Frame of reference, anyone?

News from ReadWriteWeb:
Teens Not Into Twitter

Matthew Robson, a 15-year-old intern at analyst firm Morgan Stanley recently helped compile a report about teenage media habits. Overnight, his findings have become a sensation...which goes to show that people are either obsessed with what "the kids" are into or there's a distinctive lack of research being done on this demographics' media use. Robson's report isn't even based on any sort of statistical analysis, just good ol' fashioned teenage honesty. And what was it that he said to cause all this attention? Only that teens aren't into traditional media (think TV, radio, newspapers) and yet they're eschewing some new media, too, including sites like Twitter.

So, just to make sure I understand this...

A non-Twittering teen reports that teens don't use Twitter, after he just kinda polled his friends.

That's like me polling my friends and declaring that 20-somethings don't go a day without drinking. And then Morgan Stanley publishes it. And then the media pounces on it and the TODAY show does a whole segment on alcohol abuse while Dr. Nancy lectures the viewers on liver damage and Meredith Viera stumbles around, sloshing her morning wine. (Love her.)

Or something like that.


Side note: No one could proofread this report before publishing it? "Most have signed up to the service but then just leave it as they release that they are not going to update it." Release, realize -- whatever. Teens have more important things to do than use words properly, like browse MySpace and illegally download the Jonas Brothers.

Stay in school, kids

And don't watch Wife Swap.

When youthful indulgence stops being cute

I saw a woman in her late 50s at the pool the other day wearing a two-piece bathing suit.

What caught my attention wasn't the fact that she was decked out in a bikini, but that she had a tattoo stretched out across her lower back.

She. Looked. Ridiculous.

As I silently judged her, perched lazily on my lounge chair, I glanced down at my own body. I've got a few tattoos of my own, but that's not what I started obsessing over. Instead, I focused directly on my stomach, asking myself the question that anyone in their late 20s should ask.

How old is too old for a navel ring?

I've had my belly button pierced for many years now and ever since I started wearing a bathing suit this season (like, two weeks ago because it's been so frickin cold in Chicago), I've been wondering if it's time to take that sucker out.

It's not gaudy. It doesn't dangle. It's not oversized. It's just a simple, standard jewel. Yet I can't help but wonder if people will soon start looking at me like I look at 55-year-old women with tramp stamps... if they haven't already.

I mean, a cry for attention is no longer acceptable once you pass 21. We're older! We're wiser! We know better!

So, at what point do you let go of this innocent, youthful rebellion and transition into piercing-free adulthood? I'm thinking soon...

The proper way to hold a baby

Champagne glass: never less than half full
Grip: around the stem of the glass to keep the champagne cold
Baby: quiet and asleep

I gotta tell ya, this parenting thing seems pretty easy.

Want.

The dress, not the girl. Settle down.

{via}

How Dave Matt Lauer'd it

People who know me (even a little bit) know that I'm generally unpleasant to be around in the morning. Almost unreasonably so.

I just have my morning routine and I don't like to get thrown off. So when Dave calls me in the morning, the first thing I think is, "Don't you KNOW better?"

This morning was no different.

As I was just beginning to straighten my hair around 7:45, the phone rang. Caller ID showed that it was Dave.

"Hello?" I said, already a little exasperated.

I heard him talking to someone else instead of responding to me. Cranky and annoyed, I tried again.

"WHAT? What do you want?"

"Hey," he said, sounding shaky. "I just got into a bike accident..."

Fuck. Now I feel terrified and guilty.

Apparently, Dave was riding into school down the Lakeshore trail at the same time some dumb whore woman was walking her dog without a leash. The dog darted in front of Dave and he crashed into it at 20 miles an hour, flipping over his handle bars and smashing into the concrete ground.

Both he and the dog were pretty effed.

After our phone call, Suz -- my total HERO -- immediately jumped in her car to go pick Dave up and bring him home.

When I saw him, I cringed. The left side of his forehead had big red scrapes, his right hand was completely torn up, his left ankle was cut, and his left shoulder was more scratched and damaged than anything.

At this point, I should let you know that I am NOT good with sights like that...

Once we were inside the apartment, Dave announced that the wounds needed to be cleaned. I had already made two ice packs, gotten out towels, poured him some water (because bike accidents make you thirsty?) and thrown his pillow onto the couch. What I had not done was prepare myself to clean any wounds.

Since I started to get a little faint looking at his hand, Dave had to clean that himself. It was sick. I recovered a bit and worked up the nerve to clean some other wounds, apply Neosporin and add band-aids. The only thing I couldn't fix was his shoulder.

Because Dave was in so much pain, we decided to go to the hospital. I packed magazines, iPods and water into my purse because everyone knows hospital visits take millions of hours out of your life.

Not Northwestern, though!

We got there at 10:30am and were out of there shortly after 12:30pm -- incredible.

The resident's official diagnosis was that "this is gonna hurt like ASS for a bit," but the x-rays didn't show any fracture, so Dave just got a sling to wear and we were sent home.

Phew.


So now he's focusing on loading up on Tylenol and icing his shoulder while I'm focusing on getting him to settle the fuck down. The boy has already left the apartment for his evening French class, sling and all! And I'm pretty sure he's planning on going into work tomorrow.

Ah, well. All that matters is that he's okay. Thank god for his helmet, thank god for efficient doctors and thank god for SUZ!

Don't you hate it when you're in a MOOD?

Oh, blog.

We've been drifting apart lately, no? I feel like I don't have time for you anymore.

But that's not true. I could make time. I just don't really WANT to. I have want to put my energy into work. I want to spend time with Dave when I come home. I want to go lay out at the pool. I want to get sloppy at happy hour. I want to talk on the phone with my sister. I want to go visit my favorite preggo in STL. I want to sit out on the balcony with a bottle of wine. I want to go shopping. I want to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. I don't want to worry about writing.

I think it's also time to admit that not every post can be the of the prolific, witty, insightful variety. Okay, fine, most of them aren't. They're just acerbic. But I feel like I've been so much more BLAH with this whole blogging thing lately.

Maybe I'm just in a slump. Maybe summer just makes me want to get the eff away from my computer. Maybe this feeling happens to all bloggers at some point. Maybe that's why so many people make the switch from blogging to Tumblr... Some pretty pictures here, a snarky sentence there -- that's much more my pace right now, I'm sure.

Ah, well. I'm not going anywhere, I'm just musing.

Now that I've babbled enough for one night, I'm going to stop right now so I can go eat this:

Mascarpone brownie. 'Nuff said.