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.***