Wild turkeys on the highway.

Yesterday was ridiculous. There's really no way to explain it other than to just start typing.

My cousin was driving me into Boston to meet up with Small Asian Friend for an evening of long overdue festivities. Cousin's two kids (7 and 3) were in the backseat (adorable blue eyed children, I should add), being hilarious in the way only kids can be, when we pulled up next to a van at a stoplight. I have no clue how the van's driver was able to stay on the road the way her two hands were occupied. She had a cigarette in her left hand and an inhaler in her right hand. While at the stoplight, she alternated taking puffs of the cigarette with taking puffs from the inhaler. This is not a joke. The woman was literally killing her lungs with her left hand and then trying to breathe better using her right hand. Oh, did I mention the van had the words SCHOOL BUS on top of it? Well, it did. At least there were no kids in the van/bus. I was tempted to roll down my window and ask if I could sneak a puff, then see if she got confused as to which item I wanted to borrow.

We pulled away from the light and continued down the busy road for a bit. This road, you should know, was no small fry- it was Route [some #] and had a few lanes of traffic in each direction. After a few minutes Cousin says, "look, kids," and points out the left side of the car. I look for the object of her attention and see the largest wild bird I've ever seen in real life, trotting along the grass median. Yes, this bird was on the median in between the two directions of traffic. I was absolutely astonished. I asked Cousin what it was, thinking it might be a peacock whose ornate tail was detached in an unfortunate hit and run. She told me it was a turkey and looked at me a little oddly, as if I were a fool to not know a wild turkey when I saw one. It seems wild turkeys, while somewhat of an oddity here in LA and in NY, are fairly run of the mill out in the suburbs of Boston. Who knew? I must admit seeing a turkey out in the wild, just doing its thing, made me feel slightly guilty about consuming a turkey sandwich nearly every day. But only slightly. I have to be realistic. Subway's $5 foot longs are such great value for the money, I just can't say no.

Last night I went out on the town with some college friends. I wore a plaid flannel button down somewhat flowy shirt (apparently plaid flannel is back in) but became concerned halfway through the night that I might look too much like a lumberjack in the club's dark mood lighting. In order to solve the problem, and boost my self-esteem, Small Asian Friend decided to approach assorted club-goers at random, and ask them whether I looked like a lumberjack. If an individual responded in the negative, Small Asian Friend would tell me, "see? You look great!" If the person said yes, I did look like a lumberjack, Small Asian Friend would jump in with, "But a hot lumberjack, right?" and usually the person would respond affirmatively. This did nothing to assuage my concern, but it did provide some entertainment. I am confident, however, that I did sweat off a few pounds wearing the flannel shirt. A word of caution: think twice before wearing flannel out when you anticipate shaking your groove thang on the dance floor. It creates a real hot mess.

I am old enough to pump gas.

I was riding in the passenger seat this morning when my mom pulled into the trusty Mobile station across from our temporary living accommodations. I, being a fantastically helpful daughter, hopped out of the car to fill 'er up (and test the limits of my new stoplight red down vest). I was about 5 gallons down, 7 to go, when a Mobile attendant bolted out the mini mart door and made his way towards me. "Excuse me, are you 17?" Who, me? In the stoplight red vest? Whose fingers are likely frozen to the damn gas nozzle because that contraption that's supposed to lock it in place is broken? Breathe. That's not his fault. Be civil. I replied. "Am I 17? [obviously shocked he could have dreamed up a number so low] I'm 24." He smiled goofily (I don't care that it's underlined, I'm declaring it a word), and said, "Ah, stay the way you are." Then he walked away. I was forced to relay the contents of our interaction to my mom and cousin sitting in the car. They thought it was a real hoot. Yeah, a reeeeal hoot.

Tonight I was reminded of the genius that is Dana Carvey (thanks, brother). Check out his political personality impressions here. Two thumbs up, holiday fun at its finest.

Baby, it's cold outside.

It really is. According to weather.com, the temperature outside my window right now is 30 degrees, and it supposedly feels like 20. I walked into my place of accommodations this evening and cranked the thermostat up to 75. My mom made me turn it down about 15 minutes later, saying it felt like a sauna. I don't understand what's bad about that. When it feels like 20 degrees outside, I don't mind it feeling like a sauna inside. Saunas are quite comfortable on a chilly winter night. I mean, people voluntarily enter saunas every day - even when it's hot outside. Given the choice between sleeping in a sauna and sleeping under conditions conducive to frostbite development, I'll likely choose the sauna, and I certainly will tonight.

Ok, enough about the weather.

Today I realized babies are really smart. Well, at least as smart as those dogs Pavlov kept. I was standing outside an adorable baby girl's hospital room when I came to this realization. (Don't worry, I am not a creepy baby-in-the-hospital stalker. I was actually visiting someone whose room was right next door, and I was told to wait in the hallway while the doctor was in the room.) Anyhoo, the baby's room was right across from the nurses' station, and as soon as she started crying, the nurse would walk over to the open door, throw on a mask, gloves, and one of those smock things, and enter the baby's room, talking in a soothing high-pitched voice. The baby would stop crying and start smiling as soon as the nurse entered the room. The nurse would stay in there for a few minutes, telling Baby Girl she should go back to sleep, and then leave the room. Upon leaving the room, she would remove the smock, gloves, and mask, and toss them into the "soiled linens" basket. As soon as the nurse made her way back to the station, Baby Girl would begin to cry again. The nurse repeated the same routine four times during the 20 minutes I was in the hallway, taking a new smock, new gloves, and a new mask each time Baby Girl started to cry. Baby Girl had the nurse wrapped around her chubby little baby finger. All she wanted was some attention. And boy, did she get it. What a smart kid.

In other news, I was told today that I don't look a day over 18. I am 24 and three-quarters. (And no, I do not think it's juvenile to tack on "and three-quarters." It's just more precise. I enjoy precision.) I suppose this is supposed to be a compliment, but do I really want to look like a high school senior when I start life as a lawyer? I guess, if nothing else, it will psyche out opposing counsel. They'll think it's Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, and then I will knock their socks off with my vast knowledge of the Commerce Clause and the elements of a negligence cause of action. They'll never see it coming. I'll be my firm's secret weapon. Sneak attack. Boo-yah.

After twilight.

I awoke this morning to find an email announcing the midnight Twilight DVD release party that will be taking place at my local Borders store this Saturday. Nothing like a bunch of goth kids crowding a book store on a Saturday night, swapping vampire fantasies. Apparently, the party starts at 10pm, and the DVD will "officially" be released at midnight. I erased the email quickly so as to not seem like a Twilight freak if someone at the law school happened to hack into my gmail account today and come across the party announcement. Now, I have to admit I got totally sucked in (no pun intended) by the books (thanks, sister), but I just can't understand the movie craziness. I mean, are these kids who probably saw the movie more than once when it was in theaters really going to collect their shrink wrapped copies at midnight, then have their parents pick them up at their local Borders, and go home and watch the thing before bed? Maybe it's all about the lasting friendships that will be formed during those two hours - the black nailpolish that will be shared and the fake fangs that will be passed back and forth among the group of teenagers as they froth at the mouth.

(Good thing I'm hopping on a plane to Boston tomorrow morning; my absence from town Saturday night has saved me from actually deciding how early to show up to this thing to ensure I get a cool Twilight bracelet.)

Moving on. Yes, I am jetting off to Boston tomorrow. Joy to spring break! If only I remembered how to dress in 40-degree weather, my suitcase might not weigh 70lbs. I must sleep now, so as to best prepare myself for five hours of in-flight television (go Virgin America), but one last thought before I go: E! needs to find a new late-night movie to air. I've seen parts of Happy Gilmore every day for the past week. And while I am now strangely confident in my ability to sweep the fairways with the entire roster of LPGA ladies, I have finally reached the point where Bob Barker doesn't even make me laugh anymore. Sigh.

Horrifying postscript: I googled "twilight," and one of the "searches related to twilight" suggestions that came up at the bottom of the page was "blood and chocolate." Gosh, I hope that's a book title. I am thoroughly repulsed.

The talk of the town.

I turn now to the conversation I had Friday night - my reason number 2 for creating a blog yesterday. Prepare yourselves; this is a deeper topic than I should endeavor to comment on so early in my tenure here on blogspot, but I promise more light and fluffy topics later.

I was at a party with law students (control your yawns, please) when the subject of Chris Brown and Rihanna came up. This story has been all over the news for the past few weeks, and even before the party, I was having trouble dealing with the way the media has handled it. The man I was talking to at the party basically said Chris Brown is a disgusting person and should be locked up. Fair enough. Then, someone else piped in and said, "Rihanna is just as bad for going back to him." Just as bad? Pause. Raise eyebrows. Really? Sure, she's setting an incredibly poor example for her young fans as well as the millions of women who are themselves victims of domestic violence. But how can we sit back and blame Rihanna for what appears to be a blatant example of what women with battered women's syndrome experience every day? Both of these individuals need help. Judging Rihanna for "forgiving" him just feeds the cycle.

Yes, Rihanna's abuse has taken place on a much larger stage, before a much larger audience than the millions of other domestic abuse victims in our country, and yes it is horrible to see two people whose careers and personas influence so many embroiled in such a tumultuous relationship; however, this story could have helped the less famous abuse victims begin to fight back. I think the media has gone about this horribly wrong, in framing Chris Brown as an anomaly. It has treated him as a wayward youngster, in need of anger management classes, and time away from his lady to rehabilitate himself. The media has not, so far as I have seen, done anything productive to showcase this relationship as illustrating the huge problem we have in this country with domestic violence- to show victims they are not alone, and that they can (and should) get help. Oprah and Tyra Banks both discussed the topic on their talk shows during the height of the media coverage of the Chris Brown-Rihanna story, but neither of their websites (homepages) so much as mentions domestic abuse today, just a few weeks later.

One in four women will experience domestic violence during her life. ONE in FOUR! Why, then, do we only see it when a celebrity is a victim? (And if this statistic is to be believed, then many other celebrities are suffering from domesic abuse, but they have not been spotlighted in the way Rihanna has.) As sad as this story is, it should not be shocking news. And as upsetting as it is to see Rihanna return to her abuser, she is certainly not "just as bad" as he is. She needs help. He needs help. And we need to stop talking about them as if they are the only people alive involved in this sort of relationship.

Today, I start a blog (and use lots of commas).

Before blogs, I'm not sure there was a method of expression that so perfectly combined narcissism and voyeurism. Well, except maybe E! True Hollywood Stories. But then, the people whose stories are told on E! are usually warranted in being self-obsessed. Bloggers, on the other hand, have less reason to believe that people out there will want to read their commentary and everyday observances. But that is where voyeurism comes in. I know I am an ordinary person, with a fairly pedestrian life, whose musings are only worth as much as the next girl's; however, I am publishing this blog for you. I publish to feed the hunger you people have for reading about other humans, for feeling connected to others, and for believing that there are other people out there who are just as neurotic, absurd, and - well - opinionated as you are.

I should also state here that I'm starting this blog today for two reasons: 1) it is a cloudy Saturday in LA, and I'm waiting for the sun to come out so I can run and work on my tan at the same time; and 2) because of a conversation I had last night. Stay tuned.

One more thing: in case you are wondering, I am holding a mini leather-bound U.S. Constitution in the picture to the right. My excitement at receiving such a gift during the 2008 holiday season should be apparent.