and were fine, and only one woodland creature wandered into my hall despite every external door being propped open. Unfortunately, it happened to be a skunk.

Fear not, everyone is fine and no one tried to capture the skunk and keep it as a pet- this time around. However, this incident falls in a long line of encounters with wildlife in my residence halls. Of course you have your run-of-the-mill fish, hamster, hermit crab incidents, and even a puppy once in a while, but I once opened a room door during rounds and through the darkness I saw two red beady eyes reflecting in the light from the hallway. With a quick flip of the light switch, I saw it, a caiman swimming around in a kiddy pool in the middle of the room (I think this incident significantly contributed to my strong phobia of alligators/crocodiles). I have also encountered a family of raccoons that decided that my front porch would now be their living room and would try to attack me every time I would try to go into or out of my apartment. But the one that takes the cake involves a hot summer night and a flying rat.

After going to dinner with some of my friends, we decided to back to the hall and watch a movie in the lobby. After a while I excused myself to go put on my pajamas and started the long trek down the hallway to my room when something quickly buzzed past my head. Startled, I looked around only to see a bat making a u-turn in the middle of the hallway and was headed straight for me. I threw my arms over my head, bolted down the hallway, slammed the lobby door behind me. Safe. "There's a bat out there," my shaky voice eeked out as I pressed myself against the door (as if the bat could push it open so that it could come and get me).

Amanda looked at me with distain and pushed me out of the way to go investigate. Ten seconds later a piercing scream resonated from the hallway and she flashed back into the room. "There's a bat out there," she exclaimed. "I told you," clinging to her as if we were watching slasher flick. Merrell stood up, "This is a job for a man. I'll be back." He strolled down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to size up the competition. Amanda and I found a safe haven in the office, curled up on the desktop with our faces pressed up against the sliding glass ready to watch what was about to unfold. Merrell returned from his room with a pillow case and a hockey stick, gameface on.

Slowly he walked up to the bat, now perched on the neon light on the ceiling, and raised the hockey stick, ready to strike. The bat flapped his wings; Merrell kept it together while Amanda and I collectively cringed. He swung the stick, but the bat would have none of it and flew right passed his head. He screamed so high that only dogs could hear him and ran down the hallway to safety. This went on for twenty minutes; Amanda and I still engrossed in the action. Merrell eventually grew tired and sent for reinforcements. Aldon came out of his apartment with a baseball bat and a second pillowcase, ready to exterminate. The boys decided to turn off the lights so that the bat couldn't see them. I found this funny as bats are blind. In the darkness we heard frightened screams. Finally, Merrell and Aldon had the visitor cornered and were about to swoop it into the pillowcase when Aldon exclaimed, "It touched me, that's so gross, it touched me!" He shook his whole body in disgust and dropped the pillowcase releasing the creature.

Just then, Ashley, Aldon's six-months pregnant wife came hurriedly back from her walk as could hear her husband screaming from two blocks away. "What on earth is going on," she inquired. Amanda and I opened the glass window just wide enough to squeeze our faces through. "There's a bat," we said. "Oh, okay." Ashley went into her apartment and a few seconds later came out with a collapsed cardboard box. She looked at her husband cowering in corner, looked up at the bat, and then down at her husband. Without a word, Ashley raised the cardboard and slammed it against the bat. The only sound was a thud as the bat hit the ground, now struggling to fly away as he flapped his broken wings. She scooped up the bat and catapulted it out the front door to fend for itself in the wilds of the parking lot. "Gone." She went back into her home and closed the door. Merrell and Aldon still stood there in the corner shaking.

I Could Never be a Nomad

Over the course of the past month and a half, I have moved twice. Considering the fact that I lived in the same house until the day I left for college, and then simply rotated around campus (except for the 9 months when I lived in a house off campus) until I made the great trek west to California, I see myself as a moving novice. That being said, I do feel the need to share the lessons I have learned over the course of the past few weeks.

Now that I am pseudo-settled in my new apartment, I have spent at least 15 minutes reflecting upon the process of schlepping my stuff from one place to another and have come up with a top-eight list (I'm too lazy to come up with ten) of things everyone should now about moving:

1) You have way more crap than you need. Seriously, why do I have three sets of silverware, and how come none of them are complete? And four flathead screwdrivers? And a dresser-drawer full of t-shirts that I claim have sentimental value but really just end up crammed in the back and keep the drawers from closing correctly?

2) Despite no. 1, you always have to buy more crap for your new place. Just 'cause everything fit like a puzzle in your old home or looked good doesn't mean it will work in the new place. In fact, you can bank on the fact that it won't. So now you have even more crap than what you started with.

3) Labeling boxes is an exercise in futility. I have discovered that the description "miscellaneous/stuff" is not very helpful when trying to unpack and get settled.

4) Packing, and unpacking for that matter, always takes longer than you think it will. Why, see no. 1.

5) You are going to loose things. How this is possible, I do not know. You would think that putting everything you own into boxes until the whole place is empty, then moving down a hill to an apartment less than a mile away wouldn't be an issue, but for some reason, I cannot find the remote to my DVD player. At least I have my four screwdrivers.

6) Always leave out a pair of scissors or some sort of cutting instrument. You can always opt for using your car keys as means by which to open boxes, but when your car doesn't actually have a traditional key, this proves to be rather difficult.

7) Make friends with people who drive trucks or large vehicles. This one is self explanatory. It also helps to bribe them with a free meal.

8) Everyone is going to have an opinion about how you should arrange your new home. Just be prepared.

And. . . I'm an idiot.

Earlier this summer, I adopted a new mantra: "Screw it, just do it." Since I have decided to start living life a bit more adventurously, a lot of great things have happened to me, including but not limited to making a few big purchases. Approximately three weeks ago, I woke up on Thursday morning and thought to myself, "I'm going to buy a new car today." And that evening, I returned home the proud owner of a black Mini Cooper.

I must admit, zipping around the greater Los Angeles area in my new ride makes me feel pretty B.A. (as my students would put it), especially since parallel parking is no longer an issue. What makes this car even more exponentially cooler than it already is are a few of the features that I didn't even knew it offered. For example, the push-start ignition is customized so that it automatically adjusts the temperature, radio controls, sound settings, ambient lighting, etc. depending upon the key that is used. It has Steptronic shifting so that I can pretend like I know how to drive a standard. And of course, there is my favorite feature, telescopic tilt steering so that I now finally drive a car that I can steer with my knee (this is a big deal for someone of my 5-foot-even stature). That being said, there are a few things that have lent themselves to be a bit problematic. 1) For the life of me, I cannot figure out the blinker. Apparently, a slight tap will set the blinker to flash once, indicating a lane change, and a full tap will actually turn the blinker on. This seems to be too complicated for me to understand as I have yet to been able to detect the difference between the two. 2) I cannot get the stupid hatchback to close correctly. First it won't open, then it won't close, and there's something rattling around back there and I can't figure out what it is and it's driving me crazy. 3) My windshield wipers have a mind of their own. While driving around town today, they just decided to turn on by themselves. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be driving down the street on a cloudless day in Southern California and your windshield wipers are going a mile-a-minute across you window and you cannot figure out how to turn them off? Let me tell you, a lot. There are 9 options for my windshield wipers and they are all German icons so I have no idea what they all mean. And finally 4) remembering which side of the car the gas tank is on (but that's another story for another time).

My friends reassure me that getting rid of the good 'ole Oldsmobile Alero was a good decision, and being that I want to spend most of my spare time speeding through the canyons around Malibu and on PCH, I must agree with them, but at times I wonder if this state of the art German engineering is all that it's cracked up to be. I am a well educated person that has no problem programming the hands-free phone system or navigating the on-board computer, but when it comes to popping the trunk, I'm left scratching my head. Which leads me to my fifth discovery) birds have a radar for finding and defecating on brand new vehicles.

Measure Twice, Cut Once

Gentlemen, I want to use this opportunity to commend you on being the gender charged with the task of initiating conversation with the opposite sex. Seriously, I know it takes a lot of courage to approach a woman and try to impress her in one foul swoop, that being said, just because a lady just happens to be present in the same location you are does not mean that she wants to be hit on. There are several times when a woman may be receptive to your advances like at a party or another social gathering, however, a woman may just want to go about her day and not be looking for love, for example, when buying produce or baked goods, at the gas station, in the emergency room, or when trying to check out a Banana Republic and the cashier. . . well, that's another story for another time. This story is one of the latter occasions.

When I received my bridesmaid dress in the mail for my friend Angela's wedding, I was excited to see that it fit everywhere except for the length. Being a towering 5'0", I'm used to having to hem most of my pants, jeans, etc. myself, but when I realized that I needed to take the dress up 6 inches, I decided this was a job for a professional. After a getting a few referrals, I took the little black dress to a tailor down the street. My first visit to his shop was normal, and when he asked for my phone number I didn't think twice as he said he would call me when my dress was finished.

Two weeks passed and no word about my dress, so I decided to drop in when I was running errands in town one day. I walked in the door and was greeted with, "Oh, I remember you. Black cocktail dress, right?" He grabbed the garment and asked me to try it on. I slipped on the dress and coordinating shoes and stepped out of the dressing room hoping that I would be pleasantly surprised when I looked in the mirror. The reflection was perfect. "That dress fits you in all the right places," he said as he walked up behind me. He began to take his hands and smooth out all of the wrinkles on my gown, and then his hands began to roam to places where there were none. I began to get concerned. "Surely, this guy isn't doing what I think he is doing," I thought to myself, "he's old enough to be my father, or even my grandfather." Nevertheless, I was dutiful and polite (good manners are always in good taste), and complimented him on his work. "Turn around, I need to see you from the front." He grabbed my hand and spun me around on the platform. "This is a great dress for dancing. Do you dance?" He forcefully grabbed my other hand and began to move me about into a little shimmy. "I do go out dancing with my friends from time to time," I replied, wanting to be honest but vague. "You must come out dancing with me. I would love to have you on my arm." "Well, thank you for the invitation, but this dress is for a wedding, not for dancing," I said, hoping he would get the hint. "When the wedding is over, come dancing with me." And then it happened. . . he kissed me. His iron grip on my hands grew even stronger and the old man pulled me into his chest, and as if it happened in slow motion, I turned my head so that his lips landed on my cheek. I squished my fingers through his fists and dashed back into the dressing room.

I changed into my street clothes and regrettably walked over to the counter to pay. I handed him the dress to hang and put in a garment bag. He began asking me a barrage of questions: "Do you live close buy? Do you live alone or with friends? Do you work in the area? Do you model?" "Yes, alone, yes, wait. . . model? You've got to be joking. Okay, this is just plain creepy," I said in my head. I simply responded, "I would like to pay now." "Not until you answer my questions," he said tauntingly holding my dress captive just out of arms reach. "Would you model for me? I will make you clothes and and you can put them on and I will take pictures of you." The dialogue in my mind continued, "This just went from plain creepy to holy crap this guy is going to kill me creepy. Angela better know how much I love her to risk my life for her wedding." I pulled out a card from my wallet and slid the piece of plastic to his side of the counter. "I am not model, but that's very kind of you to say. May I please have my dress?" He picked up the card and said, "Oooh, I like your style." "Please just give me my dress," I desperately said, "I have a lot of errands to run." Finally he surrendered my gown and my credit card and wished me on my way. As I practically sprinted out the door, he called out to me, "Don't forget about the dancing, I've got your phone number."

Immediately I called my one of my friends to relay the bizarre encounter. "It happened again!" I exclaimed, "some creepy old guy hit on me." She simply replied, "Wait, were you at the grocery store again?"

Craig's List: Buyer Beware

Finding a deal on Craig's List may be quite an arduous yet fulfilling, so when Sarah requested that I accompany her into the greater Los Angeles area to buy a couch she came across on the site, I willingly agreed. She picked me up straight from work and off we went, fighting our way through rush hour traffic to a place in which she would not tell me where we were going. Three highways and a dead-end later, we rolled into a neighborhood with more billboards in unknown languages than English. I had no idea where I was and no idea what I would find when we got to where we were going.

Google maps directed us to an unmarked street with a row of apartments. Getting out of the car Sarah led me to the door and timidly reached her hand up to knock. "You do it," she said pulling back her hand and stepping behind me. Laughing, I knocked on the door and was less than greeted by an elderly, non-English speaking woman who promptly shut the door in my face. I knocked again, and explained myself to which she replied by pointing her gnarled finger behind her and again closing the door. Sarah looked at me and I looked at Sarah, puzzled yet intrigued by what was going on. "I'm going to go around the back of the apartment, you can stay here," I told Sarah; she quickly followed behind me. The woman opened the back door and pointed the same finger down the alley. "Thank you," I said, hoping that these would not be the last words I spoke.

As Sarah and I headed down the narrow walkway, I pretended to be self-assured when in my mind I imagined headlines of "Two stupid girls die in Craig's List Couch Caper." We kept walking. And walking. To my left, a tattoo parlor enshrouded in barbed wire, to my right a caged pit bull so large I could put a saddle on it and use it as an alternate form of transportation. And walking. Finally, I hear a language that I recognize and turn to see a woman standing in front of a open garage storage unit. "You're here for the couch?"

Fumbling through a 12x12 space crammed full of unmarked boxes, the woman and her two helpers retrieve a rather less than promising container. As they uncover the plastic wrapped sofa, the woman reassures us that the furniture "came from [her] store that closed down. Bad economy." Unfortunately our timidness continued to grow as she explained that the faux-leather couch could be paid for in cash and delivered the next day. Graciously I tell the woman and her two men that we would think about it and call her back. I grab Sarah by the arm and escorted back to the car. "What do you think," she whispered. "I'll tell you when we get in the car," I replied through the side of my mouth.

We make it back to the car unscathed and I erupt in laughter. "Well, how do you feel about buying stolen furniture," I ask. "If by her store closing down she means it fell off the truck between here and Tijuana, then, yes, I think you should buy it." Sarah smiled and laughed, and then we drove off into the sunset to Ikea (and eventually In-N-Out).

Lesson learned for an aunt to be

So under the advisement of several of my friends, I decided to start blogging back in January, however since then have failed to be inspired to share my life's lessons with the rest of the world. . . until today. Who knew that my inspiration, nay my muse, would come in the form of a four year-old girl?

In an effort to win over my new staff group in our first meeting this evening, I decided to dazzle my RAs with my culinary skills through the making of double chocolate brownies. However, looking at the dismal state of my just relocated pantry, I realized that a box-of-brownies mix would have to do.

With ease I navigated the grocery store and in a self-congratulatory fashion strolled up to the check-out (I never make it out of the grocery store in less than thirty minutes, even for milk). While pulling the items out of my basket I feel a little tug on my pant leg and look down to see a dark-haired little girl with big brown eyes looking up a me with wonderment. "You're buying chocolate, aren't you," she graciously but cautiously squeaked out. "Yes," I replied with a smile.

"You shouldn't buy chocolate, it's not nutritious," the little lady stated confidently, but a bit judgmentally.

My mind started to reel. Thousands of responses flooded my head, some proud of the 4 year-old for being so acutely aware of her surroundings, other horrified that she knows the word and understands the concept of nutritional value before she can successfully tie her shoes. Mostly, I was impressed that she possessed enough gumption at such a tender age to eloquently express herself. She reminded me of myself this way.

As I begin to form the words in my mouth, "You know, you are right," I see the girl open her mouth and take a huge bite out of a chocolate doughnut. What? How dare she parlay her cuteness into a means by which to judge people when she herself is a hypocrite. "Wait," I tell myself, "she's only a child, and kids just repeat what they are told." Calmly I look down into her delicate brown eyes and through my toothy grin say, "Well, sweetheart, you're the one eating a chocolate doughnut."

Her mother grabbed her glaze encrusted hand and walked away. I continued to check-out my groceries and proceed to my car. As I start the engine I reflect upon what just happened and think to myself, "Michelle, you're going to be an amazing aunt."