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.

I'm a Loser, Baby

And here's why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I Like it Like That

I'm back! It's nice to re-enter the world of the communicative after a lengthy enough hiatus. I am attempting to make myself start writing something (anything, really) again, but it is hard for me to find a starting point. (Shocking, I know . . .) To kick it off, I am going to go the easy route and list some things I rather like at the moment.

* Grey's Anatomy

I adore this show. It's well-written and well-acted, with a nice balance of hilarious and sober moments. And I wouldn't mind playing doctor with Sheppard or George . . .

* James Blunt, Back to Bedlam

I listen to this cd on an almost daily basis, during my work breaks and while I work out. While most of the songs would be what most people would consider to be the antithesis of motivating work out music, I just can't help myself. I like every song on the cd (which I find to be a rarity)and I love most of them. (And it should be noted that You're Beautiful is probably the worst song on the album.) He's talented, he's British, he's rather attractive . . . Terry is going to see him in concert in Japan, and she intends to convince him to marry her.

* AdvantEdge Carb Control French Vanilla Shakes

These have become a huge staple in my diet. I may be obsessed. They have 100 calories and 15 grams of protein. They don't taste too weird, though the color is a rather offputting muddy yellowish brownish cream. It must be the soy . . . Regardless, I've never found such a harmless way to supplement my protein intake. I drink them for lunch, before work-outs, when I wake up in the middle of the night . . . I buy them in bulk and actually start to get panicky when my local grocery store runs out of them (which should be impossible because I can't imagine too many people around here are stockpiling them, but it has happened.) Then I have to ration them until the shelves are someday restocked or I can secure a trip to Wal-Mart (which is no easy feat in these parts, as it's 12 miles away, my car is currently broken, and I don't have an abundance of free time.)

* Psychotherapy Clothing

I'm sure some of the others would probably be fitting, depending on the day, though I'd shy away from some of the heavier labels. I doubt I'd suggest walking around in a shirt proclaiming one's tendency to hear voices or shamelessly start fires, but to each his own, I guess. I kind of appreciate the the entire idea, though. It's similar (though more self-depracating and silly) to the man in Aimee Bender's An Invisible Sign of my Own who wore a number around his neck each day which was indicative of his current level of happiness. The best part of the whole deal is that you can send shirts to other people anonymously

* Elliott Yamin

He is my current American Idol favorite. To sum him up, he is a 1/2 deaf type 1 diabetic with unfortunate teeth who sings well, cries, and gives lots of hugs. Plus, the judges aren't trying to manipulate the public into voting for him (probably because they think he's too ugly or something because they are cool like that). Additionally, I love his name. If I do end up having kids someday, my new boy names are Eliot and Auden, after T. S. Eliot and W. H. Auden. I explained to the girls at work that I would want my sons to be sensitive thinkers. They explained to me that my kids will get beat up often.

* the long shirt trend

This is the nicest thing the fashion industry has ever done for people like me. I finally have some shirts that extend beyond the entire length of my stomach and hit at my hips. It is a lovely, lovely feeling.

* 43 Things

I stumbled upon this site through Allison's blog. Simply stated, it allows you to make a list of up to 43 things you want to do with your life. You can find other people who have similar goals and intentions and presumably make friends or find accountability partners, I guess. I'm more interested in just merely figuring out my ambitions, from the seemingly insignficant to the likely unrealistic. It's a good way to force myself to think about being proactive about my life, rather than allowing myself to stagnantly exist. Suggestions are always appreciated.

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.

If I Were a Rich Girl

I spend too much time pondering what I will do when I win the lottery. This is a somewhat embarrassing admission, as I usually take pride in being a more or less realistic person who can accept the world/my life for what it is without feeling the need to cloud my vision with rose/grey/rainbow tinted glasses. (Of course, this does not necessarily apply to times when I have had a few too many drinks or to my crazy period, circa late 2001 through early 2003.) I really don't like money and don't have any driving need for an exorbitant number of material possessions. I'd just like to pay off my bills, pay off my parents' bills, buy a decent car, move into my own place, and go back to school. Okay, I'd also like an ipod and a treadmill and a vacation. And maybe I'd like to go to school for forever and to only choose to work if I truly loved what I was doing. I fully comprehend that having money does not in any way guarantee contentedness, and one would have to be somewhat silly to assume otherwise. (See: Citizen Kane, The Great Gatsby, any John Cheever short story, MaryKate Olsen, etc.) What having some money should provide, however, is a certain amount of security and stability that would be very useful at this point in my life. Of course, there a few other, more realistic courses of action.

1. Quit smoking. According to this handy calculator, I would save approximately $159.38 per month and $1939.60 per year. To be honest, to see/type that amount of money makes me cringe a bit. However, that extra two grand would probably have to be poured into massive amounts of therapy and new clothes, as I would clearly a) get fat and b) go nuts (likely from a combination of living at home without smoking + dealing with work without smoking + gaining weight). The risk outweighs the cost. Sad, yes. Pathetic, sure. True, nonetheless.
2. Break my caffeine addiction. If I purchase 6 twelve packs of diet soda per week at approximately $3.00 each and spend maybe $10.00 on convenience store coffee/bottles of soda, it works out to $112.00 each month and $1344.00 per year. Again, I admit it seems a tad excessive. Similarly, I don't think it's worth the misery that a caffeine-free existence might entail. To my credit, I drink more water than soda at work now. And I could work on cutting back.
3. Pick up a second job. This may be my most doable option at this point. As I am now released from the federal government's requirements which prohibited me from picking up additional work last year, I feel kind of guilty about having free time and so much debt. Any extra money, even that from a minimum wage position, would help. More work, however, would exponentially heighten the burnout potential, as I already have a hard time making it past 9:30 when Friday evening rolls around. I may adjust to working and being "on" more often than not, though. Plenty of people do it. It would also be a hindrance to my social life, which would potentially be another cause for concern, if it exhisted on any level at the moment.
4. Reality television. Um, yeah. My mother suggests I apply for this show. Apparently they advertise in the Elmira Star Gazette, if that says anything about its potential for quality. And while I'm sure it'd be lovely to share all of my specific money woes with the world in an effort to make everyone else who is luckier or more frugal than I am feel better about themselves, I just don't think my "story" would be all that interesting. Plus, I'm not pretty enough for tv. And it doesn't appear as though the debt or any portion of it would be eliminated. I'd be willing to apply for The Amazing Race though. Anyone looking for a partner with no navigational skills who can't drive stick? Or Survivor. If I do win the lottery, I think I will send in an application. Being a millionaire will be my hook. I'll lie and play innocent/dumb/poor and all of the non-millionaires will be pissed when starvation eats my brain and I somehow accidentially reveal that I'm actually set for life. I'll give any money I win away, of course. See, there I go again . . .

Any other suggestions?