Almost everyone has some sort of collection of odd things to share with people as “claims to fame.” These may be connections to celebrities; they may be stupid human tricks; and they can even be as simple as an extra bone in the right foot or a missing internal organ.

I haven’t spent any of my time watching “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” and I don’t really intend to start but I assume this show is entirely based on individuals with literal, claims to fame. Someone has been hiccupping for over two years… Bam! He is famous thanks to the guy from “The New Adventures of Superman” (now there’s a show worth watching) who presents the abs the muscle spasms have yielded. OK, OK, so maybe I watched it once.

Is it truly miraculous and a guaranteed ticket to stardom that one has an additional metatarsal beyond his or her pinky toe? Not at all, but it’s certainly worth sharing (I’m not saying that’s me but I’m not saying I’d mind either).

Now, I don’t think we are all fame-hungry spotlight-seekers. I just think we like to reveal interesting things about ourselves in conversation.

Typical claims to fame involve random celebrity connections. For instance, when I was a baby, my parents handed me in my swaddling clothes to Kristi Yamaguchi and she held me for some amount of seconds. Furthermore, I am distant cousins with the woman who played Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz on Ice.” When you’re six, this is a big deal! Of late, my favorite claim to fame is that my dad’s best friend Mitch is third cousins with Adam Duritz, the lead singer of the Counting Crows. Does this seem like small potatoes to you? It is, but hey, it sure seems interesting to the people standing next to me during a live version of “Mr. Jones.”

Everyone has their celebrity stories and I guess we all share them maybe thinking that one will result in a friendship that will result in fame, which will result in some type of miraculous legacy, all thanks to bumping into Hilary Swank in a leather store in Florence, Italy (a true story of some of my former roommates!).

Now I don’t really have any stupendous stupid human tricks but I did do a split once and I am pretty good at crossing my eyes. This is a portion of my personality lacking is something I am OK with because we can all get joy out of the stupid human tricks of others.

I personally like the people with the double-jointed elbows and the arms that can swing in circles in opposite directions. What I really enjoy is someone who can bark like an actual dog. When I ran cross country in high school, there was a girl on my team who would mimic a terrier during our races. Not only did it give the boost of amusement, it really confused the other team.

My most shared claim to fame is actually pretty pathetic but for some reason I just cannot get over telling people that I have never had braces. It seems like all of my peers have at one time in their lives donned metal in their mouths. I, somehow, was born with very straight teeth and never needed my parents to shell out three grand for dental work. I have a new goal and that is to keep my wisdom teeth. I think that will set me apart as well. I just don’t understand how humans survived for thousands of years without braces and retaining wisdom teeth.

My dental uniqueness may seem like sad claims to fame but you’d be surprised what kinds of conversations are started up by the simple question, “Have you had braces?”

The way I see it, we are all famous in our own way. We don’t need to purchase leather alongside Hilary Swank or have a distant connection to a band member. All we need is to keep our wisdom teeth and resist orthodontia.

Lately I have been finding things in our world that we would want to use but are completely useless. The more I thought about it, I came up with a bunch of things I could do without but I use nearly everyday. Now isn’t that a pickle?

I will start off with the anomaly of the built-in toothbrush holder. All older residences are equipped with conveniently built-in toothbrush holders that would ideally be a phenomenal place for residents’ toothbrushes. There is one problem. No new toothbrushes fit. I don’t know when Oral B and friends decided that the width of the stem of a toothbrush needed to far exceed these immovable, plaster holders that multiple generations have enjoyed as supreme storage for their toothbrushes but I think they made a poor choice.

Furthermore, it seems to be a staple that most single family domiciles have some set of untouchable China-ware. I can’t imagine I will ever reach this stage of maturity but I have a difficult time thinking of a home I have visited that lacks an impervious set of plates, saucers, and even cute little tea cups. This set is always assembled in a prominent location for all to see. But it’s not for eating. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the value of a decoration, I boast many poorly-chosen ones in my own bedroom but I think it’s an awful tease to have all these delightful dishes and leave them shelved for decades.

Additionally, I find landlines to be a tempting window into the past. Living in an apartment, each time I visit my parents I feel a tinge of envy at their landline phones because they are completely escapable. A few years ago, if one left the house, one was free from the obligation to communication. Landline wires still grace the walls of my apartment and I wonder about the ease with which former residents used to leave these walls and remain untraceable, perhaps all day. Don’t get me wrong, I use my cell phone all the time but while it may be one of my closest companions, it is also the bane of my existence.

Cell phones lead me into my next set of points: objects that we see and use constantly but we maybe cannot stand. I don’t know many people who would say enthusiastically, “I love voicemail!” And that’s because no one does. I have tried for years to get my parents to stop leaving me voicemails yet I continue to receive the following message, “Hi Amanda, it’s mom, I guess I will talk to you when you call me back, bye.” Was anything accomplished in that message? Absolutely not and I’m sure we all leave similar ones. It’s unavoidable and typically, at least in my case, I sound really awkward – saying my name more than once and asking questions which obviously cannot be answered because the person is not on the other line.

The way I feel about voicemail is the same way I feel about public bathroom soap. If I am using a public restroom, I will always wash my hands. There are others watching! Even if nothing “touched,” we all put on the hand-washing show in public bathrooms. This would be fine if public bathroom soap didn’t smell like moldy cardboard or rotting wood or dusty carpet….but it does. If the aim is to clean one’s hands, perhaps a floral scent or at least an attempt at perfume would be nice. The other day, my friend Ja’Nee mistook a bag of bathroom soap for a colostomy bag. Should soap ever be confusable with a vessel for urine? I like to think not.

Finally, the way I view bathroom soap is about the way I view Miley Cyrus. I have always taken a strong stance against her terrible lyrics (which she may not write but I refuse to research her), her sub-par voice, and her overall image of “My dad was really famous.” Despite my efforts to keep distance from bad music, I have found myself singing her latest song on a number of recent occasions. I even danced to it on Friday! Miley is a part of our world that seems to be omnipresent and unavoidable even if we are repulsed by the thought of her undeserved, immeasurable bank account.

What it comes down to is that I am apparently a huge hypocrite. I won’t find a smaller toothbrush or use my mom’s China. I won’t stop checking my voicemails and I’m not paying for a landline phone. I’ll probably keep washing my hands with foul-smelling soap and I may never get Miley’s latest single out of my head. “Movin’ my hips like yeah….”

As children, we are more prone to dreaming up mythical creatures, fearing mythical creatures and making imaginary friends with mythical creatures than we are as adults (or technically adults).

This may seem like a very obvious statement, as “grown-ups” rarely bring up the make-believe unicorns that live in their garages and eat their begonias in daily water-cooler conversation.

But my question is, why not? We all still have imaginations.

We all still have the capability for creativity.

We should all still be talking about, or at least dreaming about, our unicorns!

Wouldn’t everything seem less mundane if we exercised our long-abandoned creative juices every other Thursday?

Why should it all be left up to J.K. Rowling and her four-eyed friend Harry?

With Halloween now in the past, most of us won’t dress up as vampires, boo-ghosts, or even the admittedly popular but completely mythical, promiscuously-dressed police officers and fire fighters for at least another 360 days.

Sure, costumes, imaginary friends and dreamt fantasies may have no application to the real world, but when I saw “Where the Wild Things Are” the other night I couldn’t really remember why I ever stopped dreaming up things that don’t exist.

The boy in the movie finds himself in an all-out saga with the coolest-looking freaks you’ve ever seen.

Maurice Sendak, the author of the book, and those who made the movie are either on some really potent and likely illegal substance or, as I like to think, they just never surrendered their youthful imaginations.

The closest I currently come to seeking imaginary inspiration is Googling pictures of bearded monkeys and then gleefully giggling.

Bearded monkeys are actually real but, to their credit, certainly do not at all look real (I highly recommend this activity; check out the De Brazza’s monkey first).

I can remember the stories I would compose as a child that involved characters completed fabricated in my little (twisted) elementary school head.

And even if you weren’t always a writer, I’m sure you thought of a six-headed monster or eight-handed beast somewhere along the timeline of your imagination.

Maybe something plagued your bedroom at night making it a frighteningly haunted space instead of a cradling coliseum of slumber.

For me, it was one of those long-snouted butlers that rich cartoon characters like to boss around in Disney movies. 

My butler was actually made of a dusty paper towel, crumpled in just the right way to make my imagination run wild and my pulse spike on nights that I decided he was on the prowl. 

Why would a butler be out to kill me? I still don’t really know, but I think it was a pretty clever creation and I still know I’d feel weird in a house that employed household wait staff.

Outside of the personal realm, I don’t think many awesome mythical creatures have been added to the oeuvre of a once tremendous group of weirdos.

What happened to the greats like Puff the Magic Dragon and Eureka of “Eureka’s Castle?” Sure, these characters still exist in some fantasy land, but why do we have to stop humming their theme songs just because we are pursuing college degrees?

These tales shouldn’t stop with the classics so maybe we need to be writing our own. I have a request.

If I come out with a book on a 12-tailed bearded monkey with a purple face, evergreen eyes and its mouth and nose in opposite positions on its face, I expect everyone who has read this article to read that story, propose a theme song for it or at least applaud me when they make it into a low budget, G-rated film.

I know I am not alone in saying that I have every intention of someday being an audience member during Oprah’s “Favorite Things” episode. She highlights items from all around the American consumer spectrum and gives one of each to all of the giddy, Oprah-obsessed stay-at-home-moms that have been lucky enough to trek to the windy city on just the right taping day. If I had my own Amanda Doran’s “Favorite Things” episode, I think the stay-at-home-moms would be a little disappointed. I’d have nothing to actually give them outside of the recommendation of an open-minded smile. Because of the whole “no working during student teaching thing,” (also known as unemployment) I currently find my favorite things in the non-material world.

Of late, I have been most keyed up by the thought of autumn daylight savings time. Most people say that they only feel the effects of the “fall back” or the “spring forward” for a day or two days, maximum. I do not agree. It may be entirely mental but autumn daylight savings time makes me feel like I am sleeping in an extra hour for two or three weeks. Every year there also seems to be a debate over whether or not the bars will stay open longer; I’m crossing my fingers.

Another place I find free joy (free for me at least) is in other peoples’ paper products. I love a hearty roll of toilet paper in a friend’s bathroom or a blanket-like paper towel. The place I am currently “working” sports one-ply toilet paper in all of its bathrooms and let me tell you, it is refreshing to come across Kleenex Cottonelle or “The Quicker Picker Upper.”

Like most English enthusiasts, a lot of my free-of-charge joy derives from words. I live for a good pun though I often make bad ones. One of the first things my boyfriend and I ever talked about was our common affinity for plays on words. Furthermore, my interest and joy are spiked whenever one of my favorite words is dropped. I have narrowed down my favorites to “slumber” and “archipelago.” Both are not commonly used but I have found poems and songs containing both. On the other hand, I have narrowed down the two most commonly disliked words to “moist” and “chunk” and even get excited when they are mentioned and others share my disdain.

Talking to people with accents is something I find to be extremely interesting and delightful. My most recently gained accented friend even bears a name that is fun to pronounce in her native tongue of British English, Laura Waterhouse. My roommate lived in the U.K. for a collective year and I think the reason I am most jealous is that she was able to listen to great accents for 12 months. In Baltimore, I have found that anything outside of a Baltimore accent is a novelty and spawns questions, smiles and conversation. (I also do love the Baltimore accent; who doesn’t, hon?)

Some other places to find free favorite things are clocks. I love making a wish at 11:11 but am even more excited if I catch the clock at 12:27, my birthday-time. Christmas also spawns excitement at 12:25. The only drawback is that sometimes, I look at the clock on my SAT score and I am reminded of my personally-determined inadequacy.

Though I’ve never personally owned one, I love an animal with a human-name. At a party on Saturday I met a dog named David and it pretty much made my night.

The final free favorite thing I will share may not be a part of every person’s life but if it is, I know you enjoy it. You see, I am a sleep-talker. I get a huge rise out of hearing my sleep quotes from my roommates or friends. My most famous quote comes from a high school sleepover with my friend Sarah in which I apparently yelled (during slumber) in a silent room, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, I’m trying to catch some z’s!”

Find some free favorites and then you won’t need to stress out about finding out when Oprah’s special episode is being taped. I’ll let you know when I tape my own and believe me the bathrooms will contain only the nicest toilet paper.

I’ve never been one to reserve my superlatives. A few years back “The Towerlight” stopped inviting me to write food reviews because they were too positive. I guess not every hole in the wall deli in the greater-Towson area can be considered ‘Delicious!… with a capital D!’ (Oopsies.)

While there are many things about which I may be very enthusiastic, there is a single aspect of life for which superlatives are meant, for which they should be reserved, maybe even the reason they are created…live music. I have attended concerts three of the past six evenings. Granted, this isn’t exactly typical but it’s certainly been an awesome and stimulating week.  

Concerts are few-hour-long collections of wonder, marvel, and generally, beauty. I can’t think of another readily available activity that can truly engage all five senses, and do so (typically) completely positively. There aren’t many places I would rather be than gazing at a musical performer in a crowd full of rambunctious strangers, and if I’m lucky, a few friends too. The elation found at a concert does not come entirely from the band. I get a great deal of entertainment from the people-watching, performing whatever dance moves I assemble, joining in on any lyrics I know, and oh yeah, the (over-priced) beer.

Some of my favorite characters at concerts usually are among the crowd. I love the “woo-people” who are characterized by reliably always yelling, “Woo!” My friend Will is among this sub-culture. His yelp has earned the name “the Willow Woo.” I’ve also always been fascinated by the finger-whistlers (those who can create a very loud whistle with some combination of fingers). If you aren’t a finger-whistler, I’m pretty sure you’re jealous of those who are (this is one of the many reasons I admire my Aunt Colleen). I even like the raw-screamers because their enthusiasm, while painful at times, is evident and audible to all fellow concert-goers.

Kinesthetically, I also enjoy the head-bobbers, the moshers (but only from a distance), the swayers, and especially the dancers. The head-bobbers are usually the least liberated, comfortable, or familiar with the music but at least they employ a little bit of movement. The moshers are maybe a little too liberated, a little too comfortable and employ a little too much music. I can’t say I’ve ever been adjacent to a mosh pit I welcomed but you certainly can’t accuse them of being unengaged. The swayers are on my good side; however, they often close their eyes. I see (pun intended) it as they’re listening, honing in on the music, and just swaying how they feel. You’ve got to admire lack of inhibition like closing one’s eyes and moving around blindy surrounded by strangers (especially with the moshers so close by).

My favorite concert crowd characters are the dancers, probably partially because I love to dance at concerts and partially because I love to watch other people dance at concerts. Frolicking to live music among people who enjoy the very same live music is a religious experience.

I even enjoy a good “pusher-througher” from time to time but only because of the relationship they yield the “pushed” to forge among one another. The pusher-throughers may shove, they may step on your feet, they may even cause you to stumble but after they pass, you know you’re turning to the person next to you and bonding over, “Can you believe that guy?” It’s almost even better when they come back through so that you can bond over, “And then he has the nerve to come back and step on my other foot!”

Aside from the cast of characters one finds at a music show, is obviously the glory of the music.

The first concert I ever attended was Blink 182 and Greenday. I was about 12 and got an entire beer spilled on my head. There were times that evening during which I could not breathe because of how many people just actively loved, “What’s My Age Again?” but I went home with my raspy voice and my small battered body and I knew immediately that live music was always going to be a part of my life.

There’s really nothing that compares to seeing your favorite band play live. Every time I see the Counting Crows, it’s like Adam Duritz is crooning only to me.

If autumn’s got you down, your ears have been bored lately, or you are just sick of the normal bar scene, check out some live music and find some superlatives to describe it. Baltimore has so much to offer in this wonderful sect of life. Just don’t join the moshers.

“Thanks everybody for coming out!”

Forgive my sappiness; it’s who I am. Sentimentality and emotion, in general, rear their little tearful heads in strange ways sometimes. I’d classify myself as a crier… and so would all of the people who know me. It’s cathartic, it’s an outlet, and most of all - I just cannot help it. We “crying people” typically derive from generations of criers. If one was to watch my gram, my mom, my sister and I view an emotional film we’d be sure to not only make you feel really uncomfortable, we’d also clean you out of your tissue supply.

I’d like to give you a little perspective on my radical emotions by outlining my tear-filled, yet fun, all around joyful weekend.

This past weekend, I traditionally ran the half-marathon with my mom. Also traditionally, I cried at both the start of the race and ended the race. There is something about the strength people exert, the effort runners put forth, and the will that is visible in the faces of others that makes me cry every single year right at the start of the National Anthem, through the cloud of confetti and during the first half mile of the race. After the run I cry out of relief, out of elation and I guess out of misery because I can’t really walk.

However, I wasn’t done for the day. While riding along a suburban road later that night on the way to meet friends, I scraped my tire on the curb. To my wallet’s dismay, my tire popped. Two gracious Marines pulled over and changed my tire for me. They didn’t ask any questions and wanted nothing in return. This rare generosity obviously warranted me crying… and the two Marines becoming really uncomfortable.

Furthermore, on Sunday I finally got around to reading a stranger’s extremely touching comment on my article about signs from last week. I don’t usually receive comments from strangers (though I love them) because most of my readership is likely limited to people on my speed dial in my cell phone. Nevertheless, I was brought to sobbing tears when I read what a Towson sophomore had written in response to my column. She talked about a sign (from a fortune cookie) she had received about a friend with whom she had lost touch. They were set to meet but the estranged acquaintance died suddenly and before their reconnection could take place.

Let’s count them, that’s four separate episodes of crying during one little weekend in which I was completely content and generally in a great mood. For some of us, crying is a just a part of who we are.

Then there are the instances that would make most (heart-containing) people cry. Today I received news that a good friend of mine from my early high school days was killed in a car accident early Tuesday morning. Ashley Jennifer Roberta was a 22-year-old lively and stunningly beautiful being who basically knew all peer-aged residents of Baltimore County. With Ashley by my side, I did my fair share of high school sophomore rule-breaking and can recall a long list of wonderfully hilarious incidents we enjoyed together. I ran into her a few weeks ago. We exchanged current life situations and mentioned a few memories. Heaven knows I’m crying now. And I’m sure a lot of other people are shedding tears too.

In “A League of Their Own,” Tom Hanks’s character, a women’s baseball coach, yells at his team member, “There’s no crying in baseball!” This may be true but as Tom Hanks’s character learns in the movie, it’s best to respect a crier. Don’t question it – we will only cry more. Don’t ask us what’s wrong – we will only cry more. And certainly don’t ever tell a crier to stop crying – we (obviously) will only cry more.

Every now and then, we should all have reason enough to care about something enough to dust off those tear ducts and let it go. Maybe four times in one weekend is excessive but you’d be surprised what a good cry can do for you. And sometimes it’s worth it. Rest in peace, Ashley Roberta, you will be missed by all.

Earlier this week while mentally kicking myself for being so out of shape while physically running the streets of Baltimore, I was looking for a ray of hope to shine on my chances in a race I am (supposed to be) completing this weekend. I looked for my spiritual boost by smiling at hipsters and attempting to appreciate the hound dogs dragged by their urban owners but found no comfort.
I then found myself on a rare city patch of grass and glanced down at the ground in defeat as I waited for a car to pass. I spotted a shiny silver object on the ground, assuming it was an empty gum rapper but hoping for more. I reached down anyway and retrieved the sign I had been seeking….a British 50 pence piece. But this wasn’t just any foreign coin that found its way to the middle of the Eastern United States. This coin was adorned with the Queen of England on one side…and a pair of running legs on the other.
Now I don’t know the ins and outs of the UK currency but I know we don’t have any joggers on our newest quarters. I don’t really know if I will be able to run 13 miles in succession this Saturday but I sure have been carrying that coin since I found it. I guess it’s not like I could really spend it here but I plan on keeping it as my good luck charm.
I like signs. I don’t know if I really, really believe in them but isn’t a heads up penny sometimes a little exciting?
I guess I could explain my thoughts on signs as a hybrid between absolutely known-placebo and total worship.
Nature provides the most telling signs. For example, some believe that a full moon may serve as an aphrodisiac or at least a romantic addition to an otherwise dull date. A grapefruit-colored sunrise can lift one’s expectation for a day and who could possibly deny the power of a sunset in the shade of a tangerine?  Yearly people are waiting for the first “sign” of spring. We all know it is coming but we need that sign to know that we’re all going to be okay.
I think that people who have recently deceased relatives probably see the most signs. And those are the kind I probably most believe in. The other day at a Chinese restaurant while cracking open a pair of fortunes, my friend Katie read her stereotypically optimistic fortune and flipped it over to find only the word, “father.” We mutually decided that her father ¬who passed away just a couple of years ago was saying hello through the medium of P.F. Chang’s desserts. Furthermore, my friend Will hears from his late mother in various ways such as songs.
Then there are the ever-present “horoscope people” who read them daily, follow them closely, and believe that every aspect of a Capricorn is shared by all of its babies. Every time a member of this category hears the word “signs,” it is immediately attached to the time of the year one was born and which section of the sky to which they should have allegiance. Being that I am a Capricorn, I know nothing about my sign and don’t necessary give the zodiac any credit for my character traits but I do think the word “Capricorn” is pretty cool so I welcome its label.
As far as signs go, I will continue to be a non-believing believer and I certainly will not try to exchange my 50 pence piece, in fact I may just find a way to keep it in my shoe during Saturday’s race. If you find your way downtown Saturday morning, look for me, I will be the one with a large foreign coin throwing off my stride.

An omnipresent (but very minor) part of our lives often goes unnoticed - therein lies the strong but subliminal power of advertisements. If I mention the Kool-Aid man, I’m sure you know exactly whom I am talking about. You know he’s red, you know he is a juice pitcher and you may even know that he has eyebrows. Why do we know so much about this fictional, cherry-red character that is only shown to us in 30-second spurts? Because brand mascots’ influences are maybe stronger than we may recognize.

Some brand mascots that may date back as far as the Kool-Aid man include the Pillsbury Dough Boy, the Snuggles bear and the Trix Rabbit. If someone pokes you in the stomach (albeit, a little degrading), do you not consider replying with a, “hoo-hoo?” This is our natural response because that chubby, white, puffy something-or-other has been our consistent acquaintance since childhood. His 30-second commercial spot intermingled with views of fresh crescent rolls and joyous times with family - who wouldn’t want to be his relative?

I recall a girl in my second grade class being a source of my jealousy because she owned a teddy that looked just like the bear from the Snuggles commercials. He was so adorable! And furthermore, his commercials made him look like the very best friend in the entire world. Who wouldn’t want to snuggle with that guy? I’m pretty sure he was the source of my childhood best friend Amanda’s cat’s name. A creature that she foresaw owning for 15-plus years was named after a fake teddy bear that entered our homes temporarily during bad Friday night sitcoms.

I never really was fond of that Trix Rabbit, and neither were those kids, always telling him that he was “silly” and he couldn’t have the Trix. I mean, I don’t really understand their stingy nature. If a giant rabbit approached me asking for a high-sugar cereal, I’d surely oblige no matter how “silly” he seemed to be.

Cereal seems to be the most represented genre for brand mascots. Perhaps this is because we are trained to have dreams containing the Lucky Charms leprechaun, Tony the Tiger or Cap’n Crunch (or nightmares containing Count-Chocula) and then wake up subconsciously ready to eat a big bowl of well-represented cereal. I always liked the squirrel dancing around with Honey Nut Clusters.

There are also the brand mascot groups that spread the name of their respective brands with multiple characters. M&M’S have been rocking this group theme for years, with the green one always batting her eyelashes as the “feM&M” (pun intended). The Fanta girls furthered this trend with their annoyingly catchy song. I’m not sure how many people actually drink Fanta but I can almost guarantee that number is less than the number of people that could easily croon the theme song. One of the most marketable aspects, I think, of brand mascot groups is that they make the perfect Halloween costumes for teen and pre-teen girls. This demographic particularly enjoys dressing as slightly different versions of one another for Halloween. I know that there is an orange M&M costume collecting dust on its candy shell in my parents’ attic.

The singular brand mascot also works as a Halloween costume but it may take more guts to go out dressed as the Pillsbury Dough Boy than it would being the purple Fanta girl along with four of your friends.

Animals have proven to be valid brand mascots, possibly spawn from the Chihuahua of Taco Bell. I hold him partially responsible for the revolution of Hollywood actresses toting around these barely attractive, tiny dogs. And it’s impossible to go a week without hearing Geico’s gecko and his rendition of an Australian amphibian.

The most recent strange choice of a brand mascot is the NFL’s robot. He never speaks and doesn’t have a face yet continues to dance, pick up new accessories and remain in the left-hand corner of our Sunday screens. I suppose he is a valid choice since there isn’t an NFL team named the Robots but I have to say he is low on my list. I wouldn’t want to snuggle with him, I wouldn’t want to poke his belly to evoke a noise, and I sure would not dress up as him for Halloween, it’d be far too heavy.

I am just going to be straightforward – I love license plates. I like looking at them. I like pronouncing the nonsense words they bare. I like adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing the numbers. Sometimes I even find a good square root on a license plate (if there is a 49 adjacent to a seven, you better believe I am smiling). I also enjoy a good vanity plate from time to time though, have you ever been to Virginia?
They must be handing out vanity plates for free… it’s a little overwhelming for a license plate admirer.
So as I zoned out into a license plate stupor the other day, I started thinking about all of the ways we must constantly identify ourselves, even by way of our belongings. In a contemporary lifetime, one must accrue at least 50 usernames and passwords.
This is all fine, well, and good, but you can’t usually use the same one for everything.
I don’t know anyone else named “Amanda Doran” but clearly my namesakes are out there and they are rapidly creating user accounts on various Web sites. Usually the site will suggest a username for me after I’ve been shot down seven times along the lines of “amandadoran78.”
Who are these other 77 Amanda Dorans?
This is how I ended up with a completely nonsensical email address that no one can understand, remember, or even copy and paste.
I alternated the letters of my first name and my last name into one long awkward vowel-consonant concoction (admoarnadna – practically impossible to process).
 We’re also all familiar with (or very confused by) the little requirements for passwords: four numbers, three uppercase letters, nine lowercase letters, one symbol…. and a drop of blood.
Passwords should be more accepting in my opinion but they never are.

Once you have a great one you’ve been using for years that somehow magically spans all requirements across the universe, the powers that be make you change it every 150 days or every new moon or every time you sneeze.
Then we move on to the security questions, which just seem to be getting stranger.
“What’s your father’s middle name?” “What’s your favorite color?” “What was your great, great grandparents’ religion?” “What is your normal body temperature?”
Okay, maybe I exaggerate a bit but sometimes I find myself staring at the bank Web site trying to remember the first instrument I played.
(In case you were wondering, it was the recorder.)
It doesn’t stop with the Web sites though and there are many more ways we are identified by combinations of numbers and letters.
We have social security numbers (though my social security card is floating somewhere around Athens, Greece), phone numbers, credit card numbers, email addresses, user names, user IDs and of course, license plates.
We are constantly identifying and then proving who we are through awkward passwords and security questions.
Just 50 years ago, a person probably had two or three of what we have 12 or 13.
Who can keep track of all of this?
I’ve considered writing it all down somewhere but what if this “master list” or “password key” were to get into the wrong hands? One human could have access to all that is Amanda Doran (78).
This is too hazardous. So, maybe I will hire a secretary (when I finally acquire my own job) if only to keep track of all that I am in the electronic and business world because frankly, I can’t always remember.
In the meantime, I am going to continue enjoying your license plates…now that you have my email address, go-to security questions, default user names, and the whereabouts of my social security card.
Just don’t use “the first instrument I played” against me.

With all of the reflecting that surrounds the process of student teaching and teaching in general, I found it coincidental to the point of laughing to myself that one of my students’ vocabulary words this week is “reflect.” It was almost haunting.

As student teachers, we reflect on lessons, we reflect on the results of lessons, we reflect on the results of the results and sometimes we take it as far as to reflect on the reflections.

I typed out the (surprisingly depressing) example sentence provided by the curriculum: “As one grows older, one reflects back on all one has accomplished and not accomplished in one’s life.”

Immediately, I was sent into a daydream of a dreamy night a couple of years ago.

I thought of a yonder New Year’s past with some of my very favorite Baltimoreans, transplanted to the North Carolina and Virginia border.

We were on a dock over a lake and having light-hearted champagne-induced chat. We all began offering our New Year’s resolutions. These excited examples began with exclamations like, “I’m going to not snack between meals anymore!,” “I am going to start waking up for sunsets!” and “I’m going to stop drinking on Mondays!”

This early morning circle reflection began to spiral down to depressing and before we could pass the Andre bottle all the way around once more, we began saying things like “I’m going to stop settling for less than I deserve!,” “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer anymore!,” and “I can’t keep losing at my own life!”

I began to think, if we can reflect and think back so often, why don’t we resolve just as much, if not more often? Why don’t we make as many resolutions as we are forced to make reflections?

I mean I suppose resolutions would lose their sting if we thought of one every Sunday or even one for every bi-weekly paycheck.

And how many things can one person resolve to do during a given time? I can pretty much count on stopping at remembering to resolve to set up the coffee maker at night and do most, occasionally all, of the homework I intend to do in a given evening. But really, if we have to keep thinking back, can’t we also think forward?

Maybe after graduation I can get organized enough to focus on monthly resolutions.

I understand the cleansing nature of January 1st and a new year but each new month sounds like a good excuse to change a pattern, mend a habit, or alter an old routine.

I get a little bit keyed up every time the month changes. Who wouldn’t? You flip the calendar page and get to stare at a new puppy, meadow or image of your favorite pop star.

You pay rent and then you don’t have to think about it for four more weeks! Even just the new calendar page seems reason enough to resolve to do something better.

It’s a little late for a September resolution but maybe in October I can stop picking apart my split ends, cease to bite my nails, or even better, become cautious enough to not spill whatever I am eating or drinking on my clothes.

I’m not saying that we’re all so imperfect that we need 12 radical changes in a year because let’s be honest, most of them won’t stick but it couldn’t hurt anybody to take a glance at the future and think about a change that could improve it.

So as I picture my friend Will, circa very early 2007, gripping a bottle of Andre and yelling a heart-felt resolution to all of his closest friends, how can I not think that is a great idea?

So however sappy it may sound, I am going to save the reflections for teaching right now and look ahead for resolutions.

Maybe I will even lobby for “resolve” to be on the vocabulary list for next week.