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.

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.

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.

The Internet is for . . . Bush Bashing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a Big Kid Now

Last night, I acted a slightly out of character. College friends, prepare yourselves for a shock.

I ordered a soda at a bar. And, yes, I am almost positive that it was the first time I've ever done such a thing. Crazy, huh? I had 2 1/2 beers in like 4 hours and stopped. Granted, I was exhausted and sick and already had a headache. But it's not like that has ever held me back in the past.

I just might be maturing.

Next thing you know, I'll be showing up to the bar in pantyhose and ordering gin and tonics.

Attention All Chubby Chasers

Three weeks ago, I came to the unfortunate realization that I managed to gain 7 lbs in one month. I'm pretty sure this takes some major talent. (Or possibly a bum thyroid, but I'm fairly certain my diet of dunkin donuts, kit kats, and pizza might be the true culprit.) I talk about the weight gain nonchalantly, and I guess I have a positive enough attitude about it. My clothes still fit and people give me confused looks and tell me they don't believe it when it comes up in casual conversation. (I have well-documented proof, damn it!) The gain has only brought me back up to my body's apparent "set-weight," if one believes in such a thing . . . a comfortable enough place where I either have to consciously eat way too much or diet rigorously to enact major changes. (And hey, if I were to have enough money/humility/self-control to join weight watchers, I would get two extra points from the get go.)

I'd like to not care, to roll with it and accept what happens. However, I seem to feel the need to possess a quantifiable goal in my life at the moment, and I can't come up with anything better than losing the weight/becoming thin/blahblahblah. Seriously, it gets old. I am sickened by the almost universal obsession with thinness purported by American women. I mean, really, what the hell does it matter? There are about 10 women who work in my office, who range from rather thin to moderately overweight, and one of the most prevalent types of nonwork-related conversations seems to constantly involve eating vs. not eating, liposuction vs. cellulite, good food vs. bad food, etc. I have only been there for two weeks, and I can't even count how many times I have been praised for being "good" and avoiding the cookies/bagels/cake/candy/take out. Yeah, I'm so good for skimping on lunch (usually because I am just too busy/stressed/poor to eat all that much while I am there). So good, in fact, that I still see a dietician once a month and have shitty skin and ruined teeth. Don't get me wrong. I harbor no malicious feelings toward these people or women in general. It's clearly not just a localized issue. It seems as though one can walk into any random grouping of women and encounter a similar situation. And I, admittedly, jump right in and contribute to the body-loathing/food categorizing efforts more often than not. I am certainly knowledgable in the subject matter. It is just somewhat jarring when it appears that I have a seemingly better attitude toward food than so many "normal" women. I don't know. Ideally, my notion of "good" involves a healthy-sized someone who eats a normal-sized lunch and then grabs a cookie unapologetically. A woman whose conversations reflect her intelligence and interests, rather than her insecurities. And, yes, I realize I am coming off as more than slightly hypocritical in this argument, but I am thankful for the small moments of insight and disappointment. At the very least, a less quantifiable, but ultimately more satisfying goal lies ahead.