I'm a Loser, Baby

And here's why.

1.) I American Idol voted last night. A lot. Well, I made many attempts, anyway, during House and The Real World commercial breaks. Lots of busy signals. I try to claim to be a nonchalant viewer, but I think I have fallen prey to someone every single season who sucks me in and makes me worry about him to the extent of throwing down some votes when elimination appears to be looming. I guess I am easily guilted (even by short, man-tanning reality tv hosts), as I let Seacrest's chidings about how my complacency directly contributes to undeserved outings get to me. This season, though, I fear I am getting out of control. My Elliott love seems to know no bounds. I'm pretty sure I at least doubled my prior voting total from all of the past seasons combined in one night. I reek of over-investment. And I will throw shoes at my tv if he is voted out tonight.

2.) Speaking of The Real World, I somehow find myself to be a regular viewer for the first time since New Orleans, I think. I don't even watch it in the more practical, "I'll catch one of the 80 million reruns that is shown weekly," manner. Oh, no, I tune in every Tuesday at 10:00. I must be a masochist. First of all, it makes me feel old. Secondly, I think, on a subconscious level, I must be putting myself through it as penance for all of those "bitch crazy" drunken moments I forced upon my friends in college. Cause they've got an over the top, ridiculously emotional, issue-ridden girl bringing loads of drama to this season. She is always crying or hyperventilating or hating on men. It's more than a little unsettling to watch.

3.) Time reserved for the tanning bed seems to be officially replacing time formerly reserved for the gym. I was a consistent little worker outer for a quite a while, too.

4.) I let the Wal-Mart people cut my hair and (prepare yourself for the horror) wax my eyebrows. I was previously informed by some co-workers that getting hair cuts at Wal-Mart is for people who are so trashy that they are no longer permitted to enter real hair cutting establishments. I don't know, I guess I feel kind of let down. From the way they spoke, I expected to witness a parade of mullets and rat tails and spiral perms and poodle bangs. Unfortunately, the Wal-Mart cutting corral just didn't deliver, despite the fact that it was hopping with walk-ins. Anyway, I feel much greater levels of pity for the poor girl who had to focus her efforts on the crazy catterpillarish mess I left entirely untouched for 6 months than I do for myself for sinking to such a level.

5.) I am way too excited about alcoholic soda. (But, really, you should try it.)

6.) I can't seem to make it through a day without eating, at the very least, two fruit roll ups.

7.) I find myself stuck in a bit of a compulsive book-buying mode. Half.com is too damn tempting. And cheap. So I'm currently juggling 5 books. (They are, in no particular order, I'm Not the New Me, Bring Me Your Saddest Arizona, The Center of Winter, This Life She's Chosen, and The Glass Castle.) Needless to say, I'm not making tremendous dents in any of them. Of late, actually finishing a book feels like a major accomplishment. Very sad.

8.) I check a number of blogs daily. And away messages. And myspace profiles. And the superficial. When a computer isn't readily accessible, I even read celebrity-focused tabloidish magazines. It's as though I'm still in college, searching desperately for methods of procrastination, though I now have nothing left to avoid except for the books I am supposedly reading for fun. I fear my brain is slowly, but steadily turning to slush.

9.) I buy instant lottery tickets sometimes. (And by sometimes, I mean every time I get paid.)

10.) I can't sleep without Nick at Nite. I've grown far too accustomed to the background noise, and I don't trust any other channels for fear that I'll wake up at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of wacky infomercials that work their way into my dreams or, even worse, the buzzing rainbow screen that manages to sound more irritating and jarring than my alarm clock.

The Write Stuff

Over the weekend, I stumbled upon Jennifer Weiner's blog. I find the trend of established young writers maintaining blogs and websites to be interesting. It makes sense, as it serves as a way to keep fans updated and hopefully a venue to draw in potential readers. I guess I am intrigued by the everyday/personal nature of the author blogs (I found a few) that I visited. I guess I expected that they'd be more focused on bigger efforts (such as the ones that people actually pay to read), rather than the seemingly mundane stuff that everyone else and her mother is blogging about. It's kind of cool. I think both her blog and her website are rather entertaining, even though I've never read Jennifer Weiner's books. (I have seen In Her Shoes, though, and I think it's a lovely little film.) Her writing style is conversational, cute, and quirky. I appreciate her self-deprecating sense of humor and enthusiasm for reality television.

A few years ago, I was encouraged to read her first novel, Good in Bed, by multiple friends. Apparently, my pseudo-pretentious little brat persona shone through, and I refused, as I dismissively informed them that chick lit was not my style. The funniest thing is, I subsequently purchased and read Hungerpoint, which definitely deserves the same classification. The glossy, hot pink cover and slightly chubby, "lookin for lovin" protagonist both serve as dead giveaways. So, I nullified my entire argument with my spring break reading selection. If I were my friends, I would have laughed at me. Maybe I was adamantly opposed to reading Good in Bed because, judging by the title, I figured I wouldn't find the heroine relatable. Maybe I was just a moody snot, and the invitations to read the book fell consistently on bad days. Whatever the case, three years later, I am feeling a bit foolish.

While surfing around her site, I happened upon a page with tips for wannabe writers. It's practical, humorous, and refreshing. I especially enjoy step # 3: "Major in Liberal Arts (but not necessarily creative writing)." I am too often confronted with judgmentally posed questions/statements such as, "Why would you ever decide to major in just English?" or "What kind of decent job will you ever pick up with a degree in that?" and the oh so encouraging, "Well, that seems like a waste of money. My kid knows he/she better pick a serious major." And even when it's not directly stated, it's implied quite often. My response usually begins with me rambling in my haughty tone about how there are two different schools of thoughts concerning college majors; some prefer pre-professional routes and some favor the liberal arts. I tell them that many intellectuals prefer the latter, as it doesn't pigeonhole students, encourages them to think and reflect, and allows them to pursue a variety of worthy interests, blah, blah. Then I usually become defensive and explain that I intended to graduate with secondary ed certification, but spending an extra semester at a private college wasn't the most practical plan. (As if to say, "see, plain old English majors are sometimes practical, too!") I tell them that I would have had to attain a master's degree within a few years, anyway, and it is fairly easy to pick up certification at the same time. That was once the plan . . . Then I remember that it's almost two years post-graduation, and I'm nowhere near decisive enough or financially able to pursue my master's. And I'm not sure that I even want to teach and the thought of taking another slew of education classes is about as appealing as having my eyes gouged out. So then I start to wonder if maybe the critical parties' points hold some validity, and I feel defeated and panicky. At this point I shut my mouth, letting the mean people win.

Now, they will win no more. I will simple say in response to their inquisitions, "Kindly refer to www.jennfierweiner.com/forthewriters.htm. It is all a part of my long established master plan for penning books. Having already mastered many of her suggestions, all I need to do is care for a dog, go through a few nasty break-ups, and peruse some cereal box labels and Harlequin novels. I'm well on my way. Thanks for your concern. If you're nice, maybe I'll autograph a copy of my first publication for you." In all seriousness, I do think Jennifer presents an adequate and concise argument for liberal arts education. And I just might print it out and carry it with me, just in case. (And, no, I don't hold any real delusions of grandeur or expectations of supporting myself through writing. I'm average, at best, and much more skilled at writing about other people's writing than coming up with my own material. Plus, it is too often an arduous and draining process for me. It would be nice, though.)

Fat Bottomed Girls You Make the Rockin' World Go Round

In the first so-called "shocking" ouster of the current season, Mandisa was voted off of American Idol. I enjoy her, but, due to my long ago solidified Elliot fangirl status, (which remains constant despite the fact that he definitely messed up Gavin DeGraw's lyrics two weeks ago), I guiltily cheered in my head a bit when her Daniel Powter funeral montage began. (I think it's rather amusing that they use "Bad Day" for every single, "final glance of the nice person you evil, tonedeaf, teenage Americans who actually vote sent packing this week" video this year. Sure, it is fitting and catchy enough, though unfortunately overplayed at this point, but there is something to be said for variety. I just hope the guy made a significant amount of money out of that deal and that he, unlike me, did not allow himself to become another one of American Idol's countless bitches.)

Here's the deal. Mandisa is undoubtedly talented. I think that most people who've listened to her sing during some of her better performances would have a difficult time disagreeing with that statement. She has a powerful, booming, borderline shouty voice - a standout type of vocal style that is lauded and revered year after year by both the American Idol judges and the viewers . . . or at least the viewers who are manipulated into believing that the judges truly know what they're talking about. In any case, it is strikingly obvious that, more often than not, bigger = better on this show, at least in terms of singing style. It is not so much the case, however, in terms of body size.

When she was first featured in the audition rounds, I was automatically on Mandisa's team. That's how I work. I find myself, through some kind of habitual, mechanical impulse, rooting for the chubby kids. I guess I must feel as though I can empathise with them, assuming that they have been taunted or left out or criticized or humiliated in their pasts. I know it's not practical to make assumptions about people I've never met, and I know that most people, no matter what their size, likely go through periods of time in which they are treated unkindly. It just seems like a given, in my (potentionally dillusional) opinion, that the chances are particularly high in situations in which the individual is overweight, especially during his/her formative years. I guess I just worry that they will be publicly criticized for their looks or deemed less worthy than their less talented, yet more conventionally attractive competitors and end up broken and defeated or something.

Needless to say, I was happy when Mandisa made it to the top 12. The girl is stunningly gorgeous. She presents herself with such a huge level of confidence and poise, and it is safe to assume that the girl is legitimately comfortable with herself and how she looks. I find myself feeling rather envious and a bit shamed in her (television-induced) presence. Throughout her appearances, she never seemed to feel the need to hide her body or to even wear clothes that might be slightly more slimming. I've heard multiple comments about how she should never wear jeans or bare her arms. I don't know, maybe the sight of her exposed, fleshy skin or the stretchy fabric clinging to her thighs started burning holes in their retinas. My retinas must already be scarred from too much tanning bed exposure, as I happen to think watching her perform in such clothing is relatively painless and pretty awesome. Why must flattering always equal slimming, anyway?

Mandisa, in my opinion, was voted off before less talented and more annoying people. Examples include, but are not limited to: Kellie Pickler (who seems to be attempting to market herself as a twangier, stringier-haired, smaller-boobed, and stupider version of Jessica Simpson. I know that seems to be an impossible feat, but she is working it pretty well thus far.); Ace Young (I yell at the tv every time I see him because he's a crappy-voiced tool, and I can't see the hotness that everyone is always fawning over); and Bucky Covington (who seems like a nice enough guy, but is a mumbler who is out of his league. My brother and I enjoy referring to him as "Bonko" for no particular reason.) While I do consider myself to be a cynical viewer, I am not a conspiracy theorist, at least on most days. I merely think that a lot of Americans are dumb or easily manipulated, especially those who vote. Regardless, I have developed a theory about Mandisa's depature that might make you roll you eyes. I don't necessarily believe it. Despite the fact that I'm devoting an increasingly lengthy post to this silly reality show, I try not to spend too much time overanalyzing its outcomes. I'm sure it was a combination of a couple of things. I wonder if her proselytizing played a part. It can definitely turn people off, but I wouldn't think it would be an issue in the eyes in the majority of voters. It's likely mostly due to the fact that she had 2 subpar performances in a row, but I'm still going to go ahead and theorize for the hell of it.

During her final performance, Mandisa sang Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine." It's a novelty type of song, and they never seem to impress anyone too much. Her arrangement didn't allow for too much super special shouty singing and she was apparently off anyhow. (I am not the best judge of such things, as I am entirely tonedeaf.) The lyrics clearly indicate that the singer expects a man to treat her well and fulfill her desires, etc. I should probably be pondering the state of my mental health for actually pausing to take Shania Twain's lyrics into consideration, but that is another issue. So I find myself wondering if maybe Americans found a woman of her size singing those lyrics to be offputting. Like someone that big should feel lucky to have a man at all. That she is in no position to be making demands and presenting herself as sexy and desirable and worthy. She certainly lands far outside the stereotypically meek, obedient, apologetic, voiceless, invisible fat girl box. And maybe people grew tired of seeing that. I'd like to believe otherwise, but I'm not entirely convinced . . .

I know, everything isn't about fatness and feminism. It's just a thought.

And brevity is the soul of wit. I'll work on it.

Blast From the Past

For one reason or another, I reluctantly agreed to arrange an appointment with a doctor I had seen off and on throughout college for a follow-up of sorts. If I were to compile a list of people, dead or alive, that I would least like to be stuck alone in a room with, he'd probably make the top 10, falling somewhere below Adolph Hitler and Jerry Falwell, but slightly higher than (present day) Charles Manson. At the very least, Manson presents the opportunity for entertaining discussion, and I'd know with certainty that I wasn't the craziest person in the room. And if a lull in conversation did occur, we could always start belting Beatles tunes together to pass the time away. Plus he's old and probably drugged up in jail. I'm a good kicker and have mastered the basics of self-defense, thanks to the so-called expert ladies who gave us a lesson in the class Becky and I took 3rd term of senior year called "Growing Up Female In America." We naively believed the course would center around reading and writing about girl stuff. (Silly us, for blindly buying into the description in the course catalog. Even sillier us, for not taking 6 credits of dance, like every self-respecting senior who doesn't need to take any more credible courses for graduation should do.) The class would have been more aptly titled "Seemingly Free Group Therapy Sessions for Confused 19 Year Old Lesbians." By the fifth week, repeatedly hearing tearful stories that often started out along the lines of, "I loved reading this section so much because I like totally identified with her. When I was 13 . . .," became more than a bit wearying. More than anything, I felt embarrassed for them, having done more than my share of draining overspeaking during my younger days. But I digress . . .

So, yes, on most any given day, I think I'd prefer Charles Manson's company to this doctor's. Sure, that's a bit exaggerated and unfair and unscientific, as I've met one and not the other, but I think it speaks to the degree to which I find interactions with him to be unpleasant. And I consider myself capable of, at the very least, tolerating just about anyone. Someone may act stupidly or selfishly or annoyingly, but I understand that people are complex, their motivations are sometimes misunderstood, and their backgrounds are often unknown. Under normal circumstances, I am more interested in attempting to understand where another person is coming from, rather than automatically dismissing his/her opinions. I try to be, anyway. With this man, though, I make no attempts. If prompted to describe him, I tend to come up with something similar to, "a fucking arrogant, pill-pushing asshole who is totally judgmental and disinterested in listening to patients. He's also really really mean." I know, a statement like that just oozes with charm and eloquence. But that is what seeing this man does to me . . . I allow myself to instantly regress into juvenile thought processes and behaviors. For whatever reason (I don't even necessarily remember too many details from the first couple of encounters), he is cemented in my mind as a bad guy in a steady, unchanging position. In the past, I, at times, had to almost literally be dragged in to see this man. I'd cry, mumble, refuse to communicate with him. To be fair, these moments occurred in the midst of my drama queen days, in which I was ridiculously self-involved and far from the most emotionally stable person one could encounter. Looking back, I recognize that I was difficult enough to handle as a friend, let alone a non-compliant patient.

So, when presented with the opportunity to return to see him after a couple of years of blissful avoidance, I decided to give it a go. If I were to oversimplify things, I'd claim to be a totally different person at this time in my life. However, that's a misguided and banal phrase. More accurately, I have a different perspective at this time in my life. I am fairly mellow, far less dramatic, and certainly more competent and capable than I was a few years ago. Still the same old me, but a much more palatable version. So I viewed this visit as an experiment of sorts. I wanted to go into it with as much of an open mind as I could conjure, in an attempt to see if the caricature I'd created in my mind was at all accurate and to discover whether or not I'd unjustly demonized someone.

After considering calling to cancel on multiple occasions, I went on Thursday morning. I was brimming with anxiety, not surprisingly. I don't really care for doctors in general. I think it has something to do with the fact that they try to inform patients about what is best for their bodies. I seem to have some kind of underlying "it's my body, I'll do what I like with it" resentment about that. Plus, there is the whole lingering dread that they will start spouting unpleasant news indicating that one is not normal or about to die or something like that. Not that the latter was really a factor in this certain situation, but it must play a part of my overarching issue with doctors.

Shortly after entering his office, my blood pressure was taken. It was highish - 160/70, as I expected. It was taken again a few minutes later, and the reading remained the same. I figured it'd be worse. I don't think I've pulled off a normal blood pressure reading in a doctor's office in the last 10 years, at least. It's kind of pathetic, really. They call it "White Coat Hypertension," which is basically a whole load of nothing. I apparently get myself so worked up about doctor's appointments that I am constantly accused of having high blood pressure. And I don't especially appreciate it because, according to my brain, a person having high blood pressure at my age must be fat. Whether or not that is an accurate assumption, I can't really say. Regardless, I don't enjoy people insinuating that I am fat, so I don't take blood pressure discussions all that well. Now, when I was 13 or so and they started telling me that my blood pressure was high, at least I was legitimately overweight at the time. So I could maybe kind of see it. My family doctor finally stopped bugging me about it long ago once I proved that when I take my own blood pressure at, say, Wal-Mart, it falls within the normal range.

Well, this guy didn't seem to find anything more pressing to focus his lecture on, so a portion of our conversation proceeded as follows:

HIM: "Wow, your blood pressure is high."

ME: "Yeah, I know. It always is. It's not really high, though. Just pretend high."

HIM: "That's just not acceptable." (to the nurse) "Take it again."

ME: "She already took it twice. It'll still be high."

HIM (chewing his gum obnoxiously): "Well, you need to be medicated for it."

ME: "No, I don't. It's only high when I'm nervous. I've been like this for years."

HIM (flipping through the pages of my chart for the first time): "Well, it's been high every time I've seen you. 160/70, 160/70, 160/60 . . . "

ME: "It could have been worse, considering that . . ."

HIM (cutting me off): "Well, we can't keep ignoring it. This is obviously a problem and we need to treat you for it."

ME (twirling my hair): "I swear it's not really high. I just don't like doctors."

HIM (seeming to completely ignore me): "Well, it's not like it's a big deal right now. But, when you're older, you'll just get heart disease and die."

In retrospect, I wish I had followed that statement with, "Well, we all have to go at some point." Instead, I just listened to him talk at me about recording my blood pressure twice a week in order to "prove him wrong." He eventually moved on, and I proceeded to attempt to honestly answer a bunch questions that he read off the standard checklist. He gave me some suggestions, and I'm still considering whether or not I will take them. Overall, it was probably the most painless encounter I've had with him. His cavalier attitude, blatantly dismissive reactions to my opinions, and haughty tone of voice still make him extremely offputting. I'd never recommend him to a friend, which is unfortunate, as I have nothing but praise for the other professionals he is associated with. Oh, well. And while I've now established that I am capable of acting in a mature and civil enough fashion while trapped in a room with him, I don't intend to make a habit of it.