I need this shirt!

Strong Evidence Supporting The Fact That I Should Either Be Nominated For "What Not to Wear" or Put on Medication

For the past couple of nights, I have donned Christmas pajama pants. They are somewhat subtle. The lightweight, cozy material is colored a soft, bath bead green and accented with white and watery and grassy colored triangle trees. And snowflakes. In all honesty, they more closely resemble flowers, but, as they are clearly wintery pants, that doesn't make the most sense ever. You might not know they are holiday pants from, say, 15 feet away. And because it's not yet Black Friday and there is currently no snow on the ground, every time I put them on, the first thought that pops into my head is, "I really hope I don't die in my sleep tonight, because it'd be awful embarrassing to be found dead wearing Christmas attire prematurely." Then I rationalize my decision by assuring myself that it'd be even more humiliating if it were to happen in July, so I haven't yet hit rock bottom. Plus, I probably won't care so much if I'm dead. So then I realize that the situations I should actually concern myself with are ones that I will potentially survive to realize that my faux pas has been exposed, such as a fire or sudden overnight kidney failure or falling off the couch and giving myself a concussion. And then I start to ponder what life will be like when the fire engulfs my house to the extent that I am forced to wear my Christmas pants until the insurance money comes in or someone decides to lend me a pair of jeans (and hopefully a bra, as I'd likely be out of one of those, as well.) Sometimes, it is tiring inside my head.

On a similar note, the other day I wore a hot pink tank top under a lavender t-shirt shirt under a red sweatshirt, accented by green and blue striped socks. While it should be noted that the tank top, t-shirt, and socks were never visible, it just felt so wrong. If only I weren't hindered by severe time constraints and an unfortunate aversion to washing clothes beyond those necessary for work (hence the green socks, which perfectly matched my work polo that I decided to shed because layering green, red, and pink shirts struck me as an unflattering and cheap combination of Christmas + Valentine's Day. And, again, we haven't even hit Thanksgiving yet, people. Plus, I like to take off my work clothes, no matter what they are, as soon as I clock out for the day, for some unexplored reason. It helps me relax, maybe. Socks seem to be the exception.) So, throw "unforgivably mismatched outfit" into the "unfortunate attire to sport while meeting one's death" category and add "horrific car accident or falling down (or up) the stairs in front of a room full of high school kids or being abducted and dumped in a ditch" into the "catastrophic event" slot of the abovementioned scenario, and you'll have a pretty clear idea of what played out in my brain as I was rushing out of the house.

I may be a wee bit crazy, but I often keep myself entertained.

(from this week's postsecret)

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

Apparently not too much. One would think, considering that I am going to be paying for this degree until I die, that I would, at the very least, possess competent spelling abilities. I bet I edit my posts an average of 3 times for silly spelling errors and still miss some. I suck at life!

The Internet is for . . . Bush Bashing?

Last weekend, in an attempt to entertain my younger brother, I started looking for the rumored, um, adult site that can be accessed by typing whitehouse.com or .org or .something. (I do feel the need to justify my actions and explain that it's not as though we intended to look at pictures or anything. I just merely wanted to see if it existed as stated.) Needless to say, we did not stumble upon the supposed site. We did come across some fairly interesting findings. We especially enjoyed the kids' letters to the president. We are suckers for anything bearing the phrase "tee hee" because it reminds us of the good ole days, when I used to encourage Brett to run around the house, flicking his wrist and squealing like a southern school gal when he was around 5 or maybe 10 years old. I bet my father would consider permitting my mother to get a new kitten (we fear she is two steps away from becoming a crazy cat lady at such a young age) if she promised to name it President Bush.

Anyway, I found what I read of the site to be rather humorous. I'm all for satire, parody, smart, and even not so smart humor. When we filled my card-carrying conservative father in about what we were looking at, he muttered something about disgusting filth. I attempted to briefly explain satire's place in society and the canon through Swift's "A Modest Proposal," but he would have none of it. I quickly realized that republicans probably don't sympathize too much with the poor Irish folks who are all already dead, so I kind of gave up.

In terms of politics, when prompted, I will sometimes claim to be the most moderate person you've ever met. (Of late, this title that I have bestowed upon myself is becoming increasingly inaccurate.) I am a registered independent and have no intentions of declaring a party alliance anytime soon. I don't really care that much about money matters (beyond having enough of my own to support myself), I can't imagine living long enough to collect social security (though I do wish the elderly were currently being better supported), and I can (sometimes, though it is becoming increasingly difficult) see both sides of the war. I think most effective politicians are showy smooth-talkers and I don't think liars are cool, so I remain a bit put off by politics in general. I tend to let factors like candidates' backgrounds, looks, families, and speech-delivering abilities mildly affect my decision about whom to support. I refused to vote for Kerry because he gives off a skeevy vibe and his wife seems like a nasty lady, though I didn't mind John Edwards because he is kinda cute and has a dead son. (And yes, with that statement, I acknowledge that I am probably invalidating any point I am trying to make, if indeed I even have one, with my admission of ridiculous and thoughtless decisions. Such is life.) As far as republicans go, I enjoy John McCain because he seems to be a middle of the liner, plus he's a cute old guy who was a POW in Vietnam.

Admittedly, I have refrained from becoming especially invested or well-versed in a lot of the issues. Those more aggressively involved in politics may fault me for taking the easy way out and refusing to take sides more often than not. That's fine. I can take it. I can admit it, even. I think our society still, albeit more subtly, dictates that girls shouldn't necessarily hold strong opinions. "Nice" girls don't discuss politics and religion, right? Anyway, I have no intentions of launching into a lengthy feminist diatribe. I do believe that, at first, my moderate views resulted from my desire to be utterly inoffensive and universally accepted. During the latter part of my teenage years and the very early part of my early adulthood, I transformed from a loud, vivacious, and, at times, slightly obnoxious girl to a mumbling someone who constantly played with her hair and could barely make eye contact or speak without covering her mouth with her hand. This change in demeanor was also accompanied by a complete disinterest in expressing or even holding any strong opinions about much of anything.

Now that I'm old and wise and no longer consumed by such an insane degree of self-consciousness, I try to retain my moderate status for more empowering reasons. I like refusing to allow a group of people to attempt to dictate my beliefs regarding a particular issue. I like considering both sides, weighing the positives and negatives and sometimes refusing to pick the lesser of two evils. I like disliking both President Bush and Michael Moore. I recognize that this is overly simplistic and that many people do not blindly follow party lines, but many do.

At the same time, I may be becoming a bit radical. My father would love to be BFF with GWB and my younger sister is in a conservative cult at Penn State. (No matter how much I disagree with her political beliefs, I can give her props for figuring out what they are and rolling with it.) The tv in my parents' room is left on Fox News for approximately 19 hours each day. Needless to say, for entertainment purposes, someone has to play devil's advocate and get everyone worked up every once in a while. (And, yes, I have few friends/no life.) Most recently, we have been going at it about gay rights and abortion, because I seem to get most riled up about those two topics. I won't go into the conversations, but we never get anywhere. I will say that choosing to have an abortion, in my opinion, is a very personal, complicated, and potentially haunting decision. I believe that, ultimately, beyond the messy debates over when life begins and who's killing whom, denying women this right will set our gender back about 40 years. At the same time, I can respect the opinions of others, especially concerning such a touchy and emotional issue that is often deep rooted in people's beliefs. I do tend to get a bit fiery in the comfort of my own home, though.

So the other night, some anti-abortion group called our house and spoke with my mother. My first reaction was, "what kind of mailing/calling lists did my father put us on?," which was quickly followed by, "oh, she should have let me talk to them." They called back a few days later, and I regretfully did not answer the phone. Apparently, they were calling regarding the $30.00 pledge my mother made during their previous conversation. Ooooh. So not cool. She claims she just made it to get them to shut up and had no intentions of paying them. (Of course, providing a perfect example of an adherence to the rule that women should play nice rather than risk offending someone with what they truly think.) This morning, my father started talking about how some man named Sam will hopefully be the newest Supreme Court Justice and stick it to Row v. Wade. I gave him my standard, "Well, then I'll be moving to D.C. to protest in an 'I Heart my Vagina' tee," response. Then, I explained if the crazies call back and I happen to answer the phone, I will respond with, "I think you have the wrong house. This is what we do for fun here," and immediately start singing, "kill the babies" to the tune of "Oh My Darling, Clementine." And, yes, I sang it out. My father was far from impressed. Maybe I should have changed the lyrics to "terminate the pregnancies," but there are too many syllables and I've never been one to speak in euphamisms. My brother and I were amused (it doesn't take much), though I worry that the little ditty may have been a "had to be there" moment that comes off as harsh, less than articulate, and one-sided on paper (well, computer screen). For the record, I actually enjoy babies and do not promote the killing of anything. (I was even a tiny bit saddened when I was forced to squash a spider to spare a coworker's sanity the other day. She ran away from her desk, screaming, "Sara, if you don't want to be working by yourself today, you need to kill that thing." Poor little dude.) Ultimately, I had a strong reaction based on a firm belief, and for that, I will remain unapologetic.

I Feel Your Pain, Hester Prynne

The low carb kick in my office has (at least temporarily) ended. We are playing a version of The Biggest Loser, eye doctors' office style. The competition started 2.5 weeks ago and will last until Christmas break. Everyone, with the exception of 3 people, is participating, including the doctors. The rules are as follows:

1. Liz is the official weigher inner. I assume she was chosen because she seems to be the least gossipy/catty/interested in what anyone else weighs.
2. One must pay $1.00 weekly to participate.
3. One must pay $1.00 for each pound that is gained at the weekly weigh in. (I, being a slightly masochistic dumbass who tends to get a bit overexcited about new weight loss games, created this rule.)
4. If one loses weight, one must choose a colorful star sticker bearing an encouraging word to display on one's nametag for the duration of the week. I was Super Sara for week one. Apparently, due to the fact that they are men or the bosses or people who get to wear lab coats with their names embroidered, this rule does not apply to the doctors.
5. If one gains weight, one must choose a letter sticker that represents an unflattering word to display on one's nametag for the duration of the week. This rule was fashioned in an homage to The Scarlet Letter. This week, I am "h" Sara. I chose "h" due to a limited number of "f's," (too many gainers for our measly sticker supply) and because it is so versatile, potentially standing for huge, heavy, heaviest, hippo, humongous, hippy, etc. The doctors also do not have to participate in our oh so literary take on public humiliation, despite my protests.
6. If one maintains the same weight for two consecutive weeks, one must pay $1.00.
7. If one chooses to quit participating at any point in the competition, one must pay $20.00.
8. At the conclusion of the competition, the person who loses the most weight profits from everyone else's failures. I lobbied (okay, whined) rather intensely at the beginning for the results to be based on percentage of weight lost, rather than total pounds. I had a few people on my team, but was sadly overruled by the greater game authorities. As this was my only realistic hope in coming close winning, I am aware that I am likely wasting my money. Oh, well.(I sometimes consider trying to instate a no laxatives clause, as some people think they are fun, but they seem to be far my idea of a good time. No need to piss anyone off, though.)

So, I was down 3 lbs week one, and up 6 lbs week two (probably due to some dunkin donuts, some taco dip, some kickboxing skipping, way too much beer and an unfortunate decision to move the weigh in to Monday. I was down 3 lbs by the next day, but was not permitted to reweigh. The brats . . .) I think it is funny. I am out $9.00 so far. It'll be interesting to see how things progress.

*** Note: I stand corrected. One of the doctors was sporting the letter "f" on his lapel today. Either I am a dirty, less than observant liar, or someone guilted him into it between yesterday and today, because I hadn't noticed it.***

I'm a Big Kid Now

Last night, I acted a slightly out of character. College friends, prepare yourselves for a shock.

I ordered a soda at a bar. And, yes, I am almost positive that it was the first time I've ever done such a thing. Crazy, huh? I had 2 1/2 beers in like 4 hours and stopped. Granted, I was exhausted and sick and already had a headache. But it's not like that has ever held me back in the past.

I just might be maturing.

Next thing you know, I'll be showing up to the bar in pantyhose and ordering gin and tonics.

A (Couple of) Day(s) in the Life

I haven't done a very good job of keeping this thing updated, but I'm going to make great attempts to be more consistent.

Thoughts/Observations/Updates (I apologize for the lack of central theme or anything especially interesting. It happens.)

I've made it through 5 weeks at the new job. I am feeling much more comfortable there and a lot less stupid, though there are still some things I am uncertain about. I think I may be solidifying my spot as the person with the least common sense to ever work there, though. (I think I can claim this position in just about any group of people I am placed in.) Many have witnessed me struggle with pulling down/putting up the blinds in my window on multiple occasions. (Apparently, pulling the string to either the right or left will make the blinds lock at the top or fall down. I had no idea there was a system involved.) Other simple tasks that I have failed to master include, but are not limited to, loading paper into the old school printer, loading tape into a calculator, changing staples on a humongous stapler, and figuring out how to restart my computer and phone after I accidentially unplugged them. I think it takes some talent to be this clueless about ridiculously simple tasks.

I like my job because I get to use stickers and highlighters and vary my writing style. Sometimes I play a game in my head where I try to mimic the handwriting of the last person who wrote in the chart. There is quite a variety, as I am apparently the 19th person hired to work in the front office in the last couple of years.

I think this job is good for me because mistakes are inevitable. They are certainly to be avoided at all costs, but they do happen. I have made them, and the world hasn't ended. There is no time to focus on making something look perfect or sound perfect because there is so much going on. Sometimes, you stumble over your words on the phone and sound like a bit of an idiot. Sometimes patients get mad and call you stupid. Scheduling errors sometimes occur. Ultimately, there is no time to berate yourself for looking/sounding/being stupid. I think it's an excellent type of workplace for me right now. I find myself feeling less anxious in a more hectic and high-pressure environment. Go figure.

I have been sick since Sunday. Just a cold, but it definitely sucked at first. It felt like a small child was sitting on my lungs for the first couple of days. Tylenol Cold actually works, and I now recommend it. Of course, people at works weren't especially pleased to have a sneezing and coughing person in their presence, and it was made clear that I was not to infect anyone else. Um, okay. I don't think I did, so I guess I win. I kept waking up last night with coughing fits, which was a blast. I caught Murphy Brown and half of Who's the Boss on Nick@Nite from 3:00 - 3:45. I don't know why they put the decent shows on at ridiculous hours. My mother is convinced that this cold was only supposed to last 3 days, so she keeps asking me if I've been taking my vitamins.

Kickboxing has been going on for a month, and I haven't skipped yet. I intend to stick it out to the end this time, even though it is brutal. There are only around 10 people who come to class, which is a whole lot less than the norm. So we dutifully show up, and she tries to kill us. We do a ridiculous number of squats, and I make mean faces at her. It's definitely a workout, and I do feel accomplished when we're finished. If you've ever attempted to do Tai Bo with me and find yourself curious about my punching abilities, yes, I still throw somewhat wimpy punches. I'm a hardcore kicker, though.

Every Wednesday night, I find myself feeling envious of Lost watchers.

I have been trying to figure out which type of old person I will be. The broad categorizations seem to be grumpy, cute, or crazy, though some people might manage to transcend the boundaries and fall into more than one. I'm thinking I will be a crazy, and I love it. I will hopefully be an endearing crazy and not a batshit crazy. I guess I am making progress, as I never wanted to live to be old before. But the prospect of being an eccentric and entertaining old lady has me half convinced.

I hate the state of Oregon because someone there won the ridiculously huge Powerball and I didn't.

Some girls at work started doing the Atkins diet this week. I guess they don't know that low-carb is so a year and a half ago. The new trend is to eat whole grains, according to Self or Fitness or some similar magazine. I think I might believe it, too, because I saw whole grain Chips Ahoy in Wal-Mart the other day. I bet they taste super. I personally don't believe that whole grains really aid in weight loss efforts, but they do seem healthy. So if health is truly your goal, jump on the latest bandwagon, gals. Anyway, I think low-carb diets are dumb in the long run, but maybe it is because I am weak willed. To each his own. So whenever I am asked if I am going to join in, I supress the urge to roll my eyes and profess my love for bread. White bread, at that. And beer. I'm such a rebel.

I miss my friends.

Dream On

Last Saturday night I fell asleep on the couch at approximately 10:30, to the sound of a schitzophrenic woman cryptically assisting police in catching her rapist on Law and Order SVU. I know, my Saturday evenings are the envy of many. At 12:30ish, my sister's cellphone started obnoxiously blaring the Chinese song from The Nutcracker, and I kind of woke up. (I always wanted to be in the Chinese dance in high school productions, by the way, but it never played out. Considering that the choreography usually called for two decent enough people en pointe (it didn't seem to change too much through the years), this is no surprise. I was, however, once cast as a soldier in pointe shoes. And let me tell you, wearing a costume that consisted of only a medium-sized white leotard, white tights, and tiny cropped jacket was more than slightly mortifying and definitely less than flattering on my big girl figure.)

Anyway, when I sort of woke up, the first thing I did was assure myself that no one I know owns a light gray station wagon introduced in the late 70's. And I felt temporarily relieved. The next thing I heard was my sister asking, "Sara, why are you crying? Wake up." To which I responded, "I'm not crying. I'm fake crying." (Still in a daze, of course. At least, I hope.) Oh, I was making some freaky noises - some combination of moaning and wailing. It sounded something like, "ooohhh" or "whoooo" or "awwww," high-pitched, fast-paced, and loud. When I finally sat up and stopped moping, I relayed the dream sequence to my sister. Since I still remember it vividly today, I figured I might as well share it.

Part 1. Definitely in black and white. Names withheld to protect the innocent.

A friend breaks up with her boyfriend, but they remain friendly. Friend and I visit ex's work because we both formerly worked there. Ex sees friend and starts pdaing with his new woman/coworker. He is an obnoxious ass. Friend becomes very upset and runs away, leaving me feeling a bit awkward. I decide it is in my best interest to drive off in a little gray station wagon that can't be worth more than $500.00, tops. I justify my grand theft auto by telling myself that it could be my great aunt's car, and she wouldn't mind.

Part 2. In color.

Someone is chasing me. I am still driving in the stolen, puttering wagon. Maybe the rightful owners of the car took someone else's and are tailing me. More often than not, someone is chasing me in my dreams, so I'm not surprised. (Yes, even my dreams are anxiety-ridden.) I am driving fast (something I don't enjoy or do particularly well), out of necessity, and I happen upon a familiar place. I think it is the PA Grand Canyon. As in, I have to drive across the bottom of the canyon. I guess it's dry down there. There is a fork in the "road," and I have to veer to the right, rather than the left, due to construction roadblocks. I have never traveled down this path before. The road is windy and narrow, and I could use some Xanax because I am forced to continue speeding. Then, I drive into a building. I don't crash into it; it is a building that is meant to be driven through. Inside, there is a car obstacle course. I maneuver through it well enough, and I even kind of enjoy driving across the multi-colored plastic balls that seemed to be stolen from the McDonald's play area. To complete the final obstacle, I attempt to drive over a giant pool of water on a bridge that is maybe half the width of my car. I somehow manage to drive across for a total of 2 or 3 seconds before my car plummets. The water is fairly deep; my car is entirely engulfed. I get out fairly easily, though I don't recall how. I hop off the side of the pool and start running, even though I'm no longer being followed. I feel guilty about leaving the car in the water, but I don't really have a choice. As I jog toward the exit, I cross a red line on the now gymnasium floor. A huge flag unfolds at the top of the doorway, similarly to the "STOP, FORREST" reminder at Gump's college football games. It reads, "CONGRATULATIONS WEIS EMPLOYEES!" I then feel extremely guilty because I am trespassing at the location of the grocery store workers' family fun day. I realize that the course is most likely not intended for cars, and I feel kind of stupid. I am relieved that I am alone. I am saddened to think that I have squashed so many of the stupid plastic balls. Dirty and deflated balls make for a less than ideal play area for kids. I worry that the car rusting in the pool will be a safety hazzard and that they won't be able to reposition the flag for its rightful viewers.

Part 3. Also in color.

I am home and extremely excited. I tell my mom that we have to book our initial plane tickets to go on The Amazing Race: Family Edition. I head to the computer and suggest that we purchase them through buytickets.com. (How very uncreative of my subconscious.) She hesitates and then says, "Well . . ." in the sing-songy, "I take no responsibility for my actions" voice she uses when she "borrows" half a pack of my cigarettes overnight or eats/gives away the remainder of a food item I've purchased. (The latter is an abhorrent sin, in my opinion. I am a strict believer in the unspoken rule of one. As in, if one should choose to eat someone else's food or drink someone's soda, one must be certain that there is at least one of the items remaining. It's common courtesy.) She cheerfully explains, "We were supposed to meet with the producers yesterday, but I declined because the Superbowl was on and your dad and sister wouldn't want to miss it." Being far from a fan of team sports, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my entire life, and I make it known. In shock, I go to the CBS website and confirm that our pictures are no longer up. And then, I start wailing.

So, yes, I fake sobbed for a lengthy enough period of time because I wouldn't be the newest face of reality television. I'm not so sure I want to know what that indicates about my character.

If I Were a Rich Girl

I spend too much time pondering what I will do when I win the lottery. This is a somewhat embarrassing admission, as I usually take pride in being a more or less realistic person who can accept the world/my life for what it is without feeling the need to cloud my vision with rose/grey/rainbow tinted glasses. (Of course, this does not necessarily apply to times when I have had a few too many drinks or to my crazy period, circa late 2001 through early 2003.) I really don't like money and don't have any driving need for an exorbitant number of material possessions. I'd just like to pay off my bills, pay off my parents' bills, buy a decent car, move into my own place, and go back to school. Okay, I'd also like an ipod and a treadmill and a vacation. And maybe I'd like to go to school for forever and to only choose to work if I truly loved what I was doing. I fully comprehend that having money does not in any way guarantee contentedness, and one would have to be somewhat silly to assume otherwise. (See: Citizen Kane, The Great Gatsby, any John Cheever short story, MaryKate Olsen, etc.) What having some money should provide, however, is a certain amount of security and stability that would be very useful at this point in my life. Of course, there a few other, more realistic courses of action.

1. Quit smoking. According to this handy calculator, I would save approximately $159.38 per month and $1939.60 per year. To be honest, to see/type that amount of money makes me cringe a bit. However, that extra two grand would probably have to be poured into massive amounts of therapy and new clothes, as I would clearly a) get fat and b) go nuts (likely from a combination of living at home without smoking + dealing with work without smoking + gaining weight). The risk outweighs the cost. Sad, yes. Pathetic, sure. True, nonetheless.
2. Break my caffeine addiction. If I purchase 6 twelve packs of diet soda per week at approximately $3.00 each and spend maybe $10.00 on convenience store coffee/bottles of soda, it works out to $112.00 each month and $1344.00 per year. Again, I admit it seems a tad excessive. Similarly, I don't think it's worth the misery that a caffeine-free existence might entail. To my credit, I drink more water than soda at work now. And I could work on cutting back.
3. Pick up a second job. This may be my most doable option at this point. As I am now released from the federal government's requirements which prohibited me from picking up additional work last year, I feel kind of guilty about having free time and so much debt. Any extra money, even that from a minimum wage position, would help. More work, however, would exponentially heighten the burnout potential, as I already have a hard time making it past 9:30 when Friday evening rolls around. I may adjust to working and being "on" more often than not, though. Plenty of people do it. It would also be a hindrance to my social life, which would potentially be another cause for concern, if it exhisted on any level at the moment.
4. Reality television. Um, yeah. My mother suggests I apply for this show. Apparently they advertise in the Elmira Star Gazette, if that says anything about its potential for quality. And while I'm sure it'd be lovely to share all of my specific money woes with the world in an effort to make everyone else who is luckier or more frugal than I am feel better about themselves, I just don't think my "story" would be all that interesting. Plus, I'm not pretty enough for tv. And it doesn't appear as though the debt or any portion of it would be eliminated. I'd be willing to apply for The Amazing Race though. Anyone looking for a partner with no navigational skills who can't drive stick? Or Survivor. If I do win the lottery, I think I will send in an application. Being a millionaire will be my hook. I'll lie and play innocent/dumb/poor and all of the non-millionaires will be pissed when starvation eats my brain and I somehow accidentially reveal that I'm actually set for life. I'll give any money I win away, of course. See, there I go again . . .

Any other suggestions?

Reiterations

A- AREA CODE YOU ARE IN RIGHT NOW: 570
B- BIRTHDAY: June 7
C- CURRENT CLOTHES : jeans and a hoodie . . . my non-working staples
D- FAVORITE DRINK: Miller Lite or Amaretto Sours (when I am drunk enough to not care about the calories)
E- EATING CURRENTLY: drinking a diet mountain dew
F- FAVORITE FOOD: pepperoni pizza or dunkin donuts plain bagels
G- WHO DO YOU GO TO FOR ADVICE?: umm . . . I don't have enough money to pay anyone to listen to me right now
H- CURRENT HATRED: money (or the limitations its absence forces on one's life)
I- I THINK: I am worn out
J- CURRENT JOB: working at the front desk of an eye doctor's office (looking to pick up some weekend work, as well)
K- ANY KIDS: much to my mother's dismay, no
L- I LOVE: feeling warm
M- FAVORITE TYPE OF MUSIC: eh, I'm not too picky
N- NICKNAMES: none that have stuck . . . my name is too short and boring to shorten
O- OLDEST SIBLING: I am
P- FAVORITE PERFUME/COLOGNE: Victoria's Secret Love Spell
Q- A LITTLE QUIRK ABOUT YOURSELF: I can't snap my fingers
R- REASON TO SMILE: life could be worse
S- FAVORITE SONG CURRENTLY: Does it have to be a current song? Out here in the middle of nowhere, our one radio station plays about 20 songs total per day. And, the radio in my car doesn't work, so I'm working on limited exposure. Back in the day when I worked at an office where we could to music other than classical, I liked "Breathe 2 AM" quite a bit.
T- FAVORITE TV SHOW: Nip/Tuck
U- UNICORN OR HEFFALUMP: heffalump . . . unicorns are too mainstream
V- VEGETABLE YOU HATE: all of them, except corn on the cob and iceburg lettuce
W- WISHFUL THINKING: to go back to school/find a decent job/win the lottery (it doesn't necessarily have to happen in that order)
X- XRAYS YOU'VE HAD: um, wrist, ankle, chest, I think
Y- YOUR FAVORITE YEAR OF YOUR LIFE: this just makes me sad because my memory seems to fail me more often than not
Z- ZODIAC SIGN: gemini

Despite Plot Holes and Implausibility, Dead Fat People Get Me Every Time

So I watched a tv show last night and it fucked with my head. Will elaborate more when I can better pinpoint why it bothered me so much.

Attention All Chubby Chasers

Three weeks ago, I came to the unfortunate realization that I managed to gain 7 lbs in one month. I'm pretty sure this takes some major talent. (Or possibly a bum thyroid, but I'm fairly certain my diet of dunkin donuts, kit kats, and pizza might be the true culprit.) I talk about the weight gain nonchalantly, and I guess I have a positive enough attitude about it. My clothes still fit and people give me confused looks and tell me they don't believe it when it comes up in casual conversation. (I have well-documented proof, damn it!) The gain has only brought me back up to my body's apparent "set-weight," if one believes in such a thing . . . a comfortable enough place where I either have to consciously eat way too much or diet rigorously to enact major changes. (And hey, if I were to have enough money/humility/self-control to join weight watchers, I would get two extra points from the get go.)

I'd like to not care, to roll with it and accept what happens. However, I seem to feel the need to possess a quantifiable goal in my life at the moment, and I can't come up with anything better than losing the weight/becoming thin/blahblahblah. Seriously, it gets old. I am sickened by the almost universal obsession with thinness purported by American women. I mean, really, what the hell does it matter? There are about 10 women who work in my office, who range from rather thin to moderately overweight, and one of the most prevalent types of nonwork-related conversations seems to constantly involve eating vs. not eating, liposuction vs. cellulite, good food vs. bad food, etc. I have only been there for two weeks, and I can't even count how many times I have been praised for being "good" and avoiding the cookies/bagels/cake/candy/take out. Yeah, I'm so good for skimping on lunch (usually because I am just too busy/stressed/poor to eat all that much while I am there). So good, in fact, that I still see a dietician once a month and have shitty skin and ruined teeth. Don't get me wrong. I harbor no malicious feelings toward these people or women in general. It's clearly not just a localized issue. It seems as though one can walk into any random grouping of women and encounter a similar situation. And I, admittedly, jump right in and contribute to the body-loathing/food categorizing efforts more often than not. I am certainly knowledgable in the subject matter. It is just somewhat jarring when it appears that I have a seemingly better attitude toward food than so many "normal" women. I don't know. Ideally, my notion of "good" involves a healthy-sized someone who eats a normal-sized lunch and then grabs a cookie unapologetically. A woman whose conversations reflect her intelligence and interests, rather than her insecurities. And, yes, I realize I am coming off as more than slightly hypocritical in this argument, but I am thankful for the small moments of insight and disappointment. At the very least, a less quantifiable, but ultimately more satisfying goal lies ahead.

She Works Hard For the Money

I am no longer an Americorps*VISTA. It was a good year. I learned a lot about general office happenings, a little about basic marketing, and had an enjoyable time tutoring STAR students. I was allowed to use my strengths (a basic knowledge of how to write clearly and consisely and a ruthless proofreading eye) and forced to develop some level of confidence in my abilities. I'm not sure I did much for VISTA's overall mission (to eradicate poverty in the United States). I never saw my work plan (I am not sure it ever existed), never handed in a time sheet or monthly progress report. (For the record, I would have willingly done so. I inquired about such things, but never received answers.) Our VISTA site closed after my term was up, so I think it is safe to say such things without jeopardizing the program. Overall, it provided me with some much-needed experience and little pay. The idealist in me would have loved to have entered an AmeriCorps experience that truly stretched me, where I was forced to pay rent on the measly stipend in a poverty-stricken area and I knew, with certainty, that I was making some sort of difference in someone's life. The realist in me is thankful that I had a professional type of position for a year and was not forced to clean rooms or work in a convenience store to get by. Decent jobs are difficult to acquire around these parts.

I started a new job last week. I am working in an eye doctor's office. I feel pretty stupid still and assume that most of the people who work there think I am, as well. It is hectic and fast-paced, but I am hopeful that I will get the hang of it soon. The majority of the patients are elderly and adorable. As my standard speech consists of speedily delivered mumbles, I am slowly adjusting to constantly speaking slowly and loudly in my syrupy phone voice. There are tons of things that I don't have the hang of yet, and it is frustrating and worrisome. I like the people who work there (including my aunt, who helped me get the job) and I think I will like the job enough once I get the hang of it. I tell myself that it won't be the worst thing in the world if it doesn't work out, but I don't know. I hate sucking at things (not that many people probably enjoy it). I do enjoy the uniform . . . khaki pants, green polo shirt, lab coat . . . it's rather comfortable and completely frees up time formerly devoted to wardrobe planning.

[DISCLAIMER] I am going to blog. So I say, anyway. Should I be embarrassed? Potentially, I guess, but I should certainly receive no more criticism for keeping a public chronicle of my thoughts than I should for, say, the number of hours I devote to reality tv viewing per week or cigarettes I smoke each day. I need to write something . . . anything, really, to assure myself that my brain is still somewhat functional. I'm not particularly sure about why I feel the need to justify my intentions. My inner vouyer loves to read other people's blogs, and I find some of them to be especially thoughtful or witty or well-written. The other 82% of them tend to be overly self-focused and boring, full of silly rants or luv messages to their bois and/or gurls, but lacking in substance and an understanding of basic grammar. I am really in no place to criticize anyone who is attempting to write as a form of self-expression, though, as I haven't been able to make myself sit down and come up with much of anything to say at all in recent months. So, I guess I will give it a shot. I make no promises of brilliance. I find my life, at the moment, to be rather sullen and dull, riddled with neuroses/idiosyncracies, but blessed with little moments of love, humor, and understanding. Here goes. [END SILLY, SMALLISH RANT]