Michael Moore is Aflame or Intoxicated Young Conservatives Fire Me Up

(Note to my sister - this is all in good fun/spaz style. Please don't take offense - I really don't intend for it to be taken all that seriously.)

My dad and I ended up taking an impromptu trip to the new apartment last night to drop off some super conservative forms to my sister so that some highly controversial speaker can come give a presentation for the super conservative club that she now chairs. I felt a bit like I was aiding the enemy, similarly to the time that I helped her edit a letter requesting donations to assist her organization in bringing in likeminded, apparently famous speakers and purchasing really nice posterboard and markers for their protesting endeavors. It's certainly not my style, but I love my sister and my father and I will do what I can, within reason, to prevent her from having a nervous breakdown and him from falling asleep at the wheel. (As it turns out, the papers were not the ones she needed to meet the urgent deadline, so our 4+ hour excursion was for naught. Not especially surprising, as nothing ever seems to be uncomplicated around here.)

Anyway, upon entering the new place, I noticed that the girls have, thus far, tastefully and apolitically decorated the living room. Yay. I love the place already. I wandered in to my bedroom and said hello to my big bed and my mirrored closet doors and my many books that are spewed across the desk, still waiting to be properly housed. (They may lie in wait for quite some time, as I am still currently jobless and broke and a bookshelf doesn't rank all that high on my priorities list, unfortunately. Poor homeless, disorganized books.) I went to the kitchen area and started poking around the clutter on our table and found, I kid you not, a half-charred copy of Michael Moore's Bowling For Columbine. (I wish I had a camera on me.) I knew my sister had friends over recently. She told me she was planning on doing so, and it was evidenced by the trashbag full of 10 or so empty Miller Lite boxes and the fine display of shot glasses lining the counter. So, of course, my thoughts start whirling in their standard wildly overreactive fashion that I have grown accostomed to over the years. I begin to wonder if this is how these kids have a good time. Do they buy copies of "liberal propaganda" and perform sacrificial rituals amidst chugging contests? Is there some kind of chant involved? Is a strict dress code enforced? Does everyone have to arrive clad in a t-shirt adorned with firearms or Reagan's face or quotations deploring the rampant border crossings or the existence of donkeys? Are bonus points awarded for accessorizing with an O'Reilly Factor baseball cap or a Fox News Tote? Do they stripe their cheeks with red and white and paint an array of blue stars atop their foreheads? How many blackened, melted versions of Fahrenheit 9/11 and pageless, deformed copies of Bill and Hillary's memoirs are lurking around? Should I immediately start looking for someone to sublet and resign myself to a lackluster existence on my parents' couch for a frighteningly indefinite period of time?

Shortly before I had enough time to speculate to the extent that I might have had myself convinced to toss my books in a garbage bag and jet, my sister appeared. She groaned that a visitor, when prompted by another friend, did attempt to light the dvd on fire the other night. She assured me that A.) she has not witnessed this or any sort of similar incident in the past, B.) the whole crowd was not involved, C.) it was only the special features disc (heh), and D.) she did not condone it, especially because it actually belonged to one of the girls in the apartment. The owner, apparently, is not upset at all about this. She thinks it is funny and wants to keep it forever. That is awfully kind of her. I would be livid, even in the instance that the pyro was a good friend or that the destructed property was something I wasn't the hugest fan ever of, such as a worn copy of Babbitt or a my giant-sized, yet small-necked AmeriCorps t-shirt. (Oooh . . . I bet they'd be after the AmeriCorps memorabilia, as the VISTA program is specifically aimed at eradicating poverty through the implementation of programs and services, etc. And, if I remember correctly, it was totally founded/supported by liberals.) Before last night, I don't imagine I've ever found myself feeling relieved to learn of a purportedly isolated (and, to be fair, rather small scale) act of vandalism. I guess it beats the alternative, though.

It's going to be an interesting year.

Welcome to Happy Valley (Almost)

Quick Rundown of Recent Events:

Wednesday, 8/30/06 - Last day of work. Ate pizza and various baked goods. Remembered to hand over my keys that haven't accompianied me to the office since wintertime. Said goodbye. Forgot some stuff in my former desk. Last late afternoon trip to Elmira. Said goodbye. Went shopping. Took the wrong exit with my sister on the way home from the mall. Again. Made the executive decision not to move until my car is working. Also chose not to pack.

Thursday, 8/31/06 - Drove to State College with my sister for a job interview. Ran into lots of traffic and got highly confused by a detour. Chain smoked. Only almost killed us once. Was honked at accordingly. Wore cute new grown-up suit. Fretted that I looked slightly reminiscient of the Crocodile Hunter, due to suit's coloring. Donned cute, dorky glasses with plano (fake) lenses. Went pretty well, I think. Probably should have pulled my hair back. Dropped off a minivan full of my sister's crap at one of her friend's apartments. Got lost (on foot) trying to find said friend's apartment, as all of the buildings look exactly the same and I don't pride myself in being especially attentive. Was approached by some kid who waved and muttered something to the effect of "stop by sometime," though I couldn't really understand him. Smiled and nodded. Ate some tasty, but semi-expensive pizza. Came home and packed a pathetically tiny and random selection of items.

Friday, 9/1/06 - Left for State College with the family at 6:30ish. Whined about how I wanted a sausage biscuit from McDonalds. Got chocolate chip cookies as big as my head from the Flying J. truck stop convenience store instead. Picked up keys and a bus pass that boasts a horrendous picture of me, but will get me around town for free. If I can figure out how the bus system works. Ate desired sausage biscuit that my dad went to get for me during the hour or so it took to check in. Lugged another minivan full of my sister's stuff up three flights of stairs into the apartment, in addition to all of the junk from the previous day, a huge futon, and maybe 4 boxes of mine. Attempted to convince my sister to throw a nasty, filthy fan in the dumpster. She refused to oblige. Met the roommates. They seem very nice, though I am about 97% certain that, by the time I come back, the living room walls will be plastered with pictures of Reagan and the extended Bush family and loads of American Flags. Smoked on the new balcony. Leaned over to meet a downstairs neighbor after he jokingly yelled that I hit him with an ash. I didn't. Developed a rather legitmate fear of clumsy and/or drunk people falling off the balcony. Entertained the notion that I might not be as highly dependent on caffeine as I claim. Went shopping at what is perhaps the busiest Wal-Mart in existence, I suspect. Ran into my sister's fraternity guy friend. Forgot to ask him if he made a habit out of spanking girls with paddles. He inquired if I was a freshman. Reinforced my fear that everyone I meet is going to think I am super lame for living in an apartment complex full of undergrads in a college town, though I'm not actually taking classes and getting old. Found 12 packs of Diet Mountain Dew for $1.70 and squealed a little bit. Purchased five boxes, among other stuff. Unpacked, ate at Outback, checked out the comparitively unbusy Target, and bought a potentially uncute, yet satisfyingly cheap shower curtain. Dropped my sister off and headed home with the folks, though I'd have liked to stay at the new place. 7:00 PM might as well have been 1:30 AM.

Saturday, 9/2/06 - Picked up my new key for my car from a locksmith. (One is bent and the other met an untimely death in an Elmira College trash can during a NickVisit last year.) It doesn't work. I am waiting on the car alone to actually move in for real. Not cool, really. Traded in books at the local secondhand store and walked out with six or so new ones. Made an appearance at my aunt's garage sale in the midst of the dreariest, rainiest, coldest day in months. Walked out with two coats, a bunch of tank tops, and numb, white extremities. Watched the second half of the first season of Grey's Anatomy. Napped a lot.

20 Questions or I'm Just Curious

To the Court Reporter (Days 1-4):

1.) Do you type in shorthand? If so, is it a special variety or just the standard old type? If not, how do you type so maniacally fast?

2.) Did you go to stenographer school? Does that even exist? What motivates one to choose such a profession?

3.) What is the deal with the tape that runs off the top of the machine? It's only maybe an inch wide, so it can't possible house the actual court transcripts. Can it?

4.) How do you pick up case-specific terminology? Do you study certain types of words in advance so you recognize them? Do you ever feel confused?

5.) Have you ever considered consulting a stylist? Were the '80s the best of times for you?


To Lawyers (or Wannabe Lawyers):

6.) Did you star in a lot of plays in high school?

7.) Did you a lot of action (and by "a lot," I mean "any") during that period in your life?


To the County of Tioga:

8.) Can you please hurry up and send me my measly jury duty compensation check?


To My Sister's Friends in State College:

9.) Do I legitimately look like an 18 year old freshman?

10.) Should I regard your assumptions of such as complimentary?

11.) If you are a dude, do you want to marry the Bush twins? If so, which one is more your style? If the Olsen twins were concurrently throwing themselves at you, would you still opt for Jenna and/or Barbara?


To Anyone Who Has a Myspace:

12.) Have you heard of mydeathspace? Does it creep you out? Does it evoke feelings of melancholy? How about disgust? Does it make you irrationally fearful of driving a car or approaching trains or swimming, if only temporarily? Does it reek of exploitation, in your opinion? Does it peak your curiousity, despite your best efforts?

13.) After viewing the abovementioned site, do you immediately feel driven to check out your myspace profile, just in case, to make sure it presents the most accurate and current representation of who you are at the moment?


To Jessica Simpson and John Mayer:

14.) Really, you're together? It just seems so odd. Though I guess you deserve each other. (And, I wouldn't despise you so much, John Mayer, if you hadn't forced that idiotic "Daughters" song upon me. It reinforces tired and ridiculous gender-based stereotypes and it refuses to get out of my head for forever every time I hear it.)


To All of My Recently Married Friends:

15.) Will one of you hurry up and have a baby for me to play with? Please?


To the Marketing People at Dove:

16.) Do you know that you are brilliant?


To Anyone and Everyone:

17.) Would you rather have a third nipple or no belly button (assuming that you cannot have either cosmetically altered?)

18.) If you are suddenly doomed from this point forward to spend the rest of your existence trapped in a neverending television episode, would you choose to stick it out on A.) Seventh Heaven, B.) The Simple Life, C.) The Price is Right, D.) The Osbournes, or E.) Full House?

19.) What kind of career do you think I should ultimately shoot for? (Give me some direction!)

20.) Would you rather be oblivious/slightly dim, but consistently and genuinely happy or aware/highly intelligent, but prone to brooding?

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.

I am fairly certain that I now have a pretty good notion of what Hell feels like. (It's not pretty. Nor is it rational.)

Think Positively

In an effort to remain positive about my current servitude to the county government, I compiled a list of reasons why jury duty doesn't suck so much.

1. I don't have to arrive until 8:30 AM. (1/2 hour later than I typically waltz into work.) However, it has come to my attention that if I fail to show up within 5 minutes or so from the time I am expected, I will receive one phone call. If this effort to reach me is unsuccessful, the sheriff will arrive at my door and promptly arrest me. Out of mere curiosity, I inquired as to whether or not I'd be slammed against a car and handcuffed under given hypothetical circumstances. Apparently so, if necessary. Jury duty is hard core. If only Kevin Bacon were the local sheriff . . .
2. The lunch break lasts at least one hour. (This is pretty generous compared to my 30 minutes total on a standard work day.) Plus, we get extra breaks of various lengths throughout the day when an important person seems to fear that the jurors are starting to fall asleep. As a result, I am guaranteed to have a consistent enough supply of nicotene dirtying up my bloodstream.
3. Free cookies. A new assortment sits on the counter every morning. (Sure, they are store bought, and I haven't actually consumed any yet, but I take comfort in their presence.)
4. I can wear whatever I want to, short of sweatpants. Today, I wore flip-flops. My toes, at the very least, loved their lives.
5. It is rather entertaining to watch the lawyers getting snippy. Scouting the scene for an eye roll or huff keeps me invested in the action. There are about seven of them, so the potential certainly exists for some heated comments/snide nonverbal expressions.
6. The tip staff (jury wranglers) are cute and chatty older gentlemen who sometimes wear bowties or pink suit jackets.
7. I have a good seat. Front and center, just like I like it. Additionally, jurors # 3 and # 5 are nice guys who laugh at me a lot.
8. I have the opportunity to fondly reminisce about simpler times upon each entrance/exit of the courtroom, as we are forced file down the hallway in a pre-determined, single-file line, like elementary school students heading to the bathroom. We are also counted often. I attempted to get everyone to march, but I guess people didn't think that it would be the most fun thing ever to do. Oh, well. (Another juror offered a comparion to a herd of cattle. Personally, I'm much prefer to think of myself as a kindergartener, rather than a cow. Though, I don't know, I might resemble the latter more closely.)
9. My chair is actually kind of comfy, despite its harsh appearance. And it swivels!
10. I get to do a lot of people-watching. And to make attempts at figuring out strategies and such. It can be quite interesting, at times.
11. Free (if temporary) accessories! We, as jurors, get to wear oh-so-stylish lanyard-type necklaces that attach to an id card that both reads "juror" and displays a keystone. Hot stuff!
12. I get to brush up on my note-taking skills. Who knows of they will make any sense by the end of the whole ordeal, but it's keeping me busy.

I know, you're jealous. No worries, though. I hope that you too, will have the grand opportunity to serve on a jury of your own sometime in your lifetime.

This is Just to Say

* When posting the pros and cons of moving away, I regretfully omitted one of the hugest reasons as to why I'm sad about skipping town. I will be ditching my work soulmate, Jenni (she received this title from a very drunk me at her very fun wedding.) She is great. Though we are always very focused on our work and would never ever be found chatting about things such as workman's comping oneself or ebay dependencies or doggie valium or gender degredation, we enjoy each other's company (silently, of course). She also made me a copy of the Grey's Anatomy soundtrack. (I love it lots.) She is also extremely crafty, to such an extent that she now serves as my personal Hallmark store, minus the cheesy wordings. She will have her own business someday. And, she makes very good chocolate chip cookies. There will be much to miss.

* After reading my previous post, Nick informed me of what he'd like to speak about at my funeral. I told him to post it as a comment, but he didn't, so I am forced to paraphrase. He claims he will talk about my creepy Kevin Bacon fascination and bring along a cardboard cutout of the actor. (I request a long haired version!) At the end of the service, he plans to fold Kevin up and tuck him into the coffin. I love it! Nick is a very good buddy, by the way. He recently made his maiden voyage to the great town of Wellsboro. He loves it a lot. I know it. He is now very jealous of Tioga Countians. Nick things he is ghetto-fab. His away messages are slightly unreadable. He the super star wedding attendee of the summer. He loves his powder blue velour jump suit. He is very tolerant of silly drunkeness. He would not let me pin sponges to myself and call my costume "self-absorbed" for his Halloween party. He loves pictures, as long as he is in them.

* Megan informed me that my emails are,"like poetry, but not." It made me smile. Megan is very cool. She is also very short. She is the best little volleyball coach/former player. She rocks the spandex. She has an extremely sunny disposition, except in the winter months. She loves Ohio a whole lot, even though she moved away. And Friends, even though there are no new shows. Playing Get Drunk Friends and Get Drunk Jeopardy with her is a blast. We have fun, except for when I act like a twit. She has bouncey/curly hair. I covet it. She loves math. And beer. She especially loves The American President.

* I have to go to jury duty selection tomorrow. I am not especially pleased. In our little dinky town, almost none of the cases actually make it to trial, so I'm told. So, though I've known for a while that I was selected, I was completely banking on not actually having to show up. I called the jury hotline this afternoon, and I wasn't so lucky. So, I am trying to devise the best plan of action for getting out of actually being picked as a juror. I think I should try to portray myself as either bigoted or unstable. Since I am a crappy liar/actress, I'm thinking the latter is my only hope. I will have to work up some tears.

* I was called something to the effect of a "disgrace to myself and all womenkind," today. I had just made a comment about how I would not want someone pushing around the pockets of fat that envelop my spleen. I was just being silly (kind of), so I think it was maybe a bit extreme. But maybe not . . .

* My brother thinks it looks like I have a mullet in my profile picture. Oops! I actually had a modified femme-mullet when I was around 9 years old. I cried for days after the damage was done.

* Sometimes I feel as though I have the same epiphanies over and over again. They always seem fresh, though.

* My aunt worries that her three year old "might have a bit of Sara in her." Apparently, she watched herself dance around in front of a mirror for a half hour the other night.

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.

You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

It's official. I am moving to State College, Pennsylvania. Soon. I put my resignation in at work early this week, and I will be unemployed as of August 30, 2006. I'm stressed. Eh, who am I kidding? I'm perpetually stressed. So I guess this could be categorized as extra stressed. I have sent out a few resumes, so I feel slightly accomplished, anyway. I am hoping for a cozy office bitch position with a few nights/weekends of waitressing or bartending thrown into the mix. Eh, in all honesty, I'm truly hoping to win the lottery. The Powerball is creeping up there. If all else fails, I will set up an appointment and start donating plasma for cash, despite the fact that it totally skeeves me out to do something seemingly charitable while masking my ulterior motives.

I feel slightly guilty about leaving my job. This is probably because I usually feel guilty about anything and everything that happens, whether or not I am a significant player in the action. I suspect I am the type of person that it would be ridiculously easy to manipulate into making a false confession. If anyone around me ever winds up dead, I will arrive at the questioning place with a lawyer in tow. But, realistically speaking, this is the first time I've ever had to quit a job. With every other position I've held, it has been for some fixed period of time. So leaving has always happened on extremely amicable terms. This is a job that I (presumably) could have kept for as long as I wanted it. And I do like the work enough and feel comfortable there. Unfortunately for me, becoming comfortable is dangerous. I need to push myself to discover what I am skilled in, what I am capable of accomplishing, and what I truly enjoy. Obviously, moving to a much bigger area where the local paper boasts more than 5 help wanted ads per week is a decent starting point. I hate applying for jobs and interviewing. I despise starting new jobs and fumbling around like a nervous, socially inept idiot. But I do feel better prepared for the process at this point in my life than I ever had previously.

What I am excited about (in no particular order):

1. Moving out of my parents' living room.
2. Having my own bedroom.
3. Having my own bathroom!
4. Free tanning.
5. Free (kind of crappy, but still) gym access.
6. Not having to drive an hour to shop.
7. Potentially making enough money to actually be able to shop.
8. Many more pizza places to choose from.
9. Many more bars to frequent.
10. The possibility of befriending new people.
11. The possibility of befriending new love interests. Haha.
12. The possibility of starting graduate school in the not so ridiculously distant future.
13. Visitors!
14. The potential emergence of something resembling a social life.
15. Fun times with my litte sister.

What I am not so excited about (in no particular order):

1. Packing.
2. Abandoning my health benefits.
3. Paying rent/utilities.
4. Needing a cell phone.
5. Using my old, crappy computer. If it still works.
6. Living in a place that caters to college students, simply because I feel kind of like a loser.
7. Relying on my alarm clock to wake me up. Parents are currently a good back-up.
8. Relying on my piece of crap car to actually stay in working order. (That is, once I get it back in working order in the first place.)
9. Surrounding myself with professed haters of feminism and sympathizers of the plight of the white man. (Who, I'm sure, are all very nice and fun people otherwise.)
10. No more inside smoking.
11. Developing an entirely new daily routine.
12. More stressful driving situations.
13. Living even further away from all of my friends in upstate New York/New England.
14. Unpacking.
15. Buying my own toilet paper and laundry detergent, etc.

All in all, I think this is a positive step forward. We'll see how it progresses. Wish me luck!

Just the Facts, Ma'am

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