<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910</id><updated>2012-01-04T06:23:55.713-08:00</updated><title type='text'>mp likes to wine</title><subtitle type='html'>live to the point of tears.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>9</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-3581781462643122311</id><published>2010-03-24T06:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-24T06:51:58.354-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Whine</title><content type='html'>Why is that some people - no matter how much it's total apparent I'm not interested in listening - will continuously blab on and on and on...and on. Like, for real. My purpose is not to help you serve yours in this world. Shut it, get a therapist or get outta the building.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...I'm back :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-3581781462643122311?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/3581781462643122311/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=3581781462643122311' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/3581781462643122311'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/3581781462643122311'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2010/03/whine.html' title='Whine'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-3949380442244183982</id><published>2009-02-19T09:30:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-19T09:42:39.139-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Betty Homemaker</title><content type='html'>I don't know what it is but whenever I'm home (like &lt;em&gt;home &lt;/em&gt;home) I always go cooking crazy. Living in a dorm room doesn't give me much options besides microwave eatery - which I despise. Yesterday it was curried turkey salad with apples; today it's lemony blueberry muffins. (For breakfast I poached myself eggs! Poached!)&lt;br /&gt;My house smells so good right now I could eat the air. It's one thing that I definitely want to continue, cooking that is, next year when I'm on my own. I never want to be a Ramen/Easy Mac kinda girl. It's so much more fun to eat something that I made and took time on than tossing in a Smart Ones for 3 minutes and 15 seconds.&lt;br /&gt;I have to go back for my &lt;em&gt;third and final &lt;/em&gt;trimester on Sunday. I can't remember any of my classes, when I work, when I actually have class, but whatev. I can't believe that college is nearly over. I feel like I'm ready to move on with my life, but not neccesarily grab onto the responsibility of real life a.ka. BILLS. I'm sure I'll be fine; I just am not great at not knowing what the future holds. Job? Boyfriend? Housing? BILLS? All I really have nailed down is roommates - haha.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-3949380442244183982?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/3949380442244183982/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=3949380442244183982' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/3949380442244183982'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/3949380442244183982'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2009/02/betty-homemaker.html' title='Betty Homemaker'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-6387214997032792685</id><published>2009-02-04T12:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-04T12:17:54.719-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fuck it already!</title><content type='html'>&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299038872367200802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SYn3x2Zu-iI/AAAAAAAAACI/esdd1o9oeOQ/s320/n135401668_30670043_3810.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Next week is finals and although I don't &lt;em&gt;technically &lt;/em&gt;have any tests, I do have a lot on my plate. My TV production class is the biggest ass chap on the planet and I cannot wait til I never have to lug around camera equipment or set up a damn tripod again. Long story short, a friend of mine is having a drunk bus this weekend in the Cities and I couldn't decide whether I could go or not based on this damn class and my final project. I've thrown caution to the wind, saying fuck it, and going anyway. Granted, it's worth a third of my grade, but you can only drunk bus with your buds once in a blue moon. I'm changing my package topic to something lame and easier to shoot. So I'm going and will probably suffer the consequences, but I'll take it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I wanna see my boyfriend, my kitten, my parents, and the bottom of a bottle of tequila while singing 100 bottles of beer on the wall on a bus full of belligerents.. Sue me. Time for a little fun. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-6387214997032792685?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/6387214997032792685/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=6387214997032792685' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/6387214997032792685'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/6387214997032792685'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2009/02/fuck-it-already.html' title='Fuck it already!'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SYn3x2Zu-iI/AAAAAAAAACI/esdd1o9oeOQ/s72-c/n135401668_30670043_3810.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-5928045716063738097</id><published>2009-01-24T17:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-24T17:25:15.249-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Michael</title><content type='html'>I'm currently working in the library on a Saturday night - and I realize that it is 7:15, which makes it not really night at all by my standards, but I'm so flippin bored I can't stand it. I've seriously looked at every cute pair of boots and bikinis on the world wide web. I've found a few that will be purchased (swimsuits that is, hence the working out craze). I've decided to take the day off from working out since every inch of my bod is sore, and I'm not complaining by any means about it -- sore is a good sign!! It probably didn't help that after Matt left early this afternoon that I resorted to sitting on couch and watching the Food Network until 5...whatev.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, my fam and I recently found out my brother's deployment date. Finally. 15 April is the day Michael will leave for Afghanistan from Colorado Springs where he's stationed at Fort Carson. It's not a shocker that he's leaving - we've always known, so it's nice to have a date pinned down. We were told between March and August. We'll go out for the week beforehand and see him off the day he leaves. It'll be sad when he's gone, but I'm glad that I'll be back in the Cities shortly there after to be with my mom during that rough time that he'll be deployed. On the bright side, he's letting me use his TV (cross your fingers for his car too...) while he's away. Is that a terrible thing to be excited about...?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295035468662443634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SXu-tFa4DnI/AAAAAAAAACA/0sA56q8FIu0/s320/michael.jpg" border="0" /&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-5928045716063738097?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/5928045716063738097/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=5928045716063738097' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/5928045716063738097'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/5928045716063738097'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2009/01/michael.html' title='Michael'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SXu-tFa4DnI/AAAAAAAAACA/0sA56q8FIu0/s72-c/michael.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-6912109495409297627</id><published>2009-01-20T19:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-20T19:31:27.024-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Uggggg, etc...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SXaU5yqFjRI/AAAAAAAAABw/6Bf2POL5mxM/s1600-h/ugg_5122whitley_esp140140.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 140px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SXaU5yqFjRI/AAAAAAAAABw/6Bf2POL5mxM/s320/ugg_5122whitley_esp140140.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293582132592348434" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For Christmas, Matt gave me these adorable Uggs - the Whitley - That have a leather lace. So, I've had these lovely boots approximately a month and the leather is fraying like the dickens and I'm mucho liv. Like, really? $200+ boots are gonna go to hell in a handbasket in a month? Needless to say, I'm a little upset because I don't know if I'm to call up Uggs and demand a new leather lace or bop to a craft store and pick up some. What a grand inconvenience. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Last week I joined a health club, of which I vowed to never do because I wanted to utilize my "natural resources" a.k.a. the pavement but two weeks of sub-zero temperature cancelled all my plans to exercise and left me with a bag of popcorn and crumbs on my shirt. So, I joined a gym and figured that if I'm shelling out cash for something I'm more likely to force myself to go to make it worth it. I went today between classes and when I start editing the school newspaper (where I am right now).  I seriously ran myself stupid. Thank God I don't know anyone because I was a sweaty, sweaty mess. It was awesome. I went home over the weekend with my boyfriend for his niece's baptism and was informed that his brother is planning to run the Twin Cities Marathon, which has stirred a little fire in me to seriously start training. According to some (idiots), you don't have to train to run a marathon...a feat I'd LOVE to see. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Hopefully, my (getting fit) bum will be snuggled in bed reading Peony in Love by ten. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-6912109495409297627?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/6912109495409297627/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=6912109495409297627' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/6912109495409297627'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/6912109495409297627'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2009/01/uggggg-etc.html' title='Uggggg, etc...'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SXaU5yqFjRI/AAAAAAAAABw/6Bf2POL5mxM/s72-c/ugg_5122whitley_esp140140.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-7779889005789382698</id><published>2009-01-06T15:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-14T10:57:38.108-08:00</updated><title type='text'>S-t-r-e-s-s-e-d</title><content type='html'>Boo, I am so busy I can hardly stand it anymore. If I'm not in class then I'm at work and thinking about the things I need to do for class. If I'm in class I'm thinking about how much I don't want to go to work, but desperately need the money. I swear my school is just raping me for funds with no sign of where the $$ is actually being spent. I would rather show up naked to graduation then pay $400 &lt;b&gt; to rent &lt;/b&gt; those horrendous wear-once cap and gown jobs.&lt;br /&gt;I'm currently taking a full-load of classes: two television production classes, design production and pottery. Now, I'm an artsy, creative gal. I thought I would be &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;phenomenal&lt;/span&gt; in pottery. No. I'm horrendous. Even my professor has admitted that my "petite hands" are the problem. I just can't get around those big blobs of clay. Needless to say, all my vases, cups, bowls, etc. are &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;mi nature&lt;/span&gt; doll house size.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to see Matt last weekend and am going to the Cities this weekend for his niece's baptism. Probably not such a good idea, but any excuse to go home is a great excuse to me regardless of the oodles of work I'll come back to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more thing: I swear that everyone I know is &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;prego&lt;/span&gt;. It's like a baby epidemic. I want babies eventually (preferably dropped off by a stork), but at age 22? No no no. I can't even afford new Pumas, let alone a mini pair for a baby and diapers and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;pacifers&lt;/span&gt; and all that junk. Thank God for &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;BCP&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-7779889005789382698?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/7779889005789382698/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=7779889005789382698' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/7779889005789382698'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/7779889005789382698'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2009/01/s-t-r-e-s-s-e-d.html' title='S-t-r-e-s-s-e-d'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-9193314079561798666</id><published>2008-12-29T09:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-29T09:48:55.376-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Together</title><content type='html'>Matt and I are back together. He called me the day before Christmas Eve while I was on the chair lift at Granite Peak and said he was coming to the Cities for Christmas and wanted to get together. Once I got home I called him and asked him why the change of heart and he said that it wasn't a change of heart, more or less his heart staying the same. He came over for Christmas Day and then we went to his uncle's house later that night. It was fun and I really do care about him. He's back at home now and I'm trying to figure out our plans for New Year's. I've been sick the past four years and want this one to be a goodie. I don't have a car at home, so it'll be up to Matt to come here. I'm really hoping he does; it would be a good sign. I'm still a little leery about things with us, afraid that the same thing could happen on a whim. Have a little faith I guess...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-9193314079561798666?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/9193314079561798666/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=9193314079561798666' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/9193314079561798666'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/9193314079561798666'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2008/12/together.html' title='Together'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-5542025250158676096</id><published>2008-12-21T08:33:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-21T08:59:26.337-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Break</title><content type='html'>I've had a really hard last few days: my boyfriend of almost two years (in Feb.) wanted to take a "break". The most difficult bit about this whole break ordeal is that we live 100 miles away as it is, so in my mind we're on a perpetual break. I wasn't really happy with how things were going anyway, but just thought that putting in more effort to see each other would do the trick. His idea was the break. I'm really not much of a crier, but I must've cried from 2 in the afternoon straight through falling asleep and even when I woke up. Thank God for my friends. My best friend Renae happens to be the person that set me up with Matt, so has an understanding of our situation better than anyone else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This happened the day before Christmas break (how ironic) and we would've seen in each other for the holidays because his family is here in the Cities. I wasn't bringing home my car because my brother was going to pick me up on his way from Colorado Springs. Change of plans. I drove home with a guy named Al who is from the Cities too, and it was probably just what I needed: a place where crying would be completely unacceptable. On our drive Jay and Matt were both texting me to stop by to pick up my Christmas gifts, which Renae had highly advised against and I didn't really want to since I was with another guy. Matt seemed pretty persistent on us stopping and we did. It was awkward, but we were just joking around like nothing had changed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've come to the conclusion that this "break" has less to do about me and more to do about him trying to figure out his own life. He's had a few hiccups in the past few months with not getting into the med school he wanted. He was texting me last night and said he would call me today. Renae said I need to make sure that he knows how much he hurt me and not just cave. I never really saw it coming - he never communicated with me that he was unhappy. What's worse is that last time I saw him things were great.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On an awesome note, my parents got me telemark skis and boots for Christmas! I kind of knew it was coming because my dad &lt;strong&gt;kept &lt;/strong&gt;asking me what my shoe size was over and over. He was so worried because tele boots don't come in my size (5 1/2) but he scowered the web and luckily, we're in the industry, so he found some as well as K2 She's Piste skis. It's &lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SU50biea9gI/AAAAAAAAABA/eAtNwAacB54/s1600-h/SKI.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282287429411862018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 252px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SU50biea9gI/AAAAAAAAABA/eAtNwAacB54/s320/SKI.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;so sick. I just hope I can pull it off! We're going to Granite Peak tomorrow so I can fine tune myself before I have to go to Hyland and be scrutinized!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We'll see how today goes with that phone call...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282287763894385730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 207px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 169px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SU50vAhRPEI/AAAAAAAAABI/3xR27uwxK5Q/s320/BOOT.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-5542025250158676096?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/5542025250158676096/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=5542025250158676096' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/5542025250158676096'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/5542025250158676096'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2008/12/break.html' title='Break'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6BZHgirYaKQ/SU50biea9gI/AAAAAAAAABA/eAtNwAacB54/s72-c/SKI.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3419399074962670910.post-1023582888758872835</id><published>2008-12-17T11:26:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-17T12:11:08.221-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Something like Sidebar</title><content type='html'>Yes, I'm a hypocrite because here I am starting a little bloggerton after making fun of my bloggy friend. But! I have a good reason for the switcheroo to blog world. I'm assistant editor for the campus newspaper at my college where I write a weekly column called the Sidebar, and I've grown quite attached to it. I figure once I graduate in six months my outlet to "column" will be obsolete unless I somehow become the new Carrie Bradshaw (idol).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So that's that. And here's this. I've been searching searching searching for a fab job that fits the bill (literally) once I'm outta here. I remember thinking last year how glad I was that I wasn't graduating in '08 because the economy was such shite. Ha, silly me. Hopefully, I'll be able to snag a keeper where I can put my education to good use and get paid a nickel or two. $$ is just so the scariest thing to me. 401k? Life insurance? Mutual funds? ...Haven't quite figured that jazz out yet. Maybe my knight in shining armor will already have taken a bite from that tree of knowledge and I'll just sit back and sign the dotted line on whatever it is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate that I have no concept of what I'll be doing this time next year. Maybe it's the planner in me, but I hate not knowing if Matt'll be there (boyfriend) or if I'll be living with Renae and Maggie or with Matt or at home or if I'll even be able to afford life at all. I guess life has a way of working out the way it's supposed to but I wouldn't mind if God gave me a two second glance into December 17, 2009. I'm assuming it's not gonna happen, but sure would be convenient.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3419399074962670910-1023582888758872835?l=mplikestowine.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/feeds/1023582888758872835/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3419399074962670910&amp;postID=1023582888758872835' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/1023582888758872835'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3419399074962670910/posts/default/1023582888758872835'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mplikestowine.blogspot.com/2008/12/yes-im-hypocrite-because-here-i-am.html' title='Something like Sidebar'/><author><name>mp</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
