Rubik’s Cubes: A Game For Bionic Geniuses?

Things to accomplish in this lifetime:

1) Become besties with Jennifer Aniston. (We’re slowly but surely getting there. I’m convinced Jen’s hairdresser’s niece reads this blog. Yes, Memos to Myself is getting BIG TIME.)

2) Eat a piece of cheesecake and like it. (I’m really not sure what the point of a dessert is if there’s no chocolate involved. Cheese as a dessert? Really, people? Really?)

3) Beat my older brother…at anything. (This might possibly be the hardest challenge on my list to date because the man is a bionic genius…and I didn’t make that up. Someone actually referred to my brother as “a bionic genius” once. This obviously lead me to believe I was adopted.)

4) Solve a Rubik’s cube like this guy:

In an effort to cross #4 off my list, I did some research on the Rubik’s cube and found the following directions titled, “5 Simple Steps to Solving a Rubik’s Cube.”

1. Use the centers as a guide. Put the white pieces around the white center, and put the red pieces around the red center.

2. Try to find each piece on the Rubik’s Cube and decide where it belongs before making random turns.

3. Solve layers, not faces. If you get a face, try to get the side edge around the face to match in color.

4. Break and fix. You can break apart certain groups, and fix them in a certain way to accomplish your goals (note he’s not suggesting that you actually break the cube, rather break the sequence of colors).

Umm, what? I’m sorry, did you just confuse me with Good Will Hunting? Contrary to popular belief, I’m not Rain Man’s sister. Given that I don’t even understand the directions, I think I’ll stick to writing, thank you very much.

Forget #4, let’s move on to #3 on my list: beat older brother. Bionic Genius, you better watch out. I’ve been reading “The Economist” cover-to-cover and doing non-girly push-ups at the gym for the past few months in preparation. I think I’m ready: I officially challenge you to a thumb war. Bring it!

 

 

 

Pilates & The Potty Mouth

In an effort to reshape my body to look exactly like Jennifer Aniston’s, I’ve taken up Pilates. (Yes, I know…how very Gwyneth of me.) For those of you who aren’t familiar with Pilates, it’s basically like yoga…except instead of seeing tight-clothed women doing poses on the floor, you see them being stretched and contorted while attached to machines resembling medievil torture devices. That, in a nutshell, is Pilates.

So I was in class last week, trying to follow my instructor’s orders of “focusing on my core, breathing smoothly, and maintaining a neutral spine.” This while attempting to uphold some sense of dignity as I winced through one uncomfortable position to the next. Let’s just say it was not going well.

“If sixty-five year old Patrick Swayze can do this, then so can I, goddamnit!” I was thinking to myself when we started the final series of advanced poses. I looked over and saw the three other women in my class moving effortlessly, their limbs gracefully extended. I, on the other hand, looked like a bull in a china shop: beads of sweat running down my temples, face red with exersion. And then it happened – a snap, crackle and finally a pop in my lower back.

“Motherf*cker!”

And then there was silence. Heads turned. Mouths gaped. Had I just yelled a vulgar obscenity in a place where you have to take your shoes off at the door to respect the space’s zen-like quality?? Shit, I had.

And so goes my Pilates adventures and my quest to have Jennifer Aniston’s taut triceps. I have a feeling I might be banished to the Pilates timeout corner tonight for not using my words.

We Are The Hokies

As you go to bed this evening, please consider taking part in “Hokie Hope” day tomorrow in honor of all who lost their lives earlier this week. On Friday, wear your Orange and Maroon in support of the Virginia Tech community.

“We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness … We are the Hokies.”

– Nikki Giovanni, University Distinguished Professor, poet, activist

“Is This Thing On???” and Other Stories From the Blackberry Blackout

It’s official…the apocalypse has come. Late last night, a system failure at Research In Motion caused millions of Blackberry users in the Western Hemisphere to ask, “What the hell? Is this thing ON???” That’s right – all was quiet on the email front for hours on end while email traffic was completely interruped by some serious system gliches.

In New York City, businessmen were seen hunting down pigeons in Central Park, tying cocktails napkins with handwritten notes to the birds’ feet, and releasing them into the air while yelling, “MUST COMMUNICATE WITH MY BROKER!”

Socialites were using morse code in overcrowded, boisterous nightclubs. College students desperately sent out MySpace Bulletins to keep in touch with their friends. In DC, Senators and Congressmen resorted to the traditional use of human Pages to run across the city with memorized memos drifting in ther heads…a few bystanders even spotted some youngsters jogging with briefcases handcuffed to their wrists.  (And you thought that only happened in “Spies Like Us…”)

And finally, poor Jessica Simpson sat at Mr. Chow’s, repeatedly pressing her Blackberry’s “Send/Receive” button, thinking, “…………..”

Dear god, what is the world coming to??????

(PS – the “Englightening Quote of the Week” contest is coming to a close…get your funny-ass comments in before it’s too late!)

My Search for a Real Genius

I love my readers. Why? Because they’re smarties.

A lot of you have already emailed me about my latest blog feature, offering up some hysterical suggestions – and for that, I love you. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about… take a gander at the right side of the page and you’ll see what I like to call my new “Enlightening Quote of the Week” feature. Basically, I just wanted to give you all yet another reason to check back frequently and visit us here at Sticky Notes. Each week, I’ll be posting yet another meaningful movie and/or TV quote that has somehow touched me.

The inaugural quote currently showcased is dedicated to my brother who introduced me to the hilarity of the movie “Real Genius” when we were kids. If you have yet to see this movie, I must first ask you what the hell you were doing in 1985…then I must tell you to go Netflix it immediately. It’s a real comic gem and worth prioritizing in your queue over “Happy Feet.” It also features a young, virile Val Kilmer pre “Top Gun” who, in the movie, sports some of the best tee-shirts around.

Speaking of teeshirts, I’ll think about sending you one if you submit the funniest movie quote in your comments. Yes, I’m asking for audience participation here. If you come up with the most uproarious, side-splitting, I just had coffee come out of my nostrils quote, I’ll possibly sending you one of the following duds. C’mon…don’t you want to walk around on a Sunday with one of these beauties on??? (Okay, maybe not. But it’s the thrill of victory, right?)

PS – if you don’t get the teeshirt on the top left, we need to have a talk….because that movie, my dear friends, made me what I am today.

“Lu-cas! Lu-cas! Lu-cas!”

It’s April! Have Some Cheesy Goodness…

April is special and I’m not just saying that because April Fool’s Day, Friday the 13th and Earth day are all inhabitants of this fantastic Spring month. I’m saying that because, above all else, April is National Grilled Cheese Sandwich Month. (Meanwhile, I’d like to personally thank whomever had the foresight to designate an entire month in honor of this special cheesy delicacy. )

To state the obvious: I’m Grilled Cheese’s number one fan. Spongy bread enveloping gooey Kraft Singles makes my heart go pitter pat. There’s nothing like a little GC to get over a bad day, a crushing heartbreak, a wicked cold, and most importantly, a nasty hangover. Not to mention I lived off those little cheesy devils for four years in college. Greasy little suckers.

Therefore, I was completely devastated to learn I had missed my chance to attend the 4th 2nd Annual Grilled Cheese Invitational on February 24th in LA.

Those lucky enough to take part in this groundbreaking tradition were welcomed with the following mission:

“While anyone is welcome to sign up and compete, only the few, the proud, the winners will be able to raise their cheese and butter speckled fists to the angry sky above and scream, ‘I am a Fucking Grilled Cheese Champion™!’”

Wow.  That gave me more goosebumps than the Braveheart speech.

After perusing some first-hand accounts of this year’s event, including one from the participating team, Cheesus Christ, I came across a description that will change my life forever. By the grace of God, one incredibly talented baker took it upon herself to create a “three-tier wedding cake made of over seventy grilled-cheese sandwiches, ‘iced’ with Mother Nature’s perfect food, E-Z Cheeze, and topped with a Peep bride & groom.”

I just teared up a little with overwhelming pride. Here’s hoping this Grilled Cheese Maestro is available in the Fall of ‘08 for the infamous (and never to be forgotten) Memos Wedding.

Because nothing says I love you like a little cheesy goodness…

 

Gays and Gas Guzzlers

Can a man be identified as a homosexual if he:

a) drives a Mazda Miata

b) has a license plate that reads, “CREBRAL”

c) gestures wildly while giggling into his blue tooth as Coldplay’s, “Fix You” blares from his car stereo

d) all of the above

This is the question my fiance and I were debating after driving next to a man fitting this description a few nights ago. Just because a man drives a (cough, cough, sissy) Mazda Miata…does that make him gay? Just because a man chooses to advertise the size of his large brain (cough, cough, small penis) by sporting a CREBRAL license plate…does that make him gay?

In an article published today, The New York Times attempts to answer those questions while investigating whether certain attributes of a car make it more appealing to homosexuals. According to Ramone Johnson, a gay journalist and former Saturn engineer, “soft lines” and a “vibrant personality” (AKA: the VW Beetle) are components gay men are most attracted to in a car.

After reading the article, I was intrigued. To better understand the preferences of a homosexual man in the market for a new automobile, I decided to go straight to a trusted source: my phenomenally fantastic gay friend, “Don,” who works in my office. (Yes, I’m changing his name for privacy sake. Let’s just say “Don” drives a Ford Explorer and doesn’t want all of his gay friends to know. “It’s too frat boy,” he tells me.) Anyhoo, here’s a snippet from our talk:

[Begin Interview]

Me: So what kind of cars do you like, my fine gay friend?

Don: Ummm, I like cars that say, “sassy!”

Me: That makes sense. Would you say a Mazda Miata is “sassy”?

Don: In a princess sort of way, I guess. Personally, I think Miatas are for sissy’s.

Me: Agreed. High five on that. (At this point, we give each other high five. I don’t know why – we just do.)

Don: I’m tired – want to go get a coffee?

Me: Focus, Don, focus. Isn’t there anything else you want to say about cars and gays for my blog?

Don: Cars are boring. You should write a blog post about homos and shoes!

[Aaaand that's as far as we got.]

Which brings me to the moral of the story: buy whatever car you want regardless of which team you play for, just refrain from personalizing your license plate with crap like CREBRAL.

Because let’s be serious… gay or straight: that’s just plain lame.

The Kirsten Dunst Dental Plan

Six months flies by doesn’t it? Especially when, at the end of said time, you have to go the dentist. Welcome to my world, everyone. I’m going to my oral practitioner on Tuesday. Here’s the thing: I’d rather give myself 10,000 paper cuts on the tips of my fingers prior to marinating my hands in lemon juice than go to my dentist. That’s how much I hate it. So imagine my reaction when I heard this story, via Reuters:

“A British dentist was found guilty Thursday of urinating in his surgery sink and using dental tools meant for patients to clean his fingernails and ears. A medical tribunal said it was satisfied the evidence showed 51-year-old Alan Hutchinson, who ‘routinely’ did not wear gloves or wash his hands, had risked the health of ‘himself, staff and patients’ for more than 28 years.”

Oh dear god. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. No WONDER Brits have such bad teeth! Who the hell would want to subject themselves to something like that?

All of this leads me to believe the best oral hygiene strategy might be what I like to call the “Kirsten Dunst Dental Plan”: avoid dentist, embrace fugly teeth.

Truthfully, I’m not a huge fan of Miss Dunst. I think she can be rather obnoxious at times. But if the woman has somehow figured out a way to avoid the dentist without her agent, stylist, manager and PR team going nuts on her, then I say, “Bravo, Kirsten! Bravo!”

Now please excuse me…I’m off to floss…

The Graduates Blog: Just Plain Weird

It’s Tuesday “Like” or “Loathe” time. And I’m going to have to go with “Loathe” this fine, April afternoon. Thanks to Gawker, I found a new blog series on the “Times Select” portion of NYTimes.com called “The Graduates.” It’s a cool idea in theory: the blog authors are college seniors who currently write for or edit their school’s newspapers. It’s a chance of a lifetime for these aspiring journalists: contribute to the New York Times. The idea here is that they’re supposed to be the upper echelon of college writers, the cream of the crop, the Ivies of the blogosphere. The problem? They sound like jackasses:

“When we were kids, my friends and I played a game called MASH. This game forecast whether we would grow up to live in Mansions, Apartments, Shacks, or Houses, what our jobs would be, where in the world we would live, which of our celebrity crushes we would marry, and most importantly, what kind of pet we would have… Back in our MASH days, our dream jobs were firefighting, I-banking, sales and trading, consulting, wealth management, mergers and acquisitions, and real estate finance. We wanted to live in the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Greenwich or Great Neck.”

Ummm, STOP. REWIND. Dear student from Dartmouth College, did you really just write, “Our dream jobs were…I-banking, sales and trading, consulting, wealth management, mergers and acquisitions and real estate finance????” Jenni – back me up on this one. This is NOT how one plays MASH. MASH dream jobs should be more along the lines of a teacher, a moviestar, a veterinarian, and a professional football player…NOT someone in wealth management. I guess things were different in the ‘80 and ’90s.

Not to worry…this author doesn’t just focus on childhood fantasies. She later gets into some pretty deep philosophical ruminations when she writes:

“My class is graduating into a world that is changing faster than ever before. We’re living in a weird society today that will most assuredly be weirder tomorrow.”

“Weirder tomorrow.” That’s good stuff. I’m bookmarking that as we speak.

My point here is not to completely make fun of these graduates or the way the Times has executed on this idea (yes it is, no it’s not). Because, in fact, the other Graduate writers have some very astute comments on a variety of interesting topics. My point is to rebut the fact that all kids play MASH with the intention of living on the Upper East Side while making big bucks in Mergers & Acquisitions. Personally, I wanted to be a writer when my friends and I played MASH on the school bus. That or an astronaut (thanks to that tremendous movie, “Space Camp.”)

I’m not saying that, at the tender age of 8, dreaming of a job in wealth management, complete with eggshell-colored business cards on stock paper, is bad. I’m just saying it’s, I don’t know, weird.

HBO, Take Note: I’m Watching Cabbage Patch Dolls Now

Sunday nights aren’t what they used to be. Before the dreaded work week began, I used to cozy up in my sweat pants and slippers, turn on the tube, and enjoy a little Sex and the City and a bit of Sopranos. More recently, it’s been more like a smidgen of Big Love and a smattering of Entourage. Not so anymore. Now I get nada from Home Box Office on Sunday nights…zip….zilch. HBO is no longer Sunday nights. Which means I have to resort to…yes, it’s true…The Apprentice: LA on Sundays. Don’t think I can’t see that look of judgement on your face.

Anyway, last night…the unfathomable happened. The one good Apprentice contestant got fired and my panties are still in a bunch about it. Therefore, I’d like to take this opportunity to give my personal shout-out to Tim:

Tim, I love you. I hate that your face is now greyed out on the NBC website-that’s just wrong. You were the only contestant on that show that had a sense of humor. Now I can’t even watch anymore. One question, Tim: did you ever stop and take note that Nicole, your love interest on the show, is in fact a Cabbage Patch doll? Really…the similarities are uncanny:

If anything, let this be a lesson to you, HBO. If you ignore your fans for too long, they resort to watching Reality TV that really sucks. Please bring back quality Sunday night programming before I resort to watching 7th Heaven reruns.