Houston, we have a problem...Life on Mars looks eerily familiar.

So I have finally decided to join the technological age. Now, this may seem incongruous, considering my age, but, I'm a History major, so I claim a valid excuse for living in the dark ages of the past. I'm paying considerable amounts of money to do just that. There is a plethora of reasons for beginning this little write-up. For one, I am a terrible journal-keeper. I always think if I buy a new one, it will give me incentive to write in it. Needless to say, this would fall directly under the category of "exercise in futility." I have massive (or at least inordinate) amounts of journals with one or two entries, which I then get sick to tears of looking at, shove it at the back of a bookshelf (uttering a few unmentionable words), forget about, and eventually end up buying another one, repeating the vicious, self-perpetuating cycle. The only thing consistent about my journal-keeping is my inconsistency. Secondly, I tend to lose track of people (including myself, occasionally), so this is another attempt to correct a character flaw. I suppose it is a bit like cosmetic surgery for socially inept people, Botox for social wrinkles. Thirdly, I know my life is just so excessively interesting, there are hordes of desperately, mind-numbingly bored people simply begging for the chance to live vicariously through someone as glamorous and interesting as myself (note: sarcasm may be used from time to time, so if you are highly sensitive, it may be best to abandon this at once).

However, the exciting does occasionally happen to me, although I think it generally occurs due to a case of mistaken identity or incorrectly addressed mail being delivered by the cosmic version of the U.S. Postal Service. In this case, it is not my excitement, per se, but guilt by association. As of October 3 I became an aunt for the second time. Heather had an 8 lb. 4 oz. baby boy, Jonathan Scott by name. Both mother and baby are fine, and he's lucky enough to have two mothers, even if one is only three feet tall and can't reach the kitchen counter yet. (But, in her case, it is always "Where there's a will there's a way," and "Mind over matter." The only thing is, trying to keep up with/outwit one very determined (i.e. "strong-willed," the euphemism which all the little Dr. Phil's of the world have now discarded the offensive appellation "hard-headed" for) three-year old, the rest of us have neither will nor mind left. Generals learned the art of a war of attrition from three-year olds.) Emily will be three on the 19th of this month, and, I have been informed, is having a "George" party. Translation, everything is going to be decked out in School-Bus yellow and plastered with lovable likenesses of the endearing little fictional primate, Curious George himself. For me, that means I'll have "We All Live in a Yellow Submarine" mentally playing on constant repeat for a week. The things you do for short people when they look at you and say "Peeeaaase?"

Ah, well, childhood is fleeting, let them enjoy it while they don't know any different.

As for me, I'm still drudging away at the books, hopefully to escape in May. I'm still working at the public library/free babysitting/afterschool/shrink services. I love my job, but I think after this I could hang out my shingle. I've learned entirely more than I ever wanted to know about the ailments inherent in old age. (Sometimes I think the James Deans of the world got off easy.) But, everything is good. Besides, I have to work to have money to support my camera habit. You're always encouraged to have hobbies, "It's healthy," they all say, "It relieves stress." The only thing they don't tell you is that there is an inbuilt stress factor of monetary origins. Hobbies turn into economically draining money-pits. I sometimes feel like I should just have them direct deposit my check at the ASAP camera store, instead of forcing the (especially these days) harried banks to act as a fleeting middle-man. So, in order to justify my addiction, I have posted a few examples of the pitifully lacking results of my efforts. Its healthy, yeah. In the top photo, I found myself standing on the decrepit, probably vermin infested, safety hazard front porch of a derelict old house in silk pajama bottoms at 6 a.m. in January. Don't ask why I was still in pajama bottoms, it was an impromptu photo-shoot. Once you get into it, you find your mind becomes warped and you do things like bolt out of the house at 6 a.m. in the middle of winter because, *gasp!* the light might change before you get there (wherever "there" is) and the shot is ruined. Healthy, right. The middle photo was taken in a claustrophia-inducing fruit cellar of a historic house on Antelope Island, Utah. Healthy, right. (I'm starting to see a disturbing pattern). The bottom one was remarkably uneventful, Tryon Palace gardens. I know, suddenly it seems rather boring, doesn't it? So, my advice to the youth of the world? Don't get a hobby. They are time-consuming, mind-warping, money-draining ventures. Sit at home and watch re-runs of "Happy Days" instead. If you are tempted to do something productive, flip to QVC and tele-shop until you max out the credit card.

Alright, I believe that is enough for the first dose. Wouldn't want to reveal all of the gripping details at once, its bad marketing.