This Life She's Chosen

I think I'm back from my rather extended hiatus.

I apologize for my lack of posting. Upon moving to State College, I began working at a kids' clothing store and serving at a local restaurant. I have been working between forty and sixty hours a week, and rarely have a whole day off. While the work is not typically mentally taxing, it involves a lot of running around and standing and being super nice to people, even if one would rather gouge one's eyeballs out. At first, I was just too tired to write. Then, the thought of writing became overwhelming because it had been so long since I had written anything. Then, my computer died. (I almost don't mind this fact, as it was ridiculously old and slow and cumbersome. And it buzzed louder than the swarm of bees that took Macaulay Culkin down in My Girl.) Then my father lost his job and it was Christmas and then New Year's and life was stressful, though not particularly interesting.

Regardless of my less than legitimate litany of excuses, I am back and intend to continue sticking around. I have some good news to kick off with. A couple of days ago, I was hired for a full-time billing position at a local doctor's office. I'll be making significantly more money and will have benefits and time off and all of that helpful stuff that one misses once it is no longer there. It couldn't have come at a better time, as I am currently barely scraping by financially. It definitely trumps attempting to pick up a third job at Starbucks, which would be rough, as I am too intimidated by the eight million varieties of coffee-like beverages to even walk into one of their establishments. I have already started working at the new job a tiny bit, and I'm not terribly intimidated thus far. I think I'll get the hang of everything, and they seem very willing to gradually introduce more responsibilites as I become more comfortable.

I am also going to attempt to keep both of my current part-time jobs. This may be a slightly masochistic decision, but I think it is doable. I like both of the jobs, and I think I will like them both even more in smaller doses. I love the people I work with at the retail store, plus I would probably suffer through an extended mourning period over the loss of my current clothing disount. I also enjoy working for tips. It's almost fun, and I get to meet lots of interesting people. I will be really busy, but I think I will be able to handle it. I've never put free time to especially good use, anyway.

Hamlet is Fun

I wrote this piece for a creative nonfiction class during my junior year of college. I am more than a bit leary about posting something so personal on the internet, but I have decided that it doesn't have to be a big deal. While I often wish that I had made different decisions, I am becoming increasingly less ashamed of my past as I continue to mature and move forward in life. Plus, the majority of people who actually read this blog suffered through this period of my life with me anyway. If you are a newer friend or an internet friend or a random visitor and you have questions, feel free to send them my way. Because I am still kind of paranoid, I'd really appreciate comments if you read this. I'd love to hear some suggestions on improving the style or content or anything else. Thanks.

*****

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."

- T.S. Eliot
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

“I am Polonius.” I struggle not to giggle. I attempt to mask my high-pitched, nasally voice with caricatural grandiosity. I state the opening line of this impromptu one-woman Hamlet show on a Saturday evening in October. I am a college junior, and I have been oddly enraptured by the tragic play for over three years. I am convinced that Shakespeare intended for this role to be portrayed exclusively by a short, chubby, balding man. To compensate, I kneel on the toast colored, beer stained carpet in my friends’ living room. I straighten my back and extend my belly. Good enough. I pause for dramatic effect. My tiny audience is surprisingly attentive.

“La la la. To thine own self be true. Be a good kid, Laertes. Listen to me. I am wise and wonderful and dead sexy and very chatty. More matter, with less art, requests Gerty. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, my daughter is assuredly making Hamlet crazy. I will get to the bottom of this, yet! As I am such an unbelievably brilliant mastermind, I shall hide behind this thick, velvety curtain and uncover the truth. My stealthiness knows no bounds . . . Ow! Oooh! Ouch!” I speedily collapse and clutch my chest with both hands. For half a minute, I thrash about on the floor. My arms flail wildly. I warp my face into a slew of hideous contortions in an attempt to relay the intense pain of being stabbed.

“Oh, the agony. I am not your rat, you loser! Oh, I am slain! Sad day for me.” I draw my limbs to my chest and lie curled in the fetal position. I quickly peer up to assure that my friends are enjoying themselves. Satisfied, I return to character in order to display my perfected dead person face. The side of my head meets the floor with a heavy thud. My lips part slightly as I fix my eyes blankly ahead.

“I am Horatio.” Quickly moving on with the performance, I jump up and stand atop the center of the coffee table.

“I am the most noble literary character of all time. I am a scholar. I know lots of Latin. So what if the ghost wasn’t exactly responsive to my efforts? I am Hamlet’s only true-blue buddy - the one who sticks it out until the end. And since I’m such a great guy, I am permitted to survive this nasty bloodbath of a drama.” Pausing, I clasp my hands together and tilt my head slightly to the left. I make the most contemplative face I can render, glancing down at the imaginary dead guy.

“Now cracks a noble heart - Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Alright, Fortinbras, march on in to restore the order in Denmark.”

“I am Gertrude.” I sit regally upon the edge of the table, crossing my legs at the ankles. I demonstrate my beauty queen wave and hold my chin high.

“Since my husband has suffered an untimely death, I might as well marry his brother. We can use the funeral leftovers for the wedding reception. What a grand and thrifty idea! Oh, my son has gone quite mad. Frailty thy name is woman!” In my manliest voice, I shout Hamlet’s blatant insult in an aggressive, yet comically drawn-out manner.

“Here, Hamlet, come in my bedroom and scream at me for a while. Then we can make out. (But only if you are Mel Gibson.) Oh, the agony! I am so torn. My husband, my son, my husband, my child, my throne, my life . . . Hamlet, honey, hand me your cup.” I form the universal choking sign with my hands. I cough, gurgle, and gag, as I farcically fall from my coffee table throne. “Oh, what a dark, sad day in Denmark.”

“I am Ophelia.” I announce the character change in a light, singsong tone. I begin to skip around in circles. It is difficult to contain my giddiness.

“I’m obedient and fair and everyone loves me. Oh, sad for Hamlet, my sort-of love. His dad is dead, and he is getting stranger by the day. Get thee to a nunnery!” My demanding Hamlet voice makes a quick reappearance.

"Um, no thanks, and you’re weird. Daddy, help! Hamlet is freaking me out. Does he honestly think I’ll look good in a habit? What? Dad is dead?” I sigh, placing the back of my hand on my forehead as I listlessly stagger around the room.

“Time to sing the remainder of my lines. I’m little Ophelia, the poor psychotic girl.” I dance about. I pass out make-believe flowers to my onlookers.

“Some rosemary for you. You get some rue. I’m beyond crazy now, and I hope you all feel guilty for the pathetically short remainders of your lives.” I stop and pull my hair from its drooping ponytail. Bending over, I fervently tousle it and shake my head in order to appear authentically disheveled.

“La la la la. Time to die. I’m off to find some heavy rocks to shove in my pockets. Fighting in my grave, boys? That’s intense, anyway.” I daintily collapse into a sloppy heap, kindly sparing my friends my interpretation of drowning oneself to death.

*****

I, like Ophelia, have also lost it. Overwhelming insecurities coupled with external stresses beyond my control have left me with disastrous coping mechanisms at points in my life. My body has been perpetually and relentlessly targeted as the scapegoat for my discontent. On a dreary afternoon in early April 2002, I arrive at my hometown cemetery. A faint drizzle of rain lingers. The sunless sky accents both the lifeless blacktop on which I travel and my colorless disposition. The cemetery is the ideal exercise facility during college breaks. It is quiet, serene, clean, and free of cost. Most importantly, I know that walking one lap around the new section and another around the old one equals almost exactly one mile. I need to accurately track the distance traveled in order to experience the slightest bit of relief.

I am alone with my thoughts. I can’t believe I ate that today. Fucking fat ass. I pinch my stomach and grasp each of my wrists. A recently consumed bagel sits sqarely in my stomach, a heavy, lumpy reminder of my ostensible failures. I try to assess the damage. Yep, definitely at least 10 pounds heavier than last week. What are people going to think when I get back to school? I can’t even be consistently sick. I glance at the rusty garbage can that rests to the right of my similarly colored car. Should I? Could I really get away with it? It’s already been at least fifteen minutes. And what if someone sees me? I drag myself past the parking area, tracing my collarbone with my fingers.

Oh, my goodness, my grades from last term . . . My second term average boasts three incompletes and a D in American Sign Language, presumably the easiest course offered at my college. A 0.9 GPA. I cringe in disbelief. Formerly an academic overachiever, I find myself abruptly plagued by an inexplicable strain of deranged perfectionism that prohibits me from accomplishing any work at all. Lovely. I’m still fat. I feel like shit, and I’ve ruined my entire college career. What a plan.

I slow my pace. I walk with my head fixed to my right. I eye every shiny, upright tombstone with the hopes of catching an accurate glimpse of myself in a makeshift mirror. After a few minutes, I approach the towering headstone of a fourteen year old killed in a car accident three days before Christmas. It is a gorgeous standout that displays a haunting etching of a weeping willow that the artistic youth sketched prior to his passing. It allows me to examine myself from the hips down. I stop and stare. Gross. My legs are way bigger than I thought. And my butt? I’m never eating again. Facing the tombstone, I press my heels together. I roll my black yoga pants to my knees and begin to scrutinize my calves. I then tug at the material hugging my thighs and measure the space between them. Elephantine. I squeeze my stomach chub and turn from side to side, examining my profile from every imaginable angle. Eventually, I force myself to continue walking, checking my arms for Oprah flub as I round the corner. People are silly. No one this fat is worthy of concern. Not entirely satisfied, I search out another means by which to view myself. I spot a large mud puddle a couple of feet to my left. I am thankful to be the lone visitor in this section of the graveyard. I straddle the edges of the misshapen circle, hovering over the murky waters in a desperate search to see myself.

Such is Life

Ruminations on Daily Life as I Know It

* Everything is ridiculously cheap at my new neighborhood Wal-Mart, with the exception of cigarettes. Cancer stick costs are seriously bloated there. Is Wal-Mart attempting to make a morality statement? It's a weak one, if so, as they still sell them. Plus, Wal-Marts in normal states sell beer. (Pennsylvania has some messed up alcohol laws.) I think it's more likely that they are trying to take advantage of the poor, addicted souls who have failed to discover the reasonably priced Sheetz about two blocks up the road. I kind of loathe you, Wal-Mart, though I truly appreciate your $2.24 boxes of 100 calorie packs and $2.95 bags of turkey pepperoni.

* Gas is $0.20 cheaper in State College than it is in Wellsboro. I can't afford to purchase it anywhere.

* Penn State is currently the #2 party school in the nation. Penn State students are collectively disturbed by this statistic. They are working hard to attain the #1 position next year.

* Natty Lite can be found in bottles. I don't recommend purchasing it in any form, but it is available.

* I have morphed into a person I once admonished. Exhibit A. I have capitulated into the realm of the commonplace cell phone junkie in record speed. Exhibit B. I now own and wear a pair of higher waisted pants. (They are suit pants. I do not enjoy them.) Exhibit C. I actually lounged around my room for a brief period of time with my pants unbuttoned, for the sake of comfort. (I was wearing the suit pants between interviews. They are properly sized, which equals too tight and too high in Saraworld.) If I start sporting pointy-toed shoes or mumus, it's all going to be over.

* My sister, who is currently the local cult leader, displayed one of my blog entries for all to read at their last gathering. When she came home and gleefully informed me of this fact, I felt slightly exposed and uncomfortable. Sure, I put it on the internet for anyone and her mother (and my mother) to read. It was not my intention, however, to have my intelligence or writing style or picture scrutinized by a room full of strong opinioned youngsters. While I don't know what kind of discussion transpired, I'm certain they weren't heaping praises upon me. Oh, well. She was apparently attempting to find this entry, but couldn't figure out where it was. I'm thankful for that much, anyway.

* The closest liquor store has a whole "local wines" aisle. Apparently, they classify the Finger Lakes area as "local." It doesn't make the most sense to me, but I love it.

* While I was diligently job searching (er, wasting time on the internet) the other morning, I received a couple of random instant message from someone with a name something like "harleyguyx210x." He asked if we had met in a chat room. (I ignored him, as I clearly hadn't. Chat rooms are so 1999. And, don't get me wrong, I like to party like it's that year all the time, but that's as far as I go.) He kept messaging me (he was a rather persistant dude), so I decided to apologetically inform him that I did not know who he was. He replied, "I thought just met you in chat room Self Pleasure 103." He was quickly blocked. Looking back, I think I understand his reasoning behind asking me why I was tired, though. He's kind of a self-congratulatory little bugger.

* I am considering posting a slightly revised version of the "Hamlet is Fun/Sara is crazy" piece I wrote for creative nonfiction class long ago. Since my ancient computer is actually working and I once again have access to it, I might give it a go. What do you think? The people who read the first draft of it in school seemed to like it, but it is kind of personal. Looking for feedback . . .

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.

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

Apparently not too much. One would think, considering that I am going to be paying for this degree until I die, that I would, at the very least, possess competent spelling abilities. I bet I edit my posts an average of 3 times for silly spelling errors and still miss some. I suck at life!

[DISCLAIMER] I am going to blog. So I say, anyway. Should I be embarrassed? Potentially, I guess, but I should certainly receive no more criticism for keeping a public chronicle of my thoughts than I should for, say, the number of hours I devote to reality tv viewing per week or cigarettes I smoke each day. I need to write something . . . anything, really, to assure myself that my brain is still somewhat functional. I'm not particularly sure about why I feel the need to justify my intentions. My inner vouyer loves to read other people's blogs, and I find some of them to be especially thoughtful or witty or well-written. The other 82% of them tend to be overly self-focused and boring, full of silly rants or luv messages to their bois and/or gurls, but lacking in substance and an understanding of basic grammar. I am really in no place to criticize anyone who is attempting to write as a form of self-expression, though, as I haven't been able to make myself sit down and come up with much of anything to say at all in recent months. So, I guess I will give it a shot. I make no promises of brilliance. I find my life, at the moment, to be rather sullen and dull, riddled with neuroses/idiosyncracies, but blessed with little moments of love, humor, and understanding. Here goes. [END SILLY, SMALLISH RANT]