I forgot to add: that last link was via metafilter. OMG! I'm a real blogger now.

I am painstakingly going through each of The New York Times' 2nd Annual Year in Ideas. They are so interesting, and, OMG! I'm reading The New York Times (see December 25th post).

A cartoon I just drew:

I wish I were a consistent reader of the The New York Times. That's one quality I need in order to secure a spot among the intellectual elite of America. I could link to thought-provoking articles in this blog, and better yet, provide a paragraph or so of my own insightful commentary and critique of the author's thoughts. Soon, word of my astute analyses would spread, and The New York Times would decide that its staff was simply not complete without the contributions of a brilliant blogger such as myself, and it would offer me a job and I'd be famous. Then other bloggers would post links to my articles accompanied by their own comments and critiques. And then I'd have to kill them to get rid of the competition. Just kidding. About the killing part.

OK, just kidding about all of it. And I ask you, WHO am I kidding? The extent of my New York Times knowledge is that I remember to italicize its title.

A couple of months ago, my roommates and I decided we were going to become KNOWLEDGEABLE, damn it, and WORLDLY. So we subscribed to the New York Times. All seven days of it. I mean, we really splurged. And the first couple of days, we giddily brought it in, sat down with it, excited yet solemn. This was serious business. Leah even went to so far as to sit down at the dinner table with her reading glasses and a little pencil to underline the important parts. This lasted for like two days. Soon, Leah's desk, perched by the door, was piled with blue plastic rain-protector bags housing thick rolls of newsprint. Not even looked at, except perhaps for a guilty glance at the headlines every once in awhile.

DAMN IT! I INTENDED to read The New York Times! ALL the cool kids read The New York Times! The New York Times is serious, man. They don't even have COMICS. No "Dear Abby" for The New York Times: its readers already have their lives together. They are the bastions of common sense. They can afford to sit back and read about the latest government scandal in Syria instead of wondering how to deal with their great-niece who never sent them a thank-you note. No "Miss Manners" for The New York Times. Timesies, as I have just now affectionately dubbed them, have no need for such elementary nonsense. They already know the fork with which they are to eat their first appetizer. No "Hints by Heloise" in The New York Times!! Its readers are beyond all that. They have servants who already know the best way to baste a turkey. They can afford to spend lazy Sundays timing themselves on the latest crossword puzzle in The New York Times. I WANT TO BE AMONG THEIR RANKS!!

If I were a reader of The New York Times, I'd know I should end this article with a cathartic conclusion, such as coming to the realization that I truly love my hometown newspaper, the Ventura County Star, its Arts & Living section, its dorky advice columns, its celebrity gossip and all. But I'm not! And I still want to be! I want to be a Timesy, dammit!

I bet I'm the only person in America who got a can of Crider Deluxe Chunk Chicken in her Christmas stocking.

Yesterday, my sister and I took an impromptu road trip to the J. Paul Getty museum in Los Angeles, because her boyfriend and some of his friends were there and she can't bear to be away from him for more than three days. Unfortunately, halfway through the drive to L.A., Bryson called Kirsten's cell and informed her that his buddies (and not him) were all "shrooming" (I have to put it in quotation marks because I'm not in the know.). Anyway, I was all excited and bacheloretted-out at the prospect of meeting five new college guys, but discovering that they were in fact five shrooming college boys was a bit of a disappointment.

Let me emphasize that I am a very pure girl. I've never smoked anything except a turkey; the only tripping I do is the flailing kind in the middle of Los Angeles Union Station. I haven't even touched an alcoholic beverage since a wedding reception in 1998, when I put down my half-sipped champagne glass and a bee flew in it and died. I know the whole drug business isn't a black-and-white issue, and some people can probably use them recreationally and be fine. I mainly stay away from them because, to quote a guy I met on the train last June who was trying to justify why he was gonna get drunk at his sister's going-away party even though he knew that he was "going to regret it tomorrow, man:" "I just got one'a them addictive personalities." I can totally seeing myself getting addicted to marijuana and justifying it by saying that I was just tapping into some higher consciousness that the straight-edge losers totally just could NOT understand. Whatever. I'd rather just not ever have to deal with it.

Anyway, I met a guy named Jeff, who seemed cool despite the fact that he was on hallucinogenic drugs, and we actually ended up having an interesting discussion about drugs in general, shrooms in particular. He said sometimes taking them is like a religious experience. Sometimes while you're on them, the world makes sense; everything falls into place. Some may say that it's not real, just the effects of the drugs; but he disagrees. And what is real, anyway?

I don't know, Jeff. And perhaps I am cynical, because I tend to think that most human experience is filtered through human biology, so of course taking a mildly poisonous plant is going to affect that. And it might affect it in a way that seems positive. Temporarily. But if you pursue this "religious" experience too, well, religiously, then it will destroy you. True, that doesn't mean that no one should try it at all, ever. But we're human, and we're weak and easily tilted off balance; and if there is a God, I'm not sure he'd want us to experience him through a drug that you "stuff in your mouth like popcorn," to quote one of the dudes. It's funny that a lot of those who are anti-establishment, anti a government that is "trying to destroy us"--those who fear the Brave New World "happy pill" type future--are the ones who use the most drugs. Smoke the most pot. To me, those things are today's happy pills, and instead of being stigmatized, they're almost....glorified. Secretly. They're treated like a joke that all the cool kids are in on.

But there's something to be said for experiencing the world as it is, and staying inside the realm of "normal" human experience. Don't quibble with me on the meaning of "normal" here. I mean not drastically and directly affected by various altered chemicals. And I guess it bothers me that some people prefer to "enhance" their life experience through a chemical, especially at a place as beautiful as the Getty museum. If you've never been there, go. Stand on the top balcony and look out over the zigzagging sidewalks and richly-colored rose bushes of the central gardens; Los Angeles scattered through the valley, its skyscrapers like little toys, like legos sticking up towards the south; and on the western horizon, the Pacific ocean, glittering with sunlight, and the Channel Islands rising in the distance. It's breathtaking. On its own.

Yuck

Yesterday, I went over to Loreal's house and we made cookies called peanut butter blossoms. You know, the peanut butter cookies with a big Hershey's kiss parked right in the center. What could have been a fun afternoon pastime was tainted by a disturbing memory of the John Waters lecture I saw two weekends ago. I can no longer look at the word "blossom" without wanting to barf. The reason is...

(WARNING! WARNING! THIS IS REALLY DISGUSTING! READ NO FURTHER IF YOU DON'T WANT TO RUIN PRETTY SPRING FLOWERS AND OTHER FINE THINGS!)

...Waters informed us of a new trend that has formed its own subculture in the gay community. Apparently, "blossoms" are a word for guys who have been fisted so many times....

(DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KEEP READING??)

...that their bumholes are now inside out. And they compete to see who has the most...er...pronounced blossom. They trade pictures of their intricate little thingies. Like baseball cards. "It's true!" said John Waters. "Look it up!"

So you can see why a cookie called Peanut Butter Blossom wasn't particularly appetizing to me (even if I did eat sugar). But, you know, I think John Waters may have been pulling a fast one on us, because, um, my roommates and I did look it up on google and didn't find anything. Hmm.

Sorry, gigantic red Dodge pickup, but your huge raised wheels, your booming sound system, and your sprayed-on orange flames do not make the "To Hell and Back" slogan painted above your bumper at all intimidating if Looney Toons characters are painted right next to it.

The Most Interesting Post Ever

Hello, wide readership. I tidied up the place a bit, so that it doesn't look like an old abandoned warehouse anymore. I also added links to my twin sister's weblog, my cousin's weblog, and my pal's weblog. The last one actually hasn't been updated for three months; I just added it to make myself look more popular.

Earlier this afternoon, I accompanied Kirsten and Bryson in choosing a Christmas tree. Our first attempt was foiled when it abruptly began to rain as we made our way to the tree display at Home Depot. We girly-shrieked (even Bryson!) and skedaddled back to our respective cars, vowing to return "another day." Five minutes after we left the parking lot, it stopped raining. I'd forgotten how moody the California weather god can be; either that, or I brought a little of Chicago home with me. So, we returned to Home Depot, chose the first tree we encountered, and left again. Not terribly romantic, but hey, efficient enough.

May I just interrupt this blog for a moment to declare one thing: I HATE human spit. Animal spit less so, although I am not one of those people who will smile amiably while a dog slobbers all over their legs. I can tolerate it under certain circumstances, however, as animals generally don't know any better. Humans should, though. I cannot express the disgust that arises in me when I hear the "hhhwwwock" of someone suctioning their mucus to the back of their throat and the "thwup" of the long whitish comet flying out of their mouths and onto the pavement. Oh, good god GROSS.

That said, my second-worst saliva-related pet peeve involves spit-out sunflower-seed shells. Some may counter that my opinion is uneducated and unfair, as I don't even LIKE sunflower seeds and therefore cannot understand the joy of littering the ground with those damp speckled bits of crunch. But I would counter that it's not even an opinion, simply an instinctual revulsion at have to tread on other people's see-food. I don't think that's so unreasonable. I hate not being able to walk without shoes in the park without the shells lining the bottoms of my feet; I hate having them projectiled into my hair by an insensitive passerby; and I hate having to wade through knee-deep piles of them in baseball stands. BARF! IT'S NOT A GREAT AMERICAN PASTIME, IT'S JUST NASTY.

So, anyway, I had to deal with Kirsten's boyfriend spitting the seeds of doom at me because I appeared visibly grossed out by them. But I survived. Then I drove to Trader Joe's, healing my three-month withdrawal. I bought some Stargazer Lilies. Then I went home.

The high point of my day, however, was watching the first half of Sleepless in Seattle. The high point of my evening will be watching the second half of Sleepless in Seattle. I have every line memorized. I know facial expressions and little scriptual subtleties by heart. But nothing is as good as watching the real thing for the 1,174th time. Over the summer, when I was really depressed, I used to visualize various scenes from that movie in my head. It's so good-natured, good-hearted, and idealistic. Like I want to be.

My whole family is here. My dad is sleeping upstairs; my mom is puttering around the kitchen, cleaning out the cupboards; and my sister and Bryson are on the futon in the family room, looking at our senior-year yearbook. I guess this is home. This is my home. This is my life. Strange to think that these are the cards I was dealt.

My mother just came in and read the previous paragraph over my shoulder. "What are you going to say about the cards you were dealt?" she asked. "Usually when you talk about 'cards you were dealt,' you're talking about a bad thing." I don't think my hand is bad at all; on the contrary, I am incredibly lucky. But at the same time, looking at my life objectively, it's hard to appreciate what I have because...I think it's just all so random. I could just as easily have been born on a mountain in Tibet, you know? And I would have lived differently and had different experiences but they still would have been mine. Does this make any sense whatsoever? Sometimes I feel this so strongly that I don't appreciate anything at all. I don't consider anything in my life sacred, because I feel like if my circumstances were different--even if I'd been born in the same family but, like, in Vermont--I'd still have met a bunch of people whom I liked, and lived my life, and it would have been fine. I don't appreciate people for being who they are sometimes. I just appreciate them insofar as they happened to enter my life at a particular moment in time. In other words, rarely have I thought, "I would choose the same experiences, make the same mistakes, live my life the same way over again, just because it led me to this person or that experience." Because if I'd made a different choice at some point, it would have led me to an experience that would have been just as valid. You know?

I'm sure this is clear as mud. Anyway, I know I over-analyze. Really, I feel quite content right now. My whole family is here, my animals are here, the heater is purring, and we have more than enough to eat. I bought a new sweater today, long, striped, with fake fur lining--my sister called it "funky, the kind of sweater you wear with hoop earrings and boots"--and I played Scrabble and scored 54 points on the word "zygote." Things are good. I'm going to watch Boogie Nights now.

I'm typing from my dad's computer, in our pink-stucco house, in Oxnard, in California--far, far away from Chicago, Illinois. Damn, it feels good to go outside without a coat on.

Everything has seemed strange and dreamlike since I returned. That's perhaps because I've gotten a total of about ten hours of sleep over the past three days, and perhaps because I sped through a strange-and-dreamlike book, Sophie's World, during the train ride. Regardless, it feels like reality has tilted a bit since the summer. I don't feel like I've been away, exactly. I just feel like my life is happening...in strange layers, rather than linearly. The California times touch hands, summer to winter; and the Chicago times are linked to each other, too--and my two lives run perpendicular to each other. And it doesn't make sense that things have shifted a bit, since it seems only yesterday that I last sat at this computer, typing my fears about returning to school.

Well, okay, I'm trying to sound all philosophical and shit when the main reason I'm freaked out is that it seems like my cats got ENORMOUS while I was gone. What the hell have they been eating? They're like hairy three-year-olds.

I Should Be Taking This More Seriously:
So, Lucas drove me to Chicago Union Station, and we began scouting out a parking place. "Ah!" he said. "There's one!" He began to parallel park. It was too small, so he started to pull out. The taxi behinds us starts to pull out at the exact same instant, speeds up as if it's trying to go around us, and then abruptly slams on its breaks. Lucas mutters expletive, assuming taxi stopped because it saw us, and steps on gas. SUDDENLY BIG MACK TRUCK APPEARS BESIDE TAXI AIMING DIRECTLY FOR PASSENGER SIDE (I.E. ME!)!! BRAKES SCREECH! MACK TRUCK HONKS! DANIELLE SAYS, "Oh my God!" We make it across the street.
I realize that this is the third time I've almost gotten into a fatal car accident in the last six months. Pondering this, I turn to Lucas and say, "You know, it's events like this which just reinforce my belief that I'm invincible."

I miss my sis. She's coming home tomorrow, with her BOYFRIEND (exaggerated schoolchild-like intonation).

Problems with the template, y'all. You'll just have to suffer through mediocrity till I'm done with my human development final.

New template, y'all. I hope that picture shows up eventually, or geocities is gonna go DOWN.

When Not To Argue

Few things are worse than when you show an unflattering photograph of yourself to someone and say, "Augh, that's such a horrible picture of me!" and they reply, "What?! No it's not, it's a GREAT picture!!"

Okay, I am so setting my own record for number of posts in a day, but I just have to write about this because it's so hilarious. My cousin Kristi sends out a Cummings family newsletter every week. Apparently, my mother decided to temporarily emerge from her self-imposed cave and contribute something about our family, and here are her blurbs about me and Kirsten:

"Kirsten is doing some modeling, the Vegas job was to represent a head lamp company at an auto convention. She is on one of their posters. The same company flew her to Atlanta last month.

Danielle will be coming home for Christmans via train about the l4th of Dec. Kirsten will be coming a few days later and bringing her boyfriend for a few days, whom we all like very much.

Danielle is much happier this year with new roommates. She and one of them stayed there (Chicago) for Thanksgiving and cooked a 20 pound turkey."


Gee, so much news about Kirsten...modeling, trip to Atlanta, beloved boyfriend...but what to say about Danielle? What is a representative example of the excitement in her life? Oh, I know!

P.S. It was 25 lbs, I'll have you know!

Important
My roommates are self-starters. Burcu, for example, who's one of the most beautiful people I've ever met, informed me that every guy she's ever seriously dated, she's asked out herself. Not so with Leah, another of them beautiful people, but she asks guys out regardless, and generally has a good time. Neither has ever had a serious boyfriend, but they're workin' it. You know, networking. Whereas when I like a guy, my idea of flirting is to say, "Hey, you need to add a comma to the end of that parenthetical phrase," while I'm copy-editing at the Maroon, go home all giddy because OMG I actually TALKED to a guy, and then wonder why I never get a date.

My roommates also are willing to date semi-unattractive guys who ask them out. Whereas when I sense that a guy I'm not attracted to is about to ask me out, I freeze like a five-year-old caught stealing Halloween candy two days early, and squeak, "Well, jeepers, look at the time! Gotta go meet my husband at the grocery store!" and hightail it outta there.

So, when I like a guy, I get all giggly-schoolgirl and can't talk to him. When I don't like a guy who likes me, I get all stiff and terrified and refuse to talk to him. What I need is for a guy I really like to pursue me. But then, let's face it, I'd probably lose interest immediately. I suck. Quandary! Help, soulmate needed!

Binge-blogging

I'm really on a roll today! I must have two finals to study for!

Survey Question: When you reach an intersection while walking and the light is already green in the direction you're going, do you:
a) Go ahead and saunter across the street, speeding to a trot if the light happens to turn orange while you're smack-dab in the middle;
b) Decide to wait until it turns to red and back to green again, and, hey, look, there are some roses to smell!
or
c) Whirl up your mind into a frenzy of indecision, hesitating just long enough so that two steps after you finally decide to risk it, the light turns orange and then OMG red and you have to run backwards really fast so that you don't get hit by like 20 oncoming cars?

Anyone?

Twins

Everyone who reads my weblog should surf, dude, over to "She's Melting," written by my other half. Hey Kirsten, think you can handle the bandwidth taken up by my massive readership? Prepare yourself for fame.

Sorry, Hyde Park Co-Op, calling toilet paper, "bath tissue," does not make you any more high-class.

Just got back from the Movieside Film Festival. We sat through an hour of avant-garde short films--some funny, some that were most effectively parodies of themselves--and then sat through another hour of the stand-up comedy act ("lecture") of Mr. John Waters. He's hilarious. I will be renting all of his movies sooner than later.

But the real reason we sat on the scary el for half an hour, trudged through the arctic to get to the Biograph Theater, and waited in line for a ridiculous amount of time (and the people behind us were like SO CUTTING) was to see a drag king troupe called the Chicago Kings. Leah and I intended to induct Burcu and her semiboyfriend Karl into their world, and they entered most willingly. We all have such huge crushes on the Chicago Kings. But they don't know we exist. HEARTACHE!
LISTEN, KINGS! Just because I have seventy-five dollars worth of makeup on my face, curling spray in my hair, and Victoria's Secret Strawberries & Champagne perfume on my clothes, doesn't mean I wouldn't make out with any one of you! AUGHH! Don't get me started on the Chicago Kings! After the show, I was surrounded by them as I walked up the aisle, and I wanted to turn around and say, "Omigod, you guys are SO AWESOME!" but I couldn't even do that. AGH! CRY! ANGUISH! AWKWARD ADOLESCENCE!!

Now I'll crawl into bed after spending an hour waiting for the 55 bus outside the Red Line stop, and wait for the feeling to return to my ears, and listen to my cat play with a plastic bag, and think about how cool the Chicago Kings are.

Something I Wonder

About an hour ago, Leah and I were sitting around in the dining room when we heard Burcu call, "Hey you guys, c'mere!" I thumpathumped down the wood hallway and we stuck our heads out the open window. A procession of people in winter coats was walking down Woodlawn Avenue, carrying signs that said, "WAR IS NOT AN OPTION!" and "SHED NO BLOOD" and "PEACE NOW" and they were chanting something about war and peace, and it just kept going, there were so many people, until finally it was tail-ended by a man walking a white terrier wearing a Christmas sweater. Finally, shivering, we pulled down the window. I ruminate--do I feel this tugging me towards it because I am opposed to the war on Iraq, or because they have a passion when I long for one, or because I want people to stick their heads out of open windows and follow me with their wide-open eyes?

Bad-Ass Timing
About a week ago, I spotted Jose standing by the kitchen table, his head bent over the book he was reading. I decided that this would be an opportune time for a run-by butt-smack. So I dashed toward him and SWACK! hit my target. But he just stood there. No reaction. Then I heard Burcu say, "Danielle, you're a dumbass" and I realized that Jose was actually singing a Hannukah hymn over the fourth menorah candle he'd just lit, his head bowed in praise to the Lord. OMG!

Why I Hate Reader's Digest

About 10 years ago, I got really into Reader's Digest. I thought it was high-quality intellectual reading and by poring through its articles on sextuplets and 10 quick ways to lose 10 lbs I was really hitting the big time. My grandparents would have copies upon copies lying around, and every summer when I'd visit them I'd curl up on their bed and read and reread them. In particular, I loved and loathed the articles about car accidents, which drew me to them like, well, car accidents. There was one about teenagers who'd died because they hadn't been wearing their seatbelts, one about teenagers who'd died because, well, it happens, and one about the five most dangerous highways in the United States. This last one TERRIFIED me. I was CERTAIN that each day would end with our van tumbling off some windy Wyoming mountain road before it could be tacked on their next issue with an "OOPS! Sorry about the omission!" The worst part about that article is that it contained little vignettes about those who'd died on these dangerous highways, and here's the one that stands out most clearly in my memory:

Neighbours Sandy Johnson and Diana Ostrowski left their houses one morning, planning to have a picnic in the park with their young children, Sally and Rebecca. Sandy balanced a picnic basket with a red and white checkered towel over it in one hand and her toddler Sally in the other. Sally was singing "Jesus Loves Me" as they entered their car. None of them realized that this merry morning would be their last, as they would crash head-on into a pick-up truck carrying an elderly couple returning from church. All would die, turning this sunny, happy Sunday into an inferno of doom.

OK, I made most of that up except for the toddler singing "Jesus Loves Me," the mental image of which made me want to crawl under the covers and sob and outlaw cars. But I'd read this story at least four times before the thought hit me--"How did they KNOW that she was singing 'Jesus Loves Me'? Everyone who was there DIED!" I decided that a neighbor must have overheard as he watched them enter their vehicle of death.
However, I was just thinking about it, and had an epiphany...
THE ASSHOLES MADE IT UP!

Why Burcu is Funny

I was chatting with her on the couch about weblogs and how no one read mine, when I shyly asked her, "Do you want the address?"
She thought for a minute. "Nah."