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"

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.

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.

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!

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.