Hamlet is Fun

I wrote this piece for a creative nonfiction class during my junior year of college. I am more than a bit leary about posting something so personal on the internet, but I have decided that it doesn't have to be a big deal. While I often wish that I had made different decisions, I am becoming increasingly less ashamed of my past as I continue to mature and move forward in life. Plus, the majority of people who actually read this blog suffered through this period of my life with me anyway. If you are a newer friend or an internet friend or a random visitor and you have questions, feel free to send them my way. Because I am still kind of paranoid, I'd really appreciate comments if you read this. I'd love to hear some suggestions on improving the style or content or anything else. Thanks.

*****

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."

- T.S. Eliot
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

“I am Polonius.” I struggle not to giggle. I attempt to mask my high-pitched, nasally voice with caricatural grandiosity. I state the opening line of this impromptu one-woman Hamlet show on a Saturday evening in October. I am a college junior, and I have been oddly enraptured by the tragic play for over three years. I am convinced that Shakespeare intended for this role to be portrayed exclusively by a short, chubby, balding man. To compensate, I kneel on the toast colored, beer stained carpet in my friends’ living room. I straighten my back and extend my belly. Good enough. I pause for dramatic effect. My tiny audience is surprisingly attentive.

“La la la. To thine own self be true. Be a good kid, Laertes. Listen to me. I am wise and wonderful and dead sexy and very chatty. More matter, with less art, requests Gerty. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, my daughter is assuredly making Hamlet crazy. I will get to the bottom of this, yet! As I am such an unbelievably brilliant mastermind, I shall hide behind this thick, velvety curtain and uncover the truth. My stealthiness knows no bounds . . . Ow! Oooh! Ouch!” I speedily collapse and clutch my chest with both hands. For half a minute, I thrash about on the floor. My arms flail wildly. I warp my face into a slew of hideous contortions in an attempt to relay the intense pain of being stabbed.

“Oh, the agony. I am not your rat, you loser! Oh, I am slain! Sad day for me.” I draw my limbs to my chest and lie curled in the fetal position. I quickly peer up to assure that my friends are enjoying themselves. Satisfied, I return to character in order to display my perfected dead person face. The side of my head meets the floor with a heavy thud. My lips part slightly as I fix my eyes blankly ahead.

“I am Horatio.” Quickly moving on with the performance, I jump up and stand atop the center of the coffee table.

“I am the most noble literary character of all time. I am a scholar. I know lots of Latin. So what if the ghost wasn’t exactly responsive to my efforts? I am Hamlet’s only true-blue buddy - the one who sticks it out until the end. And since I’m such a great guy, I am permitted to survive this nasty bloodbath of a drama.” Pausing, I clasp my hands together and tilt my head slightly to the left. I make the most contemplative face I can render, glancing down at the imaginary dead guy.

“Now cracks a noble heart - Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Alright, Fortinbras, march on in to restore the order in Denmark.”

“I am Gertrude.” I sit regally upon the edge of the table, crossing my legs at the ankles. I demonstrate my beauty queen wave and hold my chin high.

“Since my husband has suffered an untimely death, I might as well marry his brother. We can use the funeral leftovers for the wedding reception. What a grand and thrifty idea! Oh, my son has gone quite mad. Frailty thy name is woman!” In my manliest voice, I shout Hamlet’s blatant insult in an aggressive, yet comically drawn-out manner.

“Here, Hamlet, come in my bedroom and scream at me for a while. Then we can make out. (But only if you are Mel Gibson.) Oh, the agony! I am so torn. My husband, my son, my husband, my child, my throne, my life . . . Hamlet, honey, hand me your cup.” I form the universal choking sign with my hands. I cough, gurgle, and gag, as I farcically fall from my coffee table throne. “Oh, what a dark, sad day in Denmark.”

“I am Ophelia.” I announce the character change in a light, singsong tone. I begin to skip around in circles. It is difficult to contain my giddiness.

“I’m obedient and fair and everyone loves me. Oh, sad for Hamlet, my sort-of love. His dad is dead, and he is getting stranger by the day. Get thee to a nunnery!” My demanding Hamlet voice makes a quick reappearance.

"Um, no thanks, and you’re weird. Daddy, help! Hamlet is freaking me out. Does he honestly think I’ll look good in a habit? What? Dad is dead?” I sigh, placing the back of my hand on my forehead as I listlessly stagger around the room.

“Time to sing the remainder of my lines. I’m little Ophelia, the poor psychotic girl.” I dance about. I pass out make-believe flowers to my onlookers.

“Some rosemary for you. You get some rue. I’m beyond crazy now, and I hope you all feel guilty for the pathetically short remainders of your lives.” I stop and pull my hair from its drooping ponytail. Bending over, I fervently tousle it and shake my head in order to appear authentically disheveled.

“La la la la. Time to die. I’m off to find some heavy rocks to shove in my pockets. Fighting in my grave, boys? That’s intense, anyway.” I daintily collapse into a sloppy heap, kindly sparing my friends my interpretation of drowning oneself to death.

*****

I, like Ophelia, have also lost it. Overwhelming insecurities coupled with external stresses beyond my control have left me with disastrous coping mechanisms at points in my life. My body has been perpetually and relentlessly targeted as the scapegoat for my discontent. On a dreary afternoon in early April 2002, I arrive at my hometown cemetery. A faint drizzle of rain lingers. The sunless sky accents both the lifeless blacktop on which I travel and my colorless disposition. The cemetery is the ideal exercise facility during college breaks. It is quiet, serene, clean, and free of cost. Most importantly, I know that walking one lap around the new section and another around the old one equals almost exactly one mile. I need to accurately track the distance traveled in order to experience the slightest bit of relief.

I am alone with my thoughts. I can’t believe I ate that today. Fucking fat ass. I pinch my stomach and grasp each of my wrists. A recently consumed bagel sits sqarely in my stomach, a heavy, lumpy reminder of my ostensible failures. I try to assess the damage. Yep, definitely at least 10 pounds heavier than last week. What are people going to think when I get back to school? I can’t even be consistently sick. I glance at the rusty garbage can that rests to the right of my similarly colored car. Should I? Could I really get away with it? It’s already been at least fifteen minutes. And what if someone sees me? I drag myself past the parking area, tracing my collarbone with my fingers.

Oh, my goodness, my grades from last term . . . My second term average boasts three incompletes and a D in American Sign Language, presumably the easiest course offered at my college. A 0.9 GPA. I cringe in disbelief. Formerly an academic overachiever, I find myself abruptly plagued by an inexplicable strain of deranged perfectionism that prohibits me from accomplishing any work at all. Lovely. I’m still fat. I feel like shit, and I’ve ruined my entire college career. What a plan.

I slow my pace. I walk with my head fixed to my right. I eye every shiny, upright tombstone with the hopes of catching an accurate glimpse of myself in a makeshift mirror. After a few minutes, I approach the towering headstone of a fourteen year old killed in a car accident three days before Christmas. It is a gorgeous standout that displays a haunting etching of a weeping willow that the artistic youth sketched prior to his passing. It allows me to examine myself from the hips down. I stop and stare. Gross. My legs are way bigger than I thought. And my butt? I’m never eating again. Facing the tombstone, I press my heels together. I roll my black yoga pants to my knees and begin to scrutinize my calves. I then tug at the material hugging my thighs and measure the space between them. Elephantine. I squeeze my stomach chub and turn from side to side, examining my profile from every imaginable angle. Eventually, I force myself to continue walking, checking my arms for Oprah flub as I round the corner. People are silly. No one this fat is worthy of concern. Not entirely satisfied, I search out another means by which to view myself. I spot a large mud puddle a couple of feet to my left. I am thankful to be the lone visitor in this section of the graveyard. I straddle the edges of the misshapen circle, hovering over the murky waters in a desperate search to see myself.

A Plea to the Higher Power(s) That Preside(s) Over the PowerBall

Dear Friend(s),

Please let me win. I'm nice! I know that in the grand scheme of things, being nice doesn't get one especially far, but don't you think it should?

I know I don't have the greatest story ever. I'm not completely destitute (yet.) I haven't recently filed for bankruptcy. I haven't quite resorted to selling my kidney on the black market in order to prevent myself from starving to death. I haven't even donated my plasma for cash. (Though I have called to inquire about it.) Sure, I don't have to support four babies under the age of five spawned from three different deadbeats. I don't reside a van down by the river. I am, however, legitmately poor. I have oodles of debt. So much debt, that I doubt anyone would even consider marrying me until I can reduce the size of it by 75%. If I'm lucky, I might make it there by my fiftieth birthday bash, at this rate. And of course, my Over The Hill party will be even more depressing than the norm because all of my friends will arrive hand-in-hand with their doting, salt and pepper headed husbands. Their skin will be tastefully bronzed following recent family excursions to warm and exotic locales and their fingers will display the flashy diamonds that scream of twenty years of love and commitment and a healthy 401K. I will attempt to drench my discontent in an amassment of Red Bull and well vodka while they slowly savor their wine with pity in their eyes. I will try to make a thank you speech, but will surely crumble into a sobbing mess before I make it to the halfway point. My friends will kindly, but quietly dart out the door, and I will conclude the evening by telling an unsuspecting cab driver my life story on the long trip home, between hiccups and sniffles. The following morning, I will awaken with much regret, insufferable embarrassment, and a killer headache. I will pack up my cats, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and take them to their biweekly playdate with my mother's expanding brood. She will tell me that I look like hell and bemoan the fact that I never got married or had babies for her to play with. I will sigh in unspoken agreement.

So, as you can see, it is extremely important that I begin to diminish the debt that hangs over me like the little raincloud that is continually perched squarely above the bouncing Zoloft commercial creature prior to his ingestion of the happy pills. I want kids, not cats. (And, if I win, I promise to show restraint in my choices of name. No wacky Shakespearian creations or anything else that will guarantee their statuses as social outcasts.) I understand that I got myself into this situation, though I can guarantee that at least 90% of the money I currently owe is due to school or medical expenses. I was a dumb 18 year old kid who fell in love with a college she couldn't realistically afford and chose a less than practical major. It happens. I'm not looking for the easy way out. I like to work. I like feeling like a productive member of society. I just don't seem to have the correct skills set or degree or appearance or experience to secure a high enough paying position. I'm just looking for a jumpstart. I don't mind splitting the winnings with some other lucky people. I don't even need to be set for life.

I'm nice, remember? So, of course, I will give away much of what I win. My family members and friends will be well taken care of. They're all pretty nice, too. I will start a charity and donate to existing ones. I will provide funding to people in situations similar to mine. (I'm somewhat of an empathetic narcissist.) I will let the boy that I met on my first night here who is apparently a 24 year old Penn State student/hobokid that lives out of his car reside in my room for free. Or, at least, I would if my roommates wouldn't kill me for doing so. I will leave humongous tips for excellent service. I will buy lunch for homeless people. There is a lot one can do with a copious amount of cash that doesn't involve becoming a materialistic bitch. I'm fairly certain that the only way having money will change me is that it will greatly decrease the massive amount of debt-related anxiety that floods my brain on a daily basis. See, the resulting story could shape up to be rather interesting and heartfelt.

Life is short. I want to travel. I want to experience other cultures. I need book fodder! (And probably some writing classes.) I want to visit my friends and pick up the tab for once. I would like to drive a car that is more reliable and less audible. I would love to go back to school and obtain a doctorate. I need to go to the dentist. My mouth hurts! I don't want to have to work while my favorite television shows air. Or, at the very least, I'd like to be able to TiVo them and watch them at my leisure. It'd be great to have the opportunity to buy all of the hardcovers that I'm interested in reading off the shelf. It'd be fantastic to know that my family is financially all set. Having some money and little debt will release me from the limbolike existence that has entrapped me for years and threatens to lurk around for much, much longer.

Come on. Help a girl out. Pick me!

Fondly,

Sara

Such is Life

Ruminations on Daily Life as I Know It

* Everything is ridiculously cheap at my new neighborhood Wal-Mart, with the exception of cigarettes. Cancer stick costs are seriously bloated there. Is Wal-Mart attempting to make a morality statement? It's a weak one, if so, as they still sell them. Plus, Wal-Marts in normal states sell beer. (Pennsylvania has some messed up alcohol laws.) I think it's more likely that they are trying to take advantage of the poor, addicted souls who have failed to discover the reasonably priced Sheetz about two blocks up the road. I kind of loathe you, Wal-Mart, though I truly appreciate your $2.24 boxes of 100 calorie packs and $2.95 bags of turkey pepperoni.

* Gas is $0.20 cheaper in State College than it is in Wellsboro. I can't afford to purchase it anywhere.

* Penn State is currently the #2 party school in the nation. Penn State students are collectively disturbed by this statistic. They are working hard to attain the #1 position next year.

* Natty Lite can be found in bottles. I don't recommend purchasing it in any form, but it is available.

* I have morphed into a person I once admonished. Exhibit A. I have capitulated into the realm of the commonplace cell phone junkie in record speed. Exhibit B. I now own and wear a pair of higher waisted pants. (They are suit pants. I do not enjoy them.) Exhibit C. I actually lounged around my room for a brief period of time with my pants unbuttoned, for the sake of comfort. (I was wearing the suit pants between interviews. They are properly sized, which equals too tight and too high in Saraworld.) If I start sporting pointy-toed shoes or mumus, it's all going to be over.

* My sister, who is currently the local cult leader, displayed one of my blog entries for all to read at their last gathering. When she came home and gleefully informed me of this fact, I felt slightly exposed and uncomfortable. Sure, I put it on the internet for anyone and her mother (and my mother) to read. It was not my intention, however, to have my intelligence or writing style or picture scrutinized by a room full of strong opinioned youngsters. While I don't know what kind of discussion transpired, I'm certain they weren't heaping praises upon me. Oh, well. She was apparently attempting to find this entry, but couldn't figure out where it was. I'm thankful for that much, anyway.

* The closest liquor store has a whole "local wines" aisle. Apparently, they classify the Finger Lakes area as "local." It doesn't make the most sense to me, but I love it.

* While I was diligently job searching (er, wasting time on the internet) the other morning, I received a couple of random instant message from someone with a name something like "harleyguyx210x." He asked if we had met in a chat room. (I ignored him, as I clearly hadn't. Chat rooms are so 1999. And, don't get me wrong, I like to party like it's that year all the time, but that's as far as I go.) He kept messaging me (he was a rather persistant dude), so I decided to apologetically inform him that I did not know who he was. He replied, "I thought just met you in chat room Self Pleasure 103." He was quickly blocked. Looking back, I think I understand his reasoning behind asking me why I was tired, though. He's kind of a self-congratulatory little bugger.

* I am considering posting a slightly revised version of the "Hamlet is Fun/Sara is crazy" piece I wrote for creative nonfiction class long ago. Since my ancient computer is actually working and I once again have access to it, I might give it a go. What do you think? The people who read the first draft of it in school seemed to like it, but it is kind of personal. Looking for feedback . . .

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Ruminations on Driving

I'm an awkward driver. I slide the seat back a bit too far and sit straight up, as if bound to a back brace. It's probably the only time that I practice good posture. I keep both hands on my steering wheel at all times, unless I am smoking. I chain smoke while I drive, though I have to drop the cigarette for any big moves, such as hitting an exit ramp or turning left at a red light. I usually forget to use my side mirrors and when I remember, I don't trust them anyway. I always have to turn around to assure myself that I'm not going to meet an untimely death while changing lanes. I typically only ever drive 5 mph over the speed limit, but that's only when I'm feeling brave. I tend to zone out. I am a phantom breaker. I can't pop the hood of my own car. I get lost in my hometown. (There are only 4 stoplights in the entire area. This takes talent.) I am completely devoid of the ability to backtrack. I panic often.

I provide continuous commentary throughout the length of road trips, especially when I'm the only person in the car. I sometimes talk to myself, usually offering encouraging phrases like, "Almost there," or "Yay, I'm still alive," or "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." I often talk to other drivers. I beg them not to hate me and thank them for passing me. I compliment their pretty cars or giggle when I spot a vehicle that is even junkier than mine and announce that we should be friends. I inform unhelmeted bikers of their stupidity. During rougher moments, I might pray. My usual line is, "Please, God, help me to not wreck. I'd really prefer not to die right now. There are so many good tv shows on tonight." I also give my car lots of pep talks. I like to say, "You can do it, little Saabie," and "Come on Georgie, speed it up." I'm kind of nuts.

****

I have had three run-ins with other vehicles throughout my eight year driving history. Two of them happened in my driveway.

Incident # 1

I was driving my family's Chevy Astro (not so) minivan. It was like a tank. I was about to make my nightly jaunt to the local Pizza Hut. (This incident occured during my junior year of high school or what is now retrospectively referred to as the "Pizza Hut Butt" Era. I lived off of personal pan pizzas and humongous bottles or regular Pepsi. I gained eleven pounds. I never even got a "you are by far our most regular and devoted customer" discount or award or anything for my troubles. Oh, well.) The van was parked in our yard and my grandparents' old Mazda was parked in our driveway. As I was rounding the gigantic tree that sits in our yard directly in front of the driveway, I concluded that I had enough room to squeeze the big ass Astro between a basketball pole and the parked car. It was a slight lapse of judgment. As the van was rolling forward, I had to choose between hitting the pole or the car. I picked the car. At least, I think I did. I might have closed my eyes and hoped for the best. (Again, another lapse of judgment. I guess I don't make the best decisions ever while I'm in panic mode.) I smashed up the front of it pretty decently, but the Astrotank was barely damaged. I went and picked up the pizzas (the whole family was eating Sarastyle that night,) dropped one on the ground, and returned to inform everyone of what I had done. No one yelled at me too much, yet I still cried a lot.

Incident #2

I was returning to college following February break of my junior year. The roads were lined with a thin layer of ice, and it was snowing. I was feeling tentatively confident, as I had made it through all of the curvy backroads without hesitation, despite the dismal weather conditions. I approached a red light and hit my breaks for the first time upon arriving in the city of Elmira, and they locked. My car pummeled squarely into a brand new truck. Truck Owner yelled. I cried. The cops came. Truck Owner grumbled as he detached a huge chunk of the dangling lower portion of his vehicle that once displayed his license plate and tossed it in the bed. My car was suddenly sporting an accordion hood and mangled headlights. I received my first (and only, thus far) ticket ever. I somehow managed to drive back to campus, even though the roads were ridiculously sloppy and I was nearly hyperventilating. I continued to drive the battered eyesore every once in a while during daylight hours, even though it was slightly mortifying. I needed to tan! And to buy fat free hot dogs! The battery died a few months later, and the junky car sat in an Elmira College parking lot until the summer was at least halfway over. It's surprising that it was never towed, especially because I never got a student parking sticker. Mike DellaSalla (or whomever made the towing decisions at that time) is great. Thanks, buddy!

Incident # 3

Maybe half a year ago or so, I was headed out of the house to make a midafternoon Dunkin Donuts run. (Speaking of which, I haven't located the Dunkin Donuts in State College yet. Maybe it's a blessing.) My mom's friend was visiting and, as she is quite knowledgable about my clumsy past, reminded me not to hit her car as I left. I laughed and told her I'd try my best. I jumped in my car and proceeded to back out of the driveway in my normal fashion. Apparently, in Saraland, "normal fashion" = "without looking until I reach the end of the driveway." I backed directly into her car. The damages were thankfully minimal. Her car remained unmarred and mine suffered a tiny crack in the fender. People laughed at me a lot, and I still haven't entirely lived it down.

****

Needless to say, my lack of adequate driving skills has kind of hindered my life so far. I am hoping to change this fact. I have recently discovered that knowing which route one is currently traveling on is especially helpful. So is actually reading signs and thinking ahead. I'm slowly becoming a more confident and competent driver. I went exploring the area yesterday, in search of employment opportunities. There are highways here. There are also pastures. It's a bizarre combination, but I guess that is what results from building a massive university in pretty much the middle of nowhere amidst tons of farmland. I missed an exit and ended up slightly befuddled, on the outskirts of a tiny neighboring town. I passed what I assume were some prisoners on work release or something, though they weren't wearing orange jumpsuits. They were scruffy looking men wearing white working in a field. Two stoic men wearing what looked like helmets and uniforms sat statuesquely atop horses facing the road. Maybe the nearby State Correctional Institute likes to practice archaic means of guarding. Maybe it was just a weird coincidence. It was definitely strange. I ended up passing the whole scene twice, so I know I wasn't hallucinating. I worried that the horses would suddenly make a run for it and lurch into the road, but they didn't. I located the mall and scored a few interviews. I didn't die.

Someday, I will be a real driver with a real car. For now, I seem to be faking it well enough.

Of Late

Well, I'm here.

It has been rather eventful.

On my way out of town, I prepaid for gas and then left without pumping it. I realized I did this about five minutes later, and I was luckily still able to put the gas in when I returned. (Typical.)

I didn't get lost and the little old Saab didn't break down on the trip in. I even passed one truck carrying hay and a horse and buggy. (Woo!)

I am covered in bruises. (Hmm.)

I have had pizza 4 times in the 6 days that I've been here. If I keep going at this rate, I think I might be about to gain the freshman 15, 6 years after the fact. (Bleh.)

One of those pizza eating times occured at 2:30ish AM on Saturday night. We stood on the street, wearing t-shirts covered in sloppy, blurred phrases and doused in flourescent paint (the aftermath of a "graffiti party,") surrounded by hoards of drunken, chanting college students for at least an hour waiting to buy $1.00 slices. It was worth it. (IknowI'mnotactingmyage.)

I had forgotten the extent to which my ghetto computer's constant roaring annoys me. I want to throw it off the balcony already. (Killmenow.)

My room is a mess. (Shocker.)

I forgot my hair dryer. (Dire.)

I got a cute haircut and am now rocking some super long, side-swept bangs. (Yay.)

I just found out that I wasn't chosen for the position that I interviewed for a few weeks ago. I'm pretty disappointed, as it seemed like a nice work environment. Plus, rejection always sucks. Plus, I have no money. Seriously. I'm getting panicky. I'm starting to regret picking an area to relocate to prior to securing employment. Mistakes happen, though, and I'm here. I am going to turn in a massive amount of applications tomorrow and try to remain hopeful. (Life'sabitch.)

Hodgepodge

* I love ridding my gmail account of its spam. Upon emptying the box, it cheerfully reads, "Hooray, no spam here!" It's always nice to receive encouragement for doing a good deed.

* I recently discovered that I managed to gain 9 lbs in a 5 week stretch. I laughed. Interestingly enough, I gained a similar amount of weight at right around this time last year that I subsequently lost without too much hassle. I wonder if late August/early September is, for whatever reason, Fatten Me Up Season. Maybe my body is attempting to bestow a favor upon every person I come in contact with from October through late March in the hopes that some additional padding will prevent me from incessantly whining about the degree to which I am freezing (to death, of course.) That's a nice thought.

* There is a really fun and very readable piece about the definition of feminism at Tomato Nation. You should check it out, if you haven't yet.

* My car is fixed. I should be picking it up tomorrow. It cost way more than it is probably worth to replace the ignition. I really am going to move, I swear. I have a new cell phone to prove it. Most of my stuff is at the apartment now. So much so, that I am even grungier than usual, as most of my clothes are gone. I've worn the same pair of jeans all week. Today, I am parading around in my sister's high school track sweatshirt that is marred by a prominent stain on the front and her name in cheap block letters on the back. Yeah, I'm gross. After the move, I will promptly change my jeans. I promise. That should be by Saturday morning, if not tomorrow night.

* I've been watching my 3 year old cousin Maggie this week while her mom works, as her regular babysitter had a death in the family and her regular back-up babysitters (my grandparents) are hitting up all the gambling hot spots they can find out west. It has been quite the adventure.

This is Maggie. Yes, she is playing in a parking lot.

This is sleepy, "I no need no nap" Maggie.

This is Baby. She is traveling safely. And stylishly.

These are Maggie's fuzzy, plastic toy shoes. She just had to wear them today. We went on many outings. She only fell once.

We've had a good time. She is very inquistive and very interested in my opinions about things, which she tends to adopt. She is also rather exhausting. But is has been fun. We took her to see the "pawtment," and she climbed the three sets of stairs about fifteen times with me while I moved things in. She colored on my jeans in lovely purple marker. I let her eat fudge rounds for breakfast. She explained all of the characters in That 70s Show to me as we watched. (She is obsessed.) She still calls me "Lala" (rather than "Sawa") about 50% of the time. I will miss her.

* And finally, here are some of my favorite bizarre searches that apparently led people to my blog.

1. "Hamlet bookmarkers"
2. "a rhymed poem: the person I want to marry"
3. "sarry dead people"
4. "freshman initiation sharpie face"

"Get Your Facts First, And Then You Can Distort Them As Much As You Please." - Mark Twain

A Continuation

36.) I weeped every time I watched Snoopy Come Home as a child.

37.) In kindergarten, I once stealthily kissed three boys on the back of their heads in the span of a single afternoon.

38.) My first elementary school had no playground. We had to entertain ourselves on an empty cube of concrete during recess.

39.) My first boyfriend (6th grade) was a quiet boy named Shawn that I barely knew. Shortly after our coupling had gone public, I discovered that his friends referred to me as "Roadblock."

40.) I'm not sure I'd be capable of teaching kids at the middle school level for any amount of money. They're too nasty to each other. It breaks my heart.

41.) From 8th - 10th grade, I had fairly thick bangs that refused to fall perfectly, even though I spent approximately 30 minutes every morning curling and recurling them.

42.) I love to drink pickle juice.

43.) I secretly wish that someone would nominate me for What Not to Wear. (I'm wearing a 7 year old, ratty, holey hoodie as I type. I clearly need a style intervention!)

44.) I find serial killers to be more than slightly fascinating.

45.) My first job was cleaning rooms at the motel my friend's parents owned. If you've ever witnessed the way I live, you'll understand why this is funny.

46.) I wish I had taken the SATs more than once.

47.) During the latter years of high school, I had a broken spell checker and a mental block regarding the spelling of "disgust." I liked to use it frequently in my essays, and I consistently spelled it "disguist." It makes no sense whatsoever.

48.) I think Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" is one of the most hauntingly poignant poems ever written. (And sestinas are notoriously challenging to pull off.)

49.) I was chosen as an alternate for Pennsylvania Governor's School For Healthcare during my junior year of high school. I never followed through with the steps to accept my alternate status. I wonder if my life would have taken a different trajectory if I had attended.

50.) While I was in high school, I was very involved with this site. I still have the cards and letters I received from some of the parents and children. I think I am going to start sending some mail in the near future.

51.) I watched The Wizard of Oz on a daily basis during my early childhood. I always covered my eyes when the flying monkeys made an appearance.

52.) I was terrified of mummies from the age of 6 - 12. I was traumatized to such an extent that, at the moment I discovered their existence, I immediately stopped calling my mother "mommy" from that day forward, as it beared too close a resemblance. I wasn't scared of them in the "I'm a mean, horror movie mummy coming to get you with filthy, rotting bandages dripping from my extended arms" kind of way. I was actually horrified by the notion of being dead, tightly wrapped, and forever preserved. I was a weird kid.

53.) In late middle school and early high school, I had more than a few incidents filled with overwrought tears and dramatic crumbles to the floor in department stores, as I could never find anything to fit my awkward, pudgy figure.

54.) My parents almost named me Amie.

55.) At the age of 3, I ate the same meals every day (peanut butter and jelly for lunch, microwaved hot dog for dinner.) My doctor advised my mother to indulge me, assuring her that I'd soon grow out of the pattern of eating. Heh.

56.) I think I'd actually quite enjoy the fall, if it weren't for the fact that I am socked with the harsh reality that I will be unable to feel my fingers and toes for the next 6 months.

57.) The few dreams I remember are typically anxiety-ridden and disturbing.

58.) I only visited/applied to one college. I sometimes regret not doing a bit more research and taking my financial situation into more serious consideration.

59.) As I age, my temperament becomes increasingly more even-keeled. I appreciate this.

60.) I want a Welsh Corgi.

61.) I am opposed to buying pets when there are so many in shelters who need homes.

62.) I am embarrassingly unphotogenic.

63.) Whenever I come across them, I put on my old pointe shoes and play around the house in them.

64.) Co-ed volleyball tournaments were the bane of my high school gym class existence.

65.) Meryl Streep's daughter went to the summer camp I worked at. I never met her or her mother.

66.) I regret not trying out the flying trapeze while I worked at that camp. How many times is one presented with such an opportunity?

67.) I taught golf for 3 summers to kids ages 6 - 17 or so. The one time I actually went golfing with friends for fun, I was kicked off the fairway during the first hole because I was so awful and slow. I didn't mind. I manned the golf cart and drank beer and chased geese.

68.) A couple of friends probably saved my college career during the second term of my sophomore year, by requesting help for me that I couldn't ask for myself. I hated them for it at the time, but I am so grateful for their kindness in retrospect.

69.) I hate to say it, but I think I'd possibly consider a nose job if I had the means, even though I absolutely cannot stomach depictions of rhinoplasty on televison.

70.) I am desperate to see a stage production of Equus at some point in my lifetime.

One Word

I found this idea here, while I was doing a bit of random blog hopping. (As I seemingly have nothing better to do. Aimless web wandering must trump packing, even though I am planning to move on Tuesday, with or without my car.)

Anyway, apparently only one word answers are applicable. I thought it'd be a change of pace for me, as I'm typically a fan of littering my sentences with uncreative adjectives and participial phrases and lengthy asides and parenthetical commentary, etc. It's certainly nothing profound or especially exciting, but it's short. And short = readable.

Yourself: idiosyncratic
Your partner: whom?
Your hair: mousey
Your mother: endearing
Your father: commendable
Your favorite item: unspecified
Your dream last night: blank
Your favorite drink: tequilla
Your dream home: cozy
The room you are in: chilly
Your fear: disappointment
Where you want to be in ten years?: thriving
Who you hung out with last night: computer
What you're not: gorgeous
Your best friend: charming
One of your wish list items: success
Your gender: girl
The last thing you did: googled
What you are wearing: grey
Your favorite weather: radiant
Your favorite book?: timeless
Last thing you ate?: peep
Your life: shifting
Your mood: serene
The last person you talked to on the phone: Lauren
Who are you thinking about right now?: me

Family Matters

Last night, I followed a link that told me everything I could possibly desire to know about my birthdate, birth year, age, etc. The coolest thing it told me, though, was the probable date of my conception. (As I am far too lazy and mathematically challenged to work it out myself. Besides, who does that? I can't imagine there are too many people out there who wake up one morning and decide, "yes, now seems like a excellent time to attempt to discover when that magical moment that made me occured.") Anyway, I yelled to everyone that this website suspects that I was conceived on September 14, 1981. My father, who typically displays a disdainful attitude toward any subject he suspects the libeRALS (he likes to pretend the word rhymes with "pals") take delight in (sex, of course, is a biggie) chuckled, "That's right around my birthday." And it was, indeed, one day late of my father's 23rd birthday. So, I'm wholly convinced that I'm a result of a birthday celebration romp. And that's kind of fun, though a tad bit cliche. Anyway, after that, we enjoyed some family fun time as I announced the conception dates for my siblings and my mother. My mom announced that she remembered with certainty the evening that my brother was conceived. He sat in the other room, shaking his head and covering his ears, chanting, "Please stop, please stop, please stop . . ."

In related news, Little Miss Sunshine is having a "Put Your Dysfunctional Family on Display" competition. If I had the means and the time and the energy to do so, I'd so be entering. My collective extended family is comprised of a lovable, yet maddening cast of characters. My brother and I have actually threatened to write a musical about the whole crew. This came about one night in a restaurant when a bunch of us were sitting and rehashing my uncle Dave's trademark story of his wayward youth (that he has long abandoned in his wise old age of almost 30), which is rather crude and completely hilarious. The key players are Dave, a woman with big hair wearing white bobby socks whose mouth houses few teeth, and an unfortunately placed window. I try to assure that he relays this story as often as possible to unsuspecting guests at family gatherings. I actually think it is quite amusing to force everyone acknowledge his/her legendary stories of embarrassment. This of course, sets me up as a prime target for the retelling of one of my own woeful tales. I just tell them to bring it on, though. I usually get, "Remember when you were 13 and still dropping to the floor in dramatic fits when you didn't get your way?" (Such an incident is appropriately titled a "Sara Drop," and my siblings will jump to demonstrate the move.) Or, "Remember when you were 14 and so fat that when you plopped down on a picnic table in front of all of your cousins it crumbled to the ground?" (That occurence elevated the term "Sara Drop" to an entirely new level. I cried. A lot. Now I wish the moment had been captured on video because I bet it was funny.) Or, more recently, "Remember when you were drunk and cried/gushed/fell down/chased the cat around the house like a toddler on a mission?" (C'mon. There are few people who know me that can't produce a couple of humilating recounts of my less than glamourous moments of intoxication. Try for something a bit more original.)

Back to Dave, though. As we all giggled for the 8 millionth time about his now famous exploit, my brother and I decided that he deserved a theme song fit for a super hero. We came up with a few verses. It was pretty good, if I remember correctly. I can't exactly recall which tune we set it to, but I'm going to go with "Lump" by The Presidents of the United States of America. (Because if we didn't use their melody, we should have.) A full fledged musical is an obvious next step. Our family consists of gossips, hypochondriacs, hoarders, emokids, nerds, compulsive dieters, armchair shrinks, good ole boys, big drinkers, instigators, hard core conservatives, ultra liberals, instant lottery ticket addicts, local sports stars, spazzes, impressionables, denialists, goofballs, charmers, sentimentalists, sarcastic brats, loudmouths, mutes, those who sing when they should just speak, those who talk aloud to themselves, those who prefer to dance to their destinations, those who are addicted to 24 hour news channels, those haunted by ridiculous fears, a former Miss Suburban Wellsboro, a future crazy cat lady, a baby who carries matted hairpieces of various lengths and colors, rather than a blankie, a grandmother who has a creepy stalker who once sent her an adult toy along with some hatemail, and a great uncle and distant cousin who are currently dating (they're from different sides of the family and roughly the same age, so it's not gross, as one might imagine.) There's a lot a material to work with.

The problem with our brilliant plan lies in the fact that neither my brother or I can write music. It is also probably complicated by the strong feeling that most our family would not necessarily enjoy the caricaturized versions of themselves. Oh, well. Though the musical idea might never play out, I may someday carry through on the threat that I've held over their heads for years and write a book about all of them.

Michael Moore is Aflame or Intoxicated Young Conservatives Fire Me Up

(Note to my sister - this is all in good fun/spaz style. Please don't take offense - I really don't intend for it to be taken all that seriously.)

My dad and I ended up taking an impromptu trip to the new apartment last night to drop off some super conservative forms to my sister so that some highly controversial speaker can come give a presentation for the super conservative club that she now chairs. I felt a bit like I was aiding the enemy, similarly to the time that I helped her edit a letter requesting donations to assist her organization in bringing in likeminded, apparently famous speakers and purchasing really nice posterboard and markers for their protesting endeavors. It's certainly not my style, but I love my sister and my father and I will do what I can, within reason, to prevent her from having a nervous breakdown and him from falling asleep at the wheel. (As it turns out, the papers were not the ones she needed to meet the urgent deadline, so our 4+ hour excursion was for naught. Not especially surprising, as nothing ever seems to be uncomplicated around here.)

Anyway, upon entering the new place, I noticed that the girls have, thus far, tastefully and apolitically decorated the living room. Yay. I love the place already. I wandered in to my bedroom and said hello to my big bed and my mirrored closet doors and my many books that are spewed across the desk, still waiting to be properly housed. (They may lie in wait for quite some time, as I am still currently jobless and broke and a bookshelf doesn't rank all that high on my priorities list, unfortunately. Poor homeless, disorganized books.) I went to the kitchen area and started poking around the clutter on our table and found, I kid you not, a half-charred copy of Michael Moore's Bowling For Columbine. (I wish I had a camera on me.) I knew my sister had friends over recently. She told me she was planning on doing so, and it was evidenced by the trashbag full of 10 or so empty Miller Lite boxes and the fine display of shot glasses lining the counter. So, of course, my thoughts start whirling in their standard wildly overreactive fashion that I have grown accostomed to over the years. I begin to wonder if this is how these kids have a good time. Do they buy copies of "liberal propaganda" and perform sacrificial rituals amidst chugging contests? Is there some kind of chant involved? Is a strict dress code enforced? Does everyone have to arrive clad in a t-shirt adorned with firearms or Reagan's face or quotations deploring the rampant border crossings or the existence of donkeys? Are bonus points awarded for accessorizing with an O'Reilly Factor baseball cap or a Fox News Tote? Do they stripe their cheeks with red and white and paint an array of blue stars atop their foreheads? How many blackened, melted versions of Fahrenheit 9/11 and pageless, deformed copies of Bill and Hillary's memoirs are lurking around? Should I immediately start looking for someone to sublet and resign myself to a lackluster existence on my parents' couch for a frighteningly indefinite period of time?

Shortly before I had enough time to speculate to the extent that I might have had myself convinced to toss my books in a garbage bag and jet, my sister appeared. She groaned that a visitor, when prompted by another friend, did attempt to light the dvd on fire the other night. She assured me that A.) she has not witnessed this or any sort of similar incident in the past, B.) the whole crowd was not involved, C.) it was only the special features disc (heh), and D.) she did not condone it, especially because it actually belonged to one of the girls in the apartment. The owner, apparently, is not upset at all about this. She thinks it is funny and wants to keep it forever. That is awfully kind of her. I would be livid, even in the instance that the pyro was a good friend or that the destructed property was something I wasn't the hugest fan ever of, such as a worn copy of Babbitt or a my giant-sized, yet small-necked AmeriCorps t-shirt. (Oooh . . . I bet they'd be after the AmeriCorps memorabilia, as the VISTA program is specifically aimed at eradicating poverty through the implementation of programs and services, etc. And, if I remember correctly, it was totally founded/supported by liberals.) Before last night, I don't imagine I've ever found myself feeling relieved to learn of a purportedly isolated (and, to be fair, rather small scale) act of vandalism. I guess it beats the alternative, though.

It's going to be an interesting year.

Welcome to Happy Valley (Almost)

Quick Rundown of Recent Events:

Wednesday, 8/30/06 - Last day of work. Ate pizza and various baked goods. Remembered to hand over my keys that haven't accompianied me to the office since wintertime. Said goodbye. Forgot some stuff in my former desk. Last late afternoon trip to Elmira. Said goodbye. Went shopping. Took the wrong exit with my sister on the way home from the mall. Again. Made the executive decision not to move until my car is working. Also chose not to pack.

Thursday, 8/31/06 - Drove to State College with my sister for a job interview. Ran into lots of traffic and got highly confused by a detour. Chain smoked. Only almost killed us once. Was honked at accordingly. Wore cute new grown-up suit. Fretted that I looked slightly reminiscient of the Crocodile Hunter, due to suit's coloring. Donned cute, dorky glasses with plano (fake) lenses. Went pretty well, I think. Probably should have pulled my hair back. Dropped off a minivan full of my sister's crap at one of her friend's apartments. Got lost (on foot) trying to find said friend's apartment, as all of the buildings look exactly the same and I don't pride myself in being especially attentive. Was approached by some kid who waved and muttered something to the effect of "stop by sometime," though I couldn't really understand him. Smiled and nodded. Ate some tasty, but semi-expensive pizza. Came home and packed a pathetically tiny and random selection of items.

Friday, 9/1/06 - Left for State College with the family at 6:30ish. Whined about how I wanted a sausage biscuit from McDonalds. Got chocolate chip cookies as big as my head from the Flying J. truck stop convenience store instead. Picked up keys and a bus pass that boasts a horrendous picture of me, but will get me around town for free. If I can figure out how the bus system works. Ate desired sausage biscuit that my dad went to get for me during the hour or so it took to check in. Lugged another minivan full of my sister's stuff up three flights of stairs into the apartment, in addition to all of the junk from the previous day, a huge futon, and maybe 4 boxes of mine. Attempted to convince my sister to throw a nasty, filthy fan in the dumpster. She refused to oblige. Met the roommates. They seem very nice, though I am about 97% certain that, by the time I come back, the living room walls will be plastered with pictures of Reagan and the extended Bush family and loads of American Flags. Smoked on the new balcony. Leaned over to meet a downstairs neighbor after he jokingly yelled that I hit him with an ash. I didn't. Developed a rather legitmate fear of clumsy and/or drunk people falling off the balcony. Entertained the notion that I might not be as highly dependent on caffeine as I claim. Went shopping at what is perhaps the busiest Wal-Mart in existence, I suspect. Ran into my sister's fraternity guy friend. Forgot to ask him if he made a habit out of spanking girls with paddles. He inquired if I was a freshman. Reinforced my fear that everyone I meet is going to think I am super lame for living in an apartment complex full of undergrads in a college town, though I'm not actually taking classes and getting old. Found 12 packs of Diet Mountain Dew for $1.70 and squealed a little bit. Purchased five boxes, among other stuff. Unpacked, ate at Outback, checked out the comparitively unbusy Target, and bought a potentially uncute, yet satisfyingly cheap shower curtain. Dropped my sister off and headed home with the folks, though I'd have liked to stay at the new place. 7:00 PM might as well have been 1:30 AM.

Saturday, 9/2/06 - Picked up my new key for my car from a locksmith. (One is bent and the other met an untimely death in an Elmira College trash can during a NickVisit last year.) It doesn't work. I am waiting on the car alone to actually move in for real. Not cool, really. Traded in books at the local secondhand store and walked out with six or so new ones. Made an appearance at my aunt's garage sale in the midst of the dreariest, rainiest, coldest day in months. Walked out with two coats, a bunch of tank tops, and numb, white extremities. Watched the second half of the first season of Grey's Anatomy. Napped a lot.

20 Questions or I'm Just Curious

To the Court Reporter (Days 1-4):

1.) Do you type in shorthand? If so, is it a special variety or just the standard old type? If not, how do you type so maniacally fast?

2.) Did you go to stenographer school? Does that even exist? What motivates one to choose such a profession?

3.) What is the deal with the tape that runs off the top of the machine? It's only maybe an inch wide, so it can't possible house the actual court transcripts. Can it?

4.) How do you pick up case-specific terminology? Do you study certain types of words in advance so you recognize them? Do you ever feel confused?

5.) Have you ever considered consulting a stylist? Were the '80s the best of times for you?


To Lawyers (or Wannabe Lawyers):

6.) Did you star in a lot of plays in high school?

7.) Did you a lot of action (and by "a lot," I mean "any") during that period in your life?


To the County of Tioga:

8.) Can you please hurry up and send me my measly jury duty compensation check?


To My Sister's Friends in State College:

9.) Do I legitimately look like an 18 year old freshman?

10.) Should I regard your assumptions of such as complimentary?

11.) If you are a dude, do you want to marry the Bush twins? If so, which one is more your style? If the Olsen twins were concurrently throwing themselves at you, would you still opt for Jenna and/or Barbara?


To Anyone Who Has a Myspace:

12.) Have you heard of mydeathspace? Does it creep you out? Does it evoke feelings of melancholy? How about disgust? Does it make you irrationally fearful of driving a car or approaching trains or swimming, if only temporarily? Does it reek of exploitation, in your opinion? Does it peak your curiousity, despite your best efforts?

13.) After viewing the abovementioned site, do you immediately feel driven to check out your myspace profile, just in case, to make sure it presents the most accurate and current representation of who you are at the moment?


To Jessica Simpson and John Mayer:

14.) Really, you're together? It just seems so odd. Though I guess you deserve each other. (And, I wouldn't despise you so much, John Mayer, if you hadn't forced that idiotic "Daughters" song upon me. It reinforces tired and ridiculous gender-based stereotypes and it refuses to get out of my head for forever every time I hear it.)


To All of My Recently Married Friends:

15.) Will one of you hurry up and have a baby for me to play with? Please?


To the Marketing People at Dove:

16.) Do you know that you are brilliant?


To Anyone and Everyone:

17.) Would you rather have a third nipple or no belly button (assuming that you cannot have either cosmetically altered?)

18.) If you are suddenly doomed from this point forward to spend the rest of your existence trapped in a neverending television episode, would you choose to stick it out on A.) Seventh Heaven, B.) The Simple Life, C.) The Price is Right, D.) The Osbournes, or E.) Full House?

19.) What kind of career do you think I should ultimately shoot for? (Give me some direction!)

20.) Would you rather be oblivious/slightly dim, but consistently and genuinely happy or aware/highly intelligent, but prone to brooding?

Driven to Drink (An Unfortunately Appropriate Title)

Jury duty is done. The time I spent locked in a room full of soft-hearted, crisp-tongued Crazies "deliberating" was the most excruciatingly awful experience in my adult life. Seriously. I'm still fuming, and it takes a lot to make me angry, let alone enraged. I won't delve into details of the case or why I believe I was correct, as it's more or less irrelevant at this point. (I think that I am no longer restricted from discussing the the whole situation. If anyone knows otherwise, let me know, cause I'd rather not get arrested.) What I will say is that, for over 5 hours, I was trapped with a bunch of irrational, combative locals who were apparently incapable of separating their personal feelings/laughably ridiculous speculative assumptions from the evidence presented. This is particularly bothersome, as, at the conclusion of the trial, we were charged by the judge with clear instructions as to how to try the case according to the law. Basically, we were told to only consider the evidence presented to render a verdict. It makes sense to me. Sure, it is difficult to remain truly unbiased and unopinionated throughout a 5 day period. It is difficult to not feel sympathy for a very old man who went through a very rough time. But, it is ultimately necessary to cast aside any personal feelings and consider the evidence, as presented, alone when determining the outcome. And maybe I am naive, but I tried extremely hard to do so, and had stupidly hoped that everyone else would do the same. I took pages and pages of notes. I listened attentively. I sometimes made faces at the attorneys when they made jarring remarks. (I guess I tend to lack self-control in terms of nonverbal commentary.) I didn't sacrifice a week of my life and a week of my pay in order to carelessly toss money at someone, consequences be damned. I walked into deliberations with a fairly strong idea of where I stood, with the hopes of having a semi-intellectual/mature discussion to see how everyone else interpreted the information. Heh.

I was very vocal from the start, constantly attempting to redirect the focus of the conversation to the evidence. Apparently, this made me a huge target for the Crazies/sentimental mommies, who quickly located each other and dominated the discussion. It got a bit nasty. The other girl that was making similar statements as I was whispered to me, "I hate it when people try to patronize me because I'm younger." I responded, "Yeah, I hate it when people who are clearly less than bright attempt to address me in a patronizing tone. Though it is kind of humorous." I like to tell myself that my ability to string together a semi-complex sentence using proper grammar and words slightly more colorful than "good" and "bad" may have been intimidating. And, I'll admit, I can adopt a haughty tone when I feel attacted. For whatever reason, I wasn't well-received by most. As a result, I had a battery of snippy, ridiculous (and often irrelevant) questions/comments hurtled at me. They include, but are not limited to:

"You just want us to vote because you already have your mind made up and you want to see how many people you need to get on your side." (Eh, voting is such an insane concept to suggest in the midst of a jury deliberation. How dare I?)

"Have you ever been on pain medication, honey?" (I haven't. My mom has. No relevance, regardless.)

"I guess you ain't never had surgery." (And?)

"Well, what do we need to say to change your mind?" (This was actually asked by a nice person in a nice way. I believe I told her something to the effect of, "a well presented argument based on evidence." In my head, I definitely said, "something that is slightly less batshit crazy and passably rational.")

"Look at them laughing now. Let's see how much they're laughing later when we're all stuck in a hotel because they wouldn't change their minds." (This was directed at me and the other young girl who wouldn't change our minds. I was probably smirking at that point or something. I told them that I packed extra soda for such an occasion. Plus, we'd get an extra $25.00 (our whopping daily pay rate, after the initial 3 days). Plus, I like adventures. And ultimately, I wouldn't allow their lame scare tactics to effect me. Unfortunately, it can be inferred that they did weave others into their web of Batshit Crazy GroupThink with this suggestion. Especially by speculating that they probably wouldn't be allowed to contact their families in such an occasion or to get their daily medicines. Which is total crap. But whatever.)

"Oh, honey, this ain't nothing like Hell." (Coming from a woman sitting near me who apparently peered over my shoulder to read the note I was penning. It read, "I bet this is what Hell feels like." I think I told her that she was quite possibly correct because Hell might be more pleasant.)

"Them young girls, they never think nobody should be held responsible for nothing." (I believe I responded to this with, "Are you kidding me?")

Those are just a few examples. I think I blocked out a bunch of it. And, far worse than anything they said to me was their collective basis for their conclusions. We had piles of evidence sitting on the table. Yet, more often than not, they kept saying, "If I were a doctor, I would have ________," or "A good doctor would ________." Or they passed time by making blanket medical statements based on their own experiences, rather than the evidence, or even fact. I don't know how many times I asked for documentation supporting the statements I was hearing. I kept repeating, "Doctors are human. They are not gods. They are entitled to lives. Please consider the evidence. We have very specfic timelines to base our decision on." It was basically my mantra for about 4 hours straight. Not that it mattered. I seriously thought I was going to puke a couple of times. (We were, thankfully, permitted to use the bathroom.) I honestly wouldn't have minded being in the minority if I thought there was a decent basis for the majority decision, as documented through various pieces of evidence. That would have been fine. I thought both sides actually presented very good arguments in the courtroom. Unfortunately, I just wasn't seeing any of that during deliberations. It appeared to be a rather whimsical decision (just my speculation, of course.) Three of us held out for hours. They finally got the final guy to cave, but another girl and I stood by our opinions until the end. (In civil cases, there only needs to be a 10/12 agreement.) And I would have continued to maintain my position throughout, unless someone could have come up with a legitimate, well-supported argument to the contrary. Even though I desperately wanted a cigarette. As cheesy as it sounds, this was a lot more important. I mean, both sides invested a lot of time and money into this case and deserved to have it considered carefully, in my opinion. I do have to say that I am rather proud about standing my ground and being extremely vocal about my point of view. I don't know if I would have had the courage to do so a few years ago.

Admittedly, I was embarrassed to walk into the courtroom and listen to the Lead Crazy read the verdict. I wanted no association with it whatsoever. I threated to find a sharpie and write, "I Held Out" across my chest. Yesterday's ordeal helped me recognize that, above all else, I am most offended when I fear that my intelligence is being insulted. I simply do not want to look dumb or to be associated with dumb people. Especially dumb/unkind people. That's a pretty lethal combination. Ultimately, there is nothing I can do about my association with these people. If those present in the courtroom presume that I was just another sheep in their herd of Crazy, I can't do anything about it. And I just have to accept it and know that I did my best, as much as I hate it.

So, I have learned that grown adults still have difficulties following directions. They still bully people. They still remain self-focused to such an extent that they apparently do not possess the capablities to separate their own experiences from entirely different ones. Most importantly, I have come to the conclusion that unless I'm suing someone, I will never opt for a trial by jury in Tioga County.

And, yes, on my way home, I stopped at a bar and pounded a beer. By myself. It was that necessary. I have hit a new low.

I am fairly certain that I now have a pretty good notion of what Hell feels like. (It's not pretty. Nor is it rational.)

Think Positively

In an effort to remain positive about my current servitude to the county government, I compiled a list of reasons why jury duty doesn't suck so much.

1. I don't have to arrive until 8:30 AM. (1/2 hour later than I typically waltz into work.) However, it has come to my attention that if I fail to show up within 5 minutes or so from the time I am expected, I will receive one phone call. If this effort to reach me is unsuccessful, the sheriff will arrive at my door and promptly arrest me. Out of mere curiosity, I inquired as to whether or not I'd be slammed against a car and handcuffed under given hypothetical circumstances. Apparently so, if necessary. Jury duty is hard core. If only Kevin Bacon were the local sheriff . . .
2. The lunch break lasts at least one hour. (This is pretty generous compared to my 30 minutes total on a standard work day.) Plus, we get extra breaks of various lengths throughout the day when an important person seems to fear that the jurors are starting to fall asleep. As a result, I am guaranteed to have a consistent enough supply of nicotene dirtying up my bloodstream.
3. Free cookies. A new assortment sits on the counter every morning. (Sure, they are store bought, and I haven't actually consumed any yet, but I take comfort in their presence.)
4. I can wear whatever I want to, short of sweatpants. Today, I wore flip-flops. My toes, at the very least, loved their lives.
5. It is rather entertaining to watch the lawyers getting snippy. Scouting the scene for an eye roll or huff keeps me invested in the action. There are about seven of them, so the potential certainly exists for some heated comments/snide nonverbal expressions.
6. The tip staff (jury wranglers) are cute and chatty older gentlemen who sometimes wear bowties or pink suit jackets.
7. I have a good seat. Front and center, just like I like it. Additionally, jurors # 3 and # 5 are nice guys who laugh at me a lot.
8. I have the opportunity to fondly reminisce about simpler times upon each entrance/exit of the courtroom, as we are forced file down the hallway in a pre-determined, single-file line, like elementary school students heading to the bathroom. We are also counted often. I attempted to get everyone to march, but I guess people didn't think that it would be the most fun thing ever to do. Oh, well. (Another juror offered a comparion to a herd of cattle. Personally, I'm much prefer to think of myself as a kindergartener, rather than a cow. Though, I don't know, I might resemble the latter more closely.)
9. My chair is actually kind of comfy, despite its harsh appearance. And it swivels!
10. I get to do a lot of people-watching. And to make attempts at figuring out strategies and such. It can be quite interesting, at times.
11. Free (if temporary) accessories! We, as jurors, get to wear oh-so-stylish lanyard-type necklaces that attach to an id card that both reads "juror" and displays a keystone. Hot stuff!
12. I get to brush up on my note-taking skills. Who knows of they will make any sense by the end of the whole ordeal, but it's keeping me busy.

I know, you're jealous. No worries, though. I hope that you too, will have the grand opportunity to serve on a jury of your own sometime in your lifetime.

This is Just to Say

* When posting the pros and cons of moving away, I regretfully omitted one of the hugest reasons as to why I'm sad about skipping town. I will be ditching my work soulmate, Jenni (she received this title from a very drunk me at her very fun wedding.) She is great. Though we are always very focused on our work and would never ever be found chatting about things such as workman's comping oneself or ebay dependencies or doggie valium or gender degredation, we enjoy each other's company (silently, of course). She also made me a copy of the Grey's Anatomy soundtrack. (I love it lots.) She is also extremely crafty, to such an extent that she now serves as my personal Hallmark store, minus the cheesy wordings. She will have her own business someday. And, she makes very good chocolate chip cookies. There will be much to miss.

* After reading my previous post, Nick informed me of what he'd like to speak about at my funeral. I told him to post it as a comment, but he didn't, so I am forced to paraphrase. He claims he will talk about my creepy Kevin Bacon fascination and bring along a cardboard cutout of the actor. (I request a long haired version!) At the end of the service, he plans to fold Kevin up and tuck him into the coffin. I love it! Nick is a very good buddy, by the way. He recently made his maiden voyage to the great town of Wellsboro. He loves it a lot. I know it. He is now very jealous of Tioga Countians. Nick things he is ghetto-fab. His away messages are slightly unreadable. He the super star wedding attendee of the summer. He loves his powder blue velour jump suit. He is very tolerant of silly drunkeness. He would not let me pin sponges to myself and call my costume "self-absorbed" for his Halloween party. He loves pictures, as long as he is in them.

* Megan informed me that my emails are,"like poetry, but not." It made me smile. Megan is very cool. She is also very short. She is the best little volleyball coach/former player. She rocks the spandex. She has an extremely sunny disposition, except in the winter months. She loves Ohio a whole lot, even though she moved away. And Friends, even though there are no new shows. Playing Get Drunk Friends and Get Drunk Jeopardy with her is a blast. We have fun, except for when I act like a twit. She has bouncey/curly hair. I covet it. She loves math. And beer. She especially loves The American President.

* I have to go to jury duty selection tomorrow. I am not especially pleased. In our little dinky town, almost none of the cases actually make it to trial, so I'm told. So, though I've known for a while that I was selected, I was completely banking on not actually having to show up. I called the jury hotline this afternoon, and I wasn't so lucky. So, I am trying to devise the best plan of action for getting out of actually being picked as a juror. I think I should try to portray myself as either bigoted or unstable. Since I am a crappy liar/actress, I'm thinking the latter is my only hope. I will have to work up some tears.

* I was called something to the effect of a "disgrace to myself and all womenkind," today. I had just made a comment about how I would not want someone pushing around the pockets of fat that envelop my spleen. I was just being silly (kind of), so I think it was maybe a bit extreme. But maybe not . . .

* My brother thinks it looks like I have a mullet in my profile picture. Oops! I actually had a modified femme-mullet when I was around 9 years old. I cried for days after the damage was done.

* Sometimes I feel as though I have the same epiphanies over and over again. They always seem fresh, though.

* My aunt worries that her three year old "might have a bit of Sara in her." Apparently, she watched herself dance around in front of a mirror for a half hour the other night.

Four Weddings and a Funeral

As of next weekend, I will have attended four weddings of four friends in four months. Weddings are lovely events, obviously, and I have heard lots and lots about all of the time and effort and planning it takes to pull one off. As a result, I started thinking about what I'd like my wedding to be like. I then promptly started feeling like a loser, as it's not likely that I'll find someone to marry me in the near (or even distant) future. I just can't start pretend planning that yet. That's kind of lame. So, I've taken to planning my funeral instead. This notion was further encouraged when I watched The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off on TLC one afternoon. It is a documentary that chronicles the last months of the life of a man named Jonny who suffered from a horrible, awful disease from birth. He narrates it, even though he is dead by the end of it. He plans his own funeral and is filmed asking people to speak and picking out his casket. He has a can of baked beans, among other things, etched into one of the wooden coffin panels, stating that he wants people to ponder the significance of the beans during the service. He laughs that there is no significance, and he thinks it's a pretty fun little prank. He also makes them play "Another One Bites the Dust," during his funeral. Seriously, watch this show if you can. This guy faces his death straightforwardly, without self-pity or regret, despite the fact that he has endured excruciating pain on a daily basis throughout his entire life. Anyway, I figure that if he can suck it up and have some fun with his funeral, I can too. Sure, he knew his death was rapidly approaching. I will hopefully be sticking it out for another 70 years or so, but I could die unexpectedly tomorrow. Anyone could. I see no harm in being prepared.

Some might consider me to be morbid. It doesn't bother me, as I've heard it before. In 11th grade photography class, my black and whites almost exclusively featured either scenes from our local cemetery or Tate, my white-haired cousin who was the cutest little old man baby at that time. Eh, I've never been variety's biggest advocate. When I happen to run across them, I still think the tombstone pictures are kind of nifty. Terry and I have always threatened to plan our own funerals. (She expects invitations to be mailed; I'm not as fussy about the guest list.) I've been known to pose questions such as, "So if you were going to off yourself, would you pull a Sylvia Plath or a Virginia Woolf? Or would you go with a solid, yet overdone Hemmingway?" I like to tell stories about the slightly gruesome pictures we viewed in my college forensic science class. I can't definitively pinpoint my motivations for speaking so casually and cavalierly about death. It probably has something to do with the fact that I find death, and, more specifically, loss, to be profoundly saddening and somewhat terrifying. So maybe discussing it and pondering it and even joking about it forces me to acknowledge that it does and will happen to everyone. Juvenille? Potentially.

I'm certain that my desire to plan my own funeral stems from some highly self-involved and self-aggrandizing part of my psyche that desires to be remembered. But honestly, who doesn't? And I've attended far too many awkward funerals, at which the presiding minister never even met the deceased, some Bible verses are read, and not too much is said. Completely lacking in personalization and celebration of life. So, I am setting out to ensure that, once the time rolls around, my own funeral doesn't suck as much. (WARNING: If you already find this topic to be flippant or brooding or entirely devoid of reverence for the dead, and you are not so much a fan of such things, you should probably stop reading at this point.)

I have compiled a list of guidelines for how things better go down. Kindly direct my next of kin (whomever that may be at the time) to this list, in the instance that he/she is somehow unaware of what I want or too stubborn to comply. Peer pressure if you must, people!

1.) Kill me, if I'm more or less dead but not quite there yet. If I somehow suffer the misfortune of turning into a breathing vegetable with mush for brains, I best not be kept alive like that for any extended period of time. Whomever is in charging of making the call better heed this warning or prepare for a lifetime of ghastly hauntings once I finally am permitted to kick off. Seriously. The thought of "living" like that absolutely terrifies me.

2.) Once I am legitimatley dead, donate my organs. Let them take whatever is usable (if there is anything left unsoiled by the effects of nicotene or Dunkin Donuts addiction or any other vices I reserve the right to develop as life continues.) I do request that my body is not donated to science. I have read Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers. (It's really quite an interesting read, by the way.) And I have no interest as serving as a disembodied head for some rookie nip/tucker's first face-lifting attempt or lying in wait for every ounce of flesh to drip off my bones on a body farm. I find the latter to be a venerable cause, as it helps CSIish folks out with determining decay rates and times of death and other handy things. It's just incredibly unglamorous. And stinky. And wormy. Since I despise worms and am not a huge fan of maggots, I'd rather not give them such easy access to my eye sockets.

3.) I don't really have much of a preference regarding whether my remains are cremated or buried. Neither strike me as an especially pleasurable experience, so whatever. Cremation is cheaper, so I hear. If whomever gets to make the choice goes down this route, I demand that no urns are involved. They creep me out, and the thought of my ashes being lugged around for generations (or more realistically speaking, accidentially dumped and hurridly vacuumed and discarded with the trash - it happens all the time on sitcoms) doesn't thrill me. Having my ashes spread over a beloved or beautiful place strikes me as a tad bit cliche and potentially not environmentally friendly. As the dirty smoker that I have grown to be, I am making significant enough contributions to the pollution problem in life, so I think I'd prefer not to in death. I do definitely need a headstone. They seem important from a historical aspect, so kids hundreds of years from now can make fun of our anachoristic names and revel in awe at our comparitively short life spans. So, I guess I'm thinking I should be buried, either in ashy or fleshy form.

4.) Speaking of headstones, I want a good quotation on mine. Something literary and not too cheesy. At the moment, I'm a fan of, ". . . and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest," Hamlet, V.ii.360. It is the last part of the last thing Horatio says to newly dead Hamlet. It must be properly cited, of course. Sure, maybe angels and "thee" and "thy" sound as though they might up the cheese factor, but my gut tells me that one just can't go wrong with Hamlet. Plus, I haven't come up with anything more fitting at this point in time.

5.) No hymns at the funeral! The exception to this rule is "Amazing Grace," as I quite like it, but only if bagpipers are involved. Actually I'd really enjoy a whole slew of bagpipers. The music is so haunting and gorgeous. Maybe I'll marry a bagpiper. And then we'll have little kilt-wearing babies. Then I can assure that this will play out. Otherwise, just make mixes of songs I've liked throughout my life for background filler.

6.) Schedule the talkers ahead of time. And I expect lots of them. By that point in time, there should be enough goofy stories about me to keep everyone entertained. I actually attended a funeral at which no family/friend speakers were designated prior to the event. And no one talked when the minister who didn't even know her asked if anyone would like to speak. It was awkward. And sad. So, if for some reason a whole brigade of talkers is not rounded up ahead of time, I expect that whomever is in charge will tape stars to the bottom of the chairs in a random fashion. Then the minister or emcee or whomever is up there with the microphone will have to tell everyone to look under their seats, as though they might be potential prize winners on Oprah, and stand up if they've been starred. Those people will then be required to speak on the spot. I'd rather not have to resort to that, but I will do what I have to do.

7.) Poetry readings are permitted and even encouraged, as long as said poetry is not comprised of the rhyming internet forward variety about loved ones turning into angels or now being responsible for rainbows, etc. If someone does feel compelled to write his/her own rhyming poetry, let em go for it. I won't be too critical at that point, I'm assuming.

8.) I think it'd be kind of neat to have a cover charge at the door. Five or ten bucks, maybe, to be donated to a charity that I like. One that helps teach little girls to love themselves would be nice. Of course, if people don't have the money to donate or think that is tacky, they should be permitted to enter regardless. (Though anyone who thinks asking for charitable donations is tacky might need to realign his/her priorities, in my opinion.)

9.) No black clothing, if it can be helped. It's a celebration, so the dress should be a bit more cheerful and casual. Of course, if someone only feels comfortable in black or is going through a goth stage and only owns black or doesn't get the memo and thinks black is the way to go, they should be allowed to attend anyway. Hmm . . . maybe invitations are a good idea, after all. The only true clothing request that I have is that the horse skirt is worn. Allison has generously promised to don it, as long as she is still kicking at that time. She acts as though she is doing me a big favor, but I know she secret covets it.

10.) Eat pizza at the after party. And have a couple of kegs handy.

You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

It's official. I am moving to State College, Pennsylvania. Soon. I put my resignation in at work early this week, and I will be unemployed as of August 30, 2006. I'm stressed. Eh, who am I kidding? I'm perpetually stressed. So I guess this could be categorized as extra stressed. I have sent out a few resumes, so I feel slightly accomplished, anyway. I am hoping for a cozy office bitch position with a few nights/weekends of waitressing or bartending thrown into the mix. Eh, in all honesty, I'm truly hoping to win the lottery. The Powerball is creeping up there. If all else fails, I will set up an appointment and start donating plasma for cash, despite the fact that it totally skeeves me out to do something seemingly charitable while masking my ulterior motives.

I feel slightly guilty about leaving my job. This is probably because I usually feel guilty about anything and everything that happens, whether or not I am a significant player in the action. I suspect I am the type of person that it would be ridiculously easy to manipulate into making a false confession. If anyone around me ever winds up dead, I will arrive at the questioning place with a lawyer in tow. But, realistically speaking, this is the first time I've ever had to quit a job. With every other position I've held, it has been for some fixed period of time. So leaving has always happened on extremely amicable terms. This is a job that I (presumably) could have kept for as long as I wanted it. And I do like the work enough and feel comfortable there. Unfortunately for me, becoming comfortable is dangerous. I need to push myself to discover what I am skilled in, what I am capable of accomplishing, and what I truly enjoy. Obviously, moving to a much bigger area where the local paper boasts more than 5 help wanted ads per week is a decent starting point. I hate applying for jobs and interviewing. I despise starting new jobs and fumbling around like a nervous, socially inept idiot. But I do feel better prepared for the process at this point in my life than I ever had previously.

What I am excited about (in no particular order):

1. Moving out of my parents' living room.
2. Having my own bedroom.
3. Having my own bathroom!
4. Free tanning.
5. Free (kind of crappy, but still) gym access.
6. Not having to drive an hour to shop.
7. Potentially making enough money to actually be able to shop.
8. Many more pizza places to choose from.
9. Many more bars to frequent.
10. The possibility of befriending new people.
11. The possibility of befriending new love interests. Haha.
12. The possibility of starting graduate school in the not so ridiculously distant future.
13. Visitors!
14. The potential emergence of something resembling a social life.
15. Fun times with my litte sister.

What I am not so excited about (in no particular order):

1. Packing.
2. Abandoning my health benefits.
3. Paying rent/utilities.
4. Needing a cell phone.
5. Using my old, crappy computer. If it still works.
6. Living in a place that caters to college students, simply because I feel kind of like a loser.
7. Relying on my alarm clock to wake me up. Parents are currently a good back-up.
8. Relying on my piece of crap car to actually stay in working order. (That is, once I get it back in working order in the first place.)
9. Surrounding myself with professed haters of feminism and sympathizers of the plight of the white man. (Who, I'm sure, are all very nice and fun people otherwise.)
10. No more inside smoking.
11. Developing an entirely new daily routine.
12. More stressful driving situations.
13. Living even further away from all of my friends in upstate New York/New England.
14. Unpacking.
15. Buying my own toilet paper and laundry detergent, etc.

All in all, I think this is a positive step forward. We'll see how it progresses. Wish me luck!