Lately I've been making an effort to get more in touch with current events.

This came at the suggestion of my father, who I immediately decided was right.

As it was, most of my conversations consisted of the following:

90% Movie quotes and references 

10% Food

The only time this hasn't been the case is on days when I'm particularly hungry.  In that case, it's more 90% Food 10% Movie references.  Or, 100% Movie references that somehow involve food.

This obviously makes me a really interesting person to talk to.

The problem is, current events depress me.  Just once I'd like to turn on the news and see stories like ELDERLY WOMAN REUNITED WITH ESTRANGED GRAND-DAUGHTER, or MAN SPENDS DAY GOING DOOR TO DOOR LOOKING FOR OWNER OF LOST PUPPY.

As it is, headlines read more like:  ELDERLY WOMAN PERISHES IN BUS FIRE and MAN SPENDS DAY GOING DOOR TO DOOR RAPING AND PILLAGING RESIDENTS.  

Yesterday was no exception.  I turned on the news and saw the following stories: fatal car accident, shooting, murder at the bus terminal, breaking and entering, and finally, serial rapist strikes again. 

The first thing this does is make me want to turn off the news entirely and revert back to the days of strictly quoting Dumb and Dumber.  The second thing it makes me want to do is buy some sort of machete to carry around, lest these hoodlums who it seems are all over this city come after me next.  

The third thing it made me want to do was laugh, and here's why.

During the story about the shooting at the bus terminal, the reporter told viewers that they should be looking for a suspect wearing a tan Carhartt jacket.  As he was describing this, viewers who were paying attention (like myself) would have noticed a man standing in the background, wearing a tan Carhartt jacket, lighting a cigarette.  Excellent investigative job on that reporters part.

The next reporter was even better, as he described the serial rapist.  "The suspect is 6 feet tall, has a receding hairline, and bad breath."

Very informative, indeed.  He just described every other resident of this city.

My favorite, though, remains a news story I read in high school.  Actually my English teacher read it to us, as this was back in the day when current events were forced on you.  She'd read in a local newspaper that a man had met a woman at Summerfest, and brought her back to his apartment for the night.  Upon waking up the next morning, he found that she'd robbed him clean - all his electronics were gone as well as some key pieces of furniture and, if I remember correctly, his car.

Following this sob story was a description of the woman we were all to be on the lookout for, and he did a great job of narrowing it down for us.  

"She had light brown/dark blonde hair, brownish blue eyes, tanish pale skin, and was of medium, tall or short build.  Post Script:  She may or may not have had teeth."

In my unbiased opinion, if you can't remember whether or not the woman you brought home had teeth, you deserve to be robbed.  And if the woman you bring home in fact does not have teeth, you should have a pretty solid gut sense that something along those lines is going to go down.

After all, at least in the movies, missing teeth is a definite sign of danger.  

If only they'd talked to me, first. 

Today I had the rare occasion of encountering a personal problem whose genesis I can trace almost to the second.  

The problem is this: I have, and have always had, the tendency to carry around a lot of guilt over hurting the feelings of inanimate objects.  

Which, in fact, have no feelings.  

This morning, for example, while studying the back of a box of Pop Tarts I wouldn't allow myself to eat, I noticed the words "POPularity Contest" written across the top.  Underneath these words was the entire line-up of Pop Tart varieties, complete with arms and legs.  There they stood, in a row, while a "Most Popular" pageant sash hung in front of them, just waiting for a winner.  

Despite their arms and legs, the Pop Tarts had no faces, but in my mind they did.  And in my mind, they all looked so incredibly hopeful.  And I knew, while S'mores and Cinnamon Brown Sugar Pop Tart had a good chance of winning, the Original unfrosted variety was screwed.  

Before I knew it, I was feeling so bad for the poor little guy that I immediately vowed to go out and buy a box of unfrosted Pop Tarts.  But not before I spent the rest of the morning feeling pretty angry at Kelloggs, for promoting a competition that would make their Pop Tarts feel so badly for not being chosen as the favorite of sugar-crazed children worldwide.

This sounds crazy, you think.  And I agree.  But at least I can pinpoint the moment it started.  That moment, for me, took place at a dining room table in Hartland, Wisconsin.

All parents have different ways of getting their kids to eat their vegetables.  These days, reverse psychology seems to be most popular.

"Don't eat those," you tell the child.  He looks at you, mischief in his eye, and suddenly grabs his fork, holding it just above the dreaded broccoli.   

 "You're not going to eat those," you repeat.  "No way.  Only big kids eat broccoli, and you're just a little baby."

Bam.  The fork is in the broccoli and the broccoli in the mouth.  

While this seems to work incredibly well, and I definitely can't say I'm above belittling your children for the sake of vitamin-rich nutrition, my parents chose a different approach:  Guilt, and lots of it.

It all started when they'd separate my broccoli in half.

"Just eat this half," they'd say.  And so (presumably after some sever whining on my part) I would.   

And then it started.

"Awww," I'd hear as I pushed my plate away.  "I can't believe you're going to separate that family of broccoli."

The plate would freeze, mid push.  If there's one thing I hated, it was disappointing people.  And certainly this was a disappointment for the broccoli.  And my parents knew it.  

"Poor Benny broccoli," they'd coo.  "You just ate his mother, Betty, and left poor Benny all alone on the plate."

As if this weren't enough, one of them would inevitably begin to mimic Benny's poor little voice.

"Mother!" He'd cry out, sounding very much like Bambi in the meadow after his mother had been brutally shot and killed.  "Mother!  Where are you?  Why can't I come be with you?  Why did you leave me??"

Bam.  Benny broccoli was down my throat, along with his sisters Beatrice and Bernice.  

If that didn't work, it would be something along the lines of "Poor Carl corn.  All summer long, he worked on growing so big and tall, for the SOLE purpose of being eaten.  And here he is, finally moments away from his dream, and you're going to take that from him?"

I'd buy that, hook line and sinker, and in fact I'd take it even further.  How dare you, Melissa, I'd scoff to myself as I eyed the corn.  Carl has worked so hard for this, and you're going to rip his dream from his grasp just because you're full?  What a terrible person you're turning out to be. 

This started quite a chain reaction in different aspects of my young life.  I'd kiss one stuffed animal goodnight and feel so guilty for leaving the other one's out that before you knew it, I was trying to climb into the stuffed animal net in the corner to kiss them all goodnight.  If I let one sleep in the bed with me, I'd have to pick at least 20 more, and then set up some kind of rotation so they each got a turn and thus no one's feelings were hurt. (Although I think that one may have had more to do with a campfire horror story I'd heard once about a porcelain doll murdering her owner for treating her badly.)  I was not going to get on the bad side of those plush giants.  You just never knew what they were capable of.

Today, I like to use this memory as an excuse for any lack of self control I exhibit when eating.

"What do you mean you're not going to finish your sandwich?" I'll tell a guy on our first date.  "All that sandwich wanted to do, its whole life, was be eaten.  And you can't seem to do that, you selfish, spineless little man.  Hand it over.  I guess I'll just have to finish what you started."  

When it comes to securing a 100% chance of not getting a second date, that's proven to be a pretty solid technique.  

But hey, at least Sandy sandwich gets to pursue her lifelong dream, and what's a meaningful relationship compared to the satisfaction that comes from helping someone reach their goals? 

I'm off to buy some original Pop Tarts.  I think eating a whole box of those in one day will go a long way in raising the self esteem of frosting-less treats everywhere, and I like to do what I can to help.

Valentines Day is coming up.  And this year it's on crack.  

You'd think the stores around here are afraid people would forget, the way they're decked out for the holiday.  It's like everyone left their Christmas decorations up, only changed them to all different shades of pink.  I think I may have even seen a pink tree standing in someone's living room.

If Valentines Day has in fact reached that all-important holiday status - the one that can only be achieved when Starbucks creates a latte just for the occasion, then I have to believe that the next step is coming up with the token creepy mascot to invade your home and your privacy late at night.  

I don't understand how children are taught to fear strangers, yet are perfectly comfortable with, and are in fact excited about, the prospect of a fat old man creeping around their living room after midnight.  Or a giant rabbit hiding eggs and jelly beans in the rooms where they spend the most time.  In fact, I don't think anyone's established yet how the Easter Bunny gets into these homes.  It's can't be the chimney, because that's Santa's domain, so for all these children know, he could be hopping in right through their bedroom window.  There could be an oversized mammal kissing their foreheads and smoothing back their hair while they sleep.  But they're not the least bit phased - after all, they get candy out of the deal.  

This bodes well for Valentines Day.  If they want to start capitalizing on a giant Cupid hiding heart candies all around suburbia, they can go right ahead, and would probably be very successful.

Although I wouldn't rush to let him in.

I miss the days when Valentines Day consisted of a wrapping-paper covered shoe-box turned valentine-mail-box.  I miss pouring over the Valentines that my childhood crushes mother's probably made them buy anyway, trying to decide whether or the Bumble bee Valentine that said "Let's Bee Friends" was, in fact, a rejection.  It seems that at this stage of life, when Valentines Day rolls around, the thought is either that you need to be celebrating your relationship or out with girlfriends repeating the mantra: "Men are Jerks."

The thing is, I've already gone through my "Men are Jerks" stage, back in 7th grade.  I'm all mantra'd out.  The first guy I dated was a jerk.  

Actually, he was the second guy I dated.  

My first boyfriend came home from our 6th grade spring break with a bag of goodies for me that hardly fit in my locker, it was so big.  He'd spent his parents money on all the things my pre-teen heart desired - puka shell jewelry of every kind, chocolates, a spoon ring, and an enormous stuffed alligator that I promptly named Lyle.  I, on the other hand, had spent my parents money on myself, and had realized in a panic the night before that I'd forgotten to get anything for him.  Unable to part with any of my treasures, I ended up giving him the least favorite of my souvenirs - a carved rhino the size of my pinky finger, then sharing the chocolates he'd given me with another boy I was interested in.  

You tell me who the asshole in that relationship was.

So it was the second guy I dated who was the jerk.  By 7th grade I'd matured way past childish relationships.  I'd also decided that it was a rite of passage to date the mean kid.  So, I did.  This kid would kick peoples knees out from behind as they were walking down the hallway.  That's just the kind of person he was.  But he was cool and therefore he had to be mine.  And, for an entire week, he was.  I've since become convinced that he was only with me for a ride to that weekends dance.  My mom had a brand new mini-van, and his still had the kind with the wood paneling on the side.  Therefore, my ride trumped his, and he knew it.  Let's face it, we all knew it.  Given such knowledge, I should have seen exactly what he was doing, but it didn't dawn on me until he broke up with me on the ride home.  Once he was already in the car, of course, and couldn't get kicked out.  Also, he didn't do it.  He had the girl sitting between us do it, while he sat on the other side, nodding his agreement.  By the time we reached his house, the two of them were dating.

We got back together again the next day at recess, then broke up again in the lunch room.  

This kind of on-again off-again relationship really took its toll on me.  By math class I was exhausted - 5 breakups in one day.  This had to be some kind of record.  I made the decision then and there that I'd never again date the mean kid.  And I haven't.

All this to say, that I really don't feel like participating in the mindset that says if you aren't married on Valentines Day you need to be getting wasted or hitting a pinata shaped like your ex.  Not my style. 

What I do feel like doing is sharing a nice dinner and a bottle of wine with Bradley Cooper.  Unfortunately, his agent has repeatedly assured me this will not be happening.   

Looks like plan B - a nice dinner and a bottle of apple juice with Mason and Brody, while waiting patiently for the creation of a Starbucks Valentine Latte.  

As someone who has spent some time working in advertising, I know how much time, money, and other resources go into creating a seemingly simple slogan like McDonald's "I'm Lovin' It."  Weeks turn into months as research is carefully dissected, focus groups are conducted, and sleepless nights are spent at the office, all in an effort to get people to buy something they probably were going to buy anyway.  Or still won't buy.

Take Miller Lite and Bud Lite for - at the moment, both have amazing ad campaigns.  But as much as I enjoy each million dollar 30-second ad, when I sit down at the bar, I'm still going to order a Guinness.  Which coincidentally, aside from a vintage Tucan, I've never seen any advertising for.

Anyway, all this to say that there are some extremely talented people employed all over this country, being paid huge sums of money, to label something in about 5 words.

Considering that, it floors me that American's couldn't do any better than "______ville" when it came to labeling our towns.  

I've yet to find a Melissaville, but I think I saw just about everything else driving across Missouri last week.  I passed, in rapid succession, Maryville, Collinsville, and Edgarville.  The last one I can let slide - as far as I know no one names their son Edgar anymore, so at least the name can live on somewhere.  But as for the rest - who was Mary?  Who was Collin?  I'll bet half the residents of the town have absolutely no idea.  

Then there are towns like High Hill and Brown Deer.  Yes, deer are brown, and yes, hills are high.  Astute observation, early settlers.  Well done you.  

It would seem it doesn't get any less creative than this, but then you have towns like New Salem, New York, New Florence.  Sure, maybe Salem, York and Florence are the only towns those folks had ever known, but the only name I've ever known is Melissa, and that's certainly no reason to name my daughter New Melissa.  

Finally, there are names so unoriginal that we couldn't even dig up a word from our own language, so we borrowed them from native languages.  Trouble is, these words are either impossible to pronounce, like Oconomowoc, or seem a little out of place, like Yosemite, which translates to something like 'the killers.'  What a beautiful and peaceful name for such a beautiful and peaceful valley.

I'm not one to talk, I've got Facebook albums titled "Put something creative here," but that's Facebook, which ranks pretty low in terms of permanent significance.  

All I'm saying is that today you've got Jason Lee naming his kid Pilot Inspektor, and Sylvester Stallone naming his Sage Moonblood.  

Where was that creativity 200 years ago?  

I would love to trade in my Hartford, WI hometown for Sage Moonblood, WI.  There are a million Hartford's in this country, but I'll bet Sage Moonblood would be a first.  Well, at least a second.