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.

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?

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.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

1. I am told that, as a very young child, my parents used to spread a blanket out on the floor. I would proceed to jump on and off the blanket repeatedly, demanding that I receive the attention and applause of everyone in the room.
2. When I am bored or thinking or nervous, I rub my fingernails over my upper lip.
3. I think I have a toenail infection. It was bruised for the longest time, and now it's just thick and slightly discolored and nasty.
4. I don't think I'm capable of pulling off a truly put together look.
5. When I was 9 or 10 or so, I used to talk about the characters in The Babysitters Club books as though they were my real friends.
6. I didn't learn to light a lighter until the night I graduated from high school.
7. In my youth, I was conviced that people refused to take me seriously because I was fat. As I've aged, I've realized that people don't take me seriously because I am goofy and somewhat aloof.
8. I have not purchased a new bathing suit since the summer before 12th grade.
9. I am too lazy to pluck my own eyebrows. It is painfully obvious.
10. I am somewhat phone phobic.
11. I've never been able to paint my nails because I go nuts the instant the polish chips.
12. Worms gross me out to such an extent that, while walking on damp and rainy days, my stomach starts to roll.
13. I recently lost 4 pairs of work pants, a lab coat, and my favorite sweatshirt in a tragic accident involving a washing machine and a brand new gel pen. It was a dark day. As I am poor, I am taking donations of khaki pants sized anywhere from, I don't know, 6 - 12. I have belts! And little shame!
14. Cottage cheese freaks me out. It's just so wrong.
15. I am both impulsive and a stickler for routine. Such is the dichotomy of my existence, I guess.
16. I am a terrible liar. I am a slightly more talented truth omitter.
17. Despite the (unfortunate) fact that I have been smoking for over 3 years, I apparently strike others as awkward while doing it. Occasionally, this fact is brought to my attention by well-meaning strangers.
18. I was voted clumsiest in my graduating class in high school. At least I wasn't selected as "Most Likely to End up on the Jerry Springer Show."
19. My friends and I got our belly buttons pierced merely because there was a one-day sale at the local tattoo parlor, and it only cost $20.00. Mine swiftly became infected, requiring a $50.00 antibiotic.
20. I purchased my first padded bra ever a few months ago. Every time I wear it, I am way too astonished and entertained for my own good.
21. After I have a couple of drinks, I tend to whine at my sister about how she got a better nose than I did.
22. I bought a new dress for Alicia's wedding. I'm not sure if it's really cute or really borderline 80s prom dress. It has a drop waist and it kind of flares out at the hips. And it is a bright emerald green . . . which strikes me as a little bit too close to turquoise. It is also a bit roomy. I think I will keep it, though. If anyone will appreciate an accidential homage to the 80s, it's Alicia.
23. I am currently (finally) reading Slaughterhouse-Five. (And I call myself a Vonnegut fan.) I told one of the doctors at my office that I bet he chose to become an optometrist because he read this book in his youth and decided that opotometrists are cool and capable of time travel. He's into sci-fi stuff, so I figured it was a well-supported hypothesis. Too bad he claims he's never read it. Best quotation thus far: "Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops."
24. My first of many career aspirations developed at age 3. I wanted to be a pizza maker.
25. At age 24, I can't seem to come up with any realistic career aspirations. I always vaguely speak about either teaching or finding something involving writing or publishing. And I will hopefully get there eventually. I wish I had the capabilities to get my masters this year. At the rate I'm going, it's going to be a while.
26. As Katharine McPhee from American Idol is apparently a recovering bulimic, I am experiencing slight twinges of guilt for my little outburst on the night in which she stayed even though she was sucky and Elliott went home. I kind of ran around the house with the eloquence of a seven year old, calling her "Katty McFatty" and "Fatty McPhee," etc. and ranting about her lack of talent and grace for about an hour. I don't know why. Elliott love drove me temporarily batty, I guess. It's all good now, though. I really hope to be a little less invested in reality television characters from this point on.
27. I think I would have greatly benefited from reading Everyone Poops as a child.
28. I like my boys scrawny.
29. I cannot snap my fingers.
30. I think the cursive "G" is hideous.
31. When I was in elementary school, I believed that I should receive praise and awards for perfect handwriting. I imagined that trophies were in my future. Not so much.
32. When I was in high school, I developed an extreme aversion to sloppy looking notes. I became quite talented at rewriting everything while listening to lectures and continuing to take notes on the marred page until I caught myself up. It was a process.
33. Thinking about flying kites makes me nauseous.
34. I worry that my life will be hindered by my limited driving abilities and navigational skills.
35. I don't want to become a lonely, crazy cat lady.

Confessions

* I have been using air quotes way too frequently. I'll throw them into conversation, realize what I'm doing, and start mumbling about how I'm such a loser. I ususally just blame it on the brain tumor, which is a handy and fitting excuse for incidents involving falling down, running into walls, sober slurring of speech, eye rolling, rambling, dropping things, and inexplicably spastic behavior.

* I began writing an entry entitled "All Good Obsessions Must Come to an End or I've Got Issues, Yes I do, I've Got Issues, How 'Bout You?," after a dark day during which I had an accidential run-in with moldy turkey pepperoni. I was convinced that the mere sight of it would end turkey pepperoni's role as an almost daily diet staple for the past three years. Pepperoni loses enough appeal when one takes the time to consider that it is composed of bits and pieces of the junky, garbage meat that might not even be good enough for hot dogs, so I figured the fungus frosted version would be enough to put me over the edge. I started lamenting my loss, but the grieving period was short. I don't think I even lasted two days before buying another bag. I couldn't figure out what to eat in its absense. I am either less or more crazy than I had thought, depending on how you look at it.

* Reading the Elmira College Review makes me feel depressed. No joke. Maybe some of those people are liars . . . or at least embellishers. Maybe I am just a hopeless slacker.

* It'd be nice if brains came equipped with mute buttons.

* I am half convinced that the weather dictates my moods.

* I am highly embarrassed to admit this, but I secretly kind of like the new (well, recycled) legging trend. I have no explanation or excuse. Maybe some portion of my subconscious longs to be kindred spirits with Lindsay Lohan. God help me.

* In potentially even more disturbing news, I sometimes find myself thinking Taylor Hicks is all kinds of sexy.

* I am wondering if the reason I am so drawn to Hamlet is because we both suffer from the same fatal flaw - an inability to act. He capably grasps what he needs to do, yet agonizes over actually carrying through with it for forever and meets his demise as a result. He is crafty and intelligent and seemingly capable, but he is stuck . . . entrapped by his own mind, really. It has always seemed to be one the lamer tragic hero issues out there, but it's also more complicated and layered and realistic.

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

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

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

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

The Internet is for . . . Bush Bashing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream On

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

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

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

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

Part 2. In color.

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

Part 3. Also in color.

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

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