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.

A Plea to the Higher Power(s) That Preside(s) Over the PowerBall

Dear Friend(s),

Please let me win. I'm nice! I know that in the grand scheme of things, being nice doesn't get one especially far, but don't you think it should?

I know I don't have the greatest story ever. I'm not completely destitute (yet.) I haven't recently filed for bankruptcy. I haven't quite resorted to selling my kidney on the black market in order to prevent myself from starving to death. I haven't even donated my plasma for cash. (Though I have called to inquire about it.) Sure, I don't have to support four babies under the age of five spawned from three different deadbeats. I don't reside a van down by the river. I am, however, legitmately poor. I have oodles of debt. So much debt, that I doubt anyone would even consider marrying me until I can reduce the size of it by 75%. If I'm lucky, I might make it there by my fiftieth birthday bash, at this rate. And of course, my Over The Hill party will be even more depressing than the norm because all of my friends will arrive hand-in-hand with their doting, salt and pepper headed husbands. Their skin will be tastefully bronzed following recent family excursions to warm and exotic locales and their fingers will display the flashy diamonds that scream of twenty years of love and commitment and a healthy 401K. I will attempt to drench my discontent in an amassment of Red Bull and well vodka while they slowly savor their wine with pity in their eyes. I will try to make a thank you speech, but will surely crumble into a sobbing mess before I make it to the halfway point. My friends will kindly, but quietly dart out the door, and I will conclude the evening by telling an unsuspecting cab driver my life story on the long trip home, between hiccups and sniffles. The following morning, I will awaken with much regret, insufferable embarrassment, and a killer headache. I will pack up my cats, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and take them to their biweekly playdate with my mother's expanding brood. She will tell me that I look like hell and bemoan the fact that I never got married or had babies for her to play with. I will sigh in unspoken agreement.

So, as you can see, it is extremely important that I begin to diminish the debt that hangs over me like the little raincloud that is continually perched squarely above the bouncing Zoloft commercial creature prior to his ingestion of the happy pills. I want kids, not cats. (And, if I win, I promise to show restraint in my choices of name. No wacky Shakespearian creations or anything else that will guarantee their statuses as social outcasts.) I understand that I got myself into this situation, though I can guarantee that at least 90% of the money I currently owe is due to school or medical expenses. I was a dumb 18 year old kid who fell in love with a college she couldn't realistically afford and chose a less than practical major. It happens. I'm not looking for the easy way out. I like to work. I like feeling like a productive member of society. I just don't seem to have the correct skills set or degree or appearance or experience to secure a high enough paying position. I'm just looking for a jumpstart. I don't mind splitting the winnings with some other lucky people. I don't even need to be set for life.

I'm nice, remember? So, of course, I will give away much of what I win. My family members and friends will be well taken care of. They're all pretty nice, too. I will start a charity and donate to existing ones. I will provide funding to people in situations similar to mine. (I'm somewhat of an empathetic narcissist.) I will let the boy that I met on my first night here who is apparently a 24 year old Penn State student/hobokid that lives out of his car reside in my room for free. Or, at least, I would if my roommates wouldn't kill me for doing so. I will leave humongous tips for excellent service. I will buy lunch for homeless people. There is a lot one can do with a copious amount of cash that doesn't involve becoming a materialistic bitch. I'm fairly certain that the only way having money will change me is that it will greatly decrease the massive amount of debt-related anxiety that floods my brain on a daily basis. See, the resulting story could shape up to be rather interesting and heartfelt.

Life is short. I want to travel. I want to experience other cultures. I need book fodder! (And probably some writing classes.) I want to visit my friends and pick up the tab for once. I would like to drive a car that is more reliable and less audible. I would love to go back to school and obtain a doctorate. I need to go to the dentist. My mouth hurts! I don't want to have to work while my favorite television shows air. Or, at the very least, I'd like to be able to TiVo them and watch them at my leisure. It'd be great to have the opportunity to buy all of the hardcovers that I'm interested in reading off the shelf. It'd be fantastic to know that my family is financially all set. Having some money and little debt will release me from the limbolike existence that has entrapped me for years and threatens to lurk around for much, much longer.

Come on. Help a girl out. Pick me!

Fondly,

Sara

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 . . .

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Ruminations on Driving

I'm an awkward driver. I slide the seat back a bit too far and sit straight up, as if bound to a back brace. It's probably the only time that I practice good posture. I keep both hands on my steering wheel at all times, unless I am smoking. I chain smoke while I drive, though I have to drop the cigarette for any big moves, such as hitting an exit ramp or turning left at a red light. I usually forget to use my side mirrors and when I remember, I don't trust them anyway. I always have to turn around to assure myself that I'm not going to meet an untimely death while changing lanes. I typically only ever drive 5 mph over the speed limit, but that's only when I'm feeling brave. I tend to zone out. I am a phantom breaker. I can't pop the hood of my own car. I get lost in my hometown. (There are only 4 stoplights in the entire area. This takes talent.) I am completely devoid of the ability to backtrack. I panic often.

I provide continuous commentary throughout the length of road trips, especially when I'm the only person in the car. I sometimes talk to myself, usually offering encouraging phrases like, "Almost there," or "Yay, I'm still alive," or "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." I often talk to other drivers. I beg them not to hate me and thank them for passing me. I compliment their pretty cars or giggle when I spot a vehicle that is even junkier than mine and announce that we should be friends. I inform unhelmeted bikers of their stupidity. During rougher moments, I might pray. My usual line is, "Please, God, help me to not wreck. I'd really prefer not to die right now. There are so many good tv shows on tonight." I also give my car lots of pep talks. I like to say, "You can do it, little Saabie," and "Come on Georgie, speed it up." I'm kind of nuts.

****

I have had three run-ins with other vehicles throughout my eight year driving history. Two of them happened in my driveway.

Incident # 1

I was driving my family's Chevy Astro (not so) minivan. It was like a tank. I was about to make my nightly jaunt to the local Pizza Hut. (This incident occured during my junior year of high school or what is now retrospectively referred to as the "Pizza Hut Butt" Era. I lived off of personal pan pizzas and humongous bottles or regular Pepsi. I gained eleven pounds. I never even got a "you are by far our most regular and devoted customer" discount or award or anything for my troubles. Oh, well.) The van was parked in our yard and my grandparents' old Mazda was parked in our driveway. As I was rounding the gigantic tree that sits in our yard directly in front of the driveway, I concluded that I had enough room to squeeze the big ass Astro between a basketball pole and the parked car. It was a slight lapse of judgment. As the van was rolling forward, I had to choose between hitting the pole or the car. I picked the car. At least, I think I did. I might have closed my eyes and hoped for the best. (Again, another lapse of judgment. I guess I don't make the best decisions ever while I'm in panic mode.) I smashed up the front of it pretty decently, but the Astrotank was barely damaged. I went and picked up the pizzas (the whole family was eating Sarastyle that night,) dropped one on the ground, and returned to inform everyone of what I had done. No one yelled at me too much, yet I still cried a lot.

Incident #2

I was returning to college following February break of my junior year. The roads were lined with a thin layer of ice, and it was snowing. I was feeling tentatively confident, as I had made it through all of the curvy backroads without hesitation, despite the dismal weather conditions. I approached a red light and hit my breaks for the first time upon arriving in the city of Elmira, and they locked. My car pummeled squarely into a brand new truck. Truck Owner yelled. I cried. The cops came. Truck Owner grumbled as he detached a huge chunk of the dangling lower portion of his vehicle that once displayed his license plate and tossed it in the bed. My car was suddenly sporting an accordion hood and mangled headlights. I received my first (and only, thus far) ticket ever. I somehow managed to drive back to campus, even though the roads were ridiculously sloppy and I was nearly hyperventilating. I continued to drive the battered eyesore every once in a while during daylight hours, even though it was slightly mortifying. I needed to tan! And to buy fat free hot dogs! The battery died a few months later, and the junky car sat in an Elmira College parking lot until the summer was at least halfway over. It's surprising that it was never towed, especially because I never got a student parking sticker. Mike DellaSalla (or whomever made the towing decisions at that time) is great. Thanks, buddy!

Incident # 3

Maybe half a year ago or so, I was headed out of the house to make a midafternoon Dunkin Donuts run. (Speaking of which, I haven't located the Dunkin Donuts in State College yet. Maybe it's a blessing.) My mom's friend was visiting and, as she is quite knowledgable about my clumsy past, reminded me not to hit her car as I left. I laughed and told her I'd try my best. I jumped in my car and proceeded to back out of the driveway in my normal fashion. Apparently, in Saraland, "normal fashion" = "without looking until I reach the end of the driveway." I backed directly into her car. The damages were thankfully minimal. Her car remained unmarred and mine suffered a tiny crack in the fender. People laughed at me a lot, and I still haven't entirely lived it down.

****

Needless to say, my lack of adequate driving skills has kind of hindered my life so far. I am hoping to change this fact. I have recently discovered that knowing which route one is currently traveling on is especially helpful. So is actually reading signs and thinking ahead. I'm slowly becoming a more confident and competent driver. I went exploring the area yesterday, in search of employment opportunities. There are highways here. There are also pastures. It's a bizarre combination, but I guess that is what results from building a massive university in pretty much the middle of nowhere amidst tons of farmland. I missed an exit and ended up slightly befuddled, on the outskirts of a tiny neighboring town. I passed what I assume were some prisoners on work release or something, though they weren't wearing orange jumpsuits. They were scruffy looking men wearing white working in a field. Two stoic men wearing what looked like helmets and uniforms sat statuesquely atop horses facing the road. Maybe the nearby State Correctional Institute likes to practice archaic means of guarding. Maybe it was just a weird coincidence. It was definitely strange. I ended up passing the whole scene twice, so I know I wasn't hallucinating. I worried that the horses would suddenly make a run for it and lurch into the road, but they didn't. I located the mall and scored a few interviews. I didn't die.

Someday, I will be a real driver with a real car. For now, I seem to be faking it well enough.

Of Late

Well, I'm here.

It has been rather eventful.

On my way out of town, I prepaid for gas and then left without pumping it. I realized I did this about five minutes later, and I was luckily still able to put the gas in when I returned. (Typical.)

I didn't get lost and the little old Saab didn't break down on the trip in. I even passed one truck carrying hay and a horse and buggy. (Woo!)

I am covered in bruises. (Hmm.)

I have had pizza 4 times in the 6 days that I've been here. If I keep going at this rate, I think I might be about to gain the freshman 15, 6 years after the fact. (Bleh.)

One of those pizza eating times occured at 2:30ish AM on Saturday night. We stood on the street, wearing t-shirts covered in sloppy, blurred phrases and doused in flourescent paint (the aftermath of a "graffiti party,") surrounded by hoards of drunken, chanting college students for at least an hour waiting to buy $1.00 slices. It was worth it. (IknowI'mnotactingmyage.)

I had forgotten the extent to which my ghetto computer's constant roaring annoys me. I want to throw it off the balcony already. (Killmenow.)

My room is a mess. (Shocker.)

I forgot my hair dryer. (Dire.)

I got a cute haircut and am now rocking some super long, side-swept bangs. (Yay.)

I just found out that I wasn't chosen for the position that I interviewed for a few weeks ago. I'm pretty disappointed, as it seemed like a nice work environment. Plus, rejection always sucks. Plus, I have no money. Seriously. I'm getting panicky. I'm starting to regret picking an area to relocate to prior to securing employment. Mistakes happen, though, and I'm here. I am going to turn in a massive amount of applications tomorrow and try to remain hopeful. (Life'sabitch.)

Hodgepodge

* I love ridding my gmail account of its spam. Upon emptying the box, it cheerfully reads, "Hooray, no spam here!" It's always nice to receive encouragement for doing a good deed.

* I recently discovered that I managed to gain 9 lbs in a 5 week stretch. I laughed. Interestingly enough, I gained a similar amount of weight at right around this time last year that I subsequently lost without too much hassle. I wonder if late August/early September is, for whatever reason, Fatten Me Up Season. Maybe my body is attempting to bestow a favor upon every person I come in contact with from October through late March in the hopes that some additional padding will prevent me from incessantly whining about the degree to which I am freezing (to death, of course.) That's a nice thought.

* There is a really fun and very readable piece about the definition of feminism at Tomato Nation. You should check it out, if you haven't yet.

* My car is fixed. I should be picking it up tomorrow. It cost way more than it is probably worth to replace the ignition. I really am going to move, I swear. I have a new cell phone to prove it. Most of my stuff is at the apartment now. So much so, that I am even grungier than usual, as most of my clothes are gone. I've worn the same pair of jeans all week. Today, I am parading around in my sister's high school track sweatshirt that is marred by a prominent stain on the front and her name in cheap block letters on the back. Yeah, I'm gross. After the move, I will promptly change my jeans. I promise. That should be by Saturday morning, if not tomorrow night.

* I've been watching my 3 year old cousin Maggie this week while her mom works, as her regular babysitter had a death in the family and her regular back-up babysitters (my grandparents) are hitting up all the gambling hot spots they can find out west. It has been quite the adventure.

This is Maggie. Yes, she is playing in a parking lot.

This is sleepy, "I no need no nap" Maggie.

This is Baby. She is traveling safely. And stylishly.

These are Maggie's fuzzy, plastic toy shoes. She just had to wear them today. We went on many outings. She only fell once.

We've had a good time. She is very inquistive and very interested in my opinions about things, which she tends to adopt. She is also rather exhausting. But is has been fun. We took her to see the "pawtment," and she climbed the three sets of stairs about fifteen times with me while I moved things in. She colored on my jeans in lovely purple marker. I let her eat fudge rounds for breakfast. She explained all of the characters in That 70s Show to me as we watched. (She is obsessed.) She still calls me "Lala" (rather than "Sawa") about 50% of the time. I will miss her.

* And finally, here are some of my favorite bizarre searches that apparently led people to my blog.

1. "Hamlet bookmarkers"
2. "a rhymed poem: the person I want to marry"
3. "sarry dead people"
4. "freshman initiation sharpie face"

"Get Your Facts First, And Then You Can Distort Them As Much As You Please." - Mark Twain

A Continuation

36.) I weeped every time I watched Snoopy Come Home as a child.

37.) In kindergarten, I once stealthily kissed three boys on the back of their heads in the span of a single afternoon.

38.) My first elementary school had no playground. We had to entertain ourselves on an empty cube of concrete during recess.

39.) My first boyfriend (6th grade) was a quiet boy named Shawn that I barely knew. Shortly after our coupling had gone public, I discovered that his friends referred to me as "Roadblock."

40.) I'm not sure I'd be capable of teaching kids at the middle school level for any amount of money. They're too nasty to each other. It breaks my heart.

41.) From 8th - 10th grade, I had fairly thick bangs that refused to fall perfectly, even though I spent approximately 30 minutes every morning curling and recurling them.

42.) I love to drink pickle juice.

43.) I secretly wish that someone would nominate me for What Not to Wear. (I'm wearing a 7 year old, ratty, holey hoodie as I type. I clearly need a style intervention!)

44.) I find serial killers to be more than slightly fascinating.

45.) My first job was cleaning rooms at the motel my friend's parents owned. If you've ever witnessed the way I live, you'll understand why this is funny.

46.) I wish I had taken the SATs more than once.

47.) During the latter years of high school, I had a broken spell checker and a mental block regarding the spelling of "disgust." I liked to use it frequently in my essays, and I consistently spelled it "disguist." It makes no sense whatsoever.

48.) I think Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" is one of the most hauntingly poignant poems ever written. (And sestinas are notoriously challenging to pull off.)

49.) I was chosen as an alternate for Pennsylvania Governor's School For Healthcare during my junior year of high school. I never followed through with the steps to accept my alternate status. I wonder if my life would have taken a different trajectory if I had attended.

50.) While I was in high school, I was very involved with this site. I still have the cards and letters I received from some of the parents and children. I think I am going to start sending some mail in the near future.

51.) I watched The Wizard of Oz on a daily basis during my early childhood. I always covered my eyes when the flying monkeys made an appearance.

52.) I was terrified of mummies from the age of 6 - 12. I was traumatized to such an extent that, at the moment I discovered their existence, I immediately stopped calling my mother "mommy" from that day forward, as it beared too close a resemblance. I wasn't scared of them in the "I'm a mean, horror movie mummy coming to get you with filthy, rotting bandages dripping from my extended arms" kind of way. I was actually horrified by the notion of being dead, tightly wrapped, and forever preserved. I was a weird kid.

53.) In late middle school and early high school, I had more than a few incidents filled with overwrought tears and dramatic crumbles to the floor in department stores, as I could never find anything to fit my awkward, pudgy figure.

54.) My parents almost named me Amie.

55.) At the age of 3, I ate the same meals every day (peanut butter and jelly for lunch, microwaved hot dog for dinner.) My doctor advised my mother to indulge me, assuring her that I'd soon grow out of the pattern of eating. Heh.

56.) I think I'd actually quite enjoy the fall, if it weren't for the fact that I am socked with the harsh reality that I will be unable to feel my fingers and toes for the next 6 months.

57.) The few dreams I remember are typically anxiety-ridden and disturbing.

58.) I only visited/applied to one college. I sometimes regret not doing a bit more research and taking my financial situation into more serious consideration.

59.) As I age, my temperament becomes increasingly more even-keeled. I appreciate this.

60.) I want a Welsh Corgi.

61.) I am opposed to buying pets when there are so many in shelters who need homes.

62.) I am embarrassingly unphotogenic.

63.) Whenever I come across them, I put on my old pointe shoes and play around the house in them.

64.) Co-ed volleyball tournaments were the bane of my high school gym class existence.

65.) Meryl Streep's daughter went to the summer camp I worked at. I never met her or her mother.

66.) I regret not trying out the flying trapeze while I worked at that camp. How many times is one presented with such an opportunity?

67.) I taught golf for 3 summers to kids ages 6 - 17 or so. The one time I actually went golfing with friends for fun, I was kicked off the fairway during the first hole because I was so awful and slow. I didn't mind. I manned the golf cart and drank beer and chased geese.

68.) A couple of friends probably saved my college career during the second term of my sophomore year, by requesting help for me that I couldn't ask for myself. I hated them for it at the time, but I am so grateful for their kindness in retrospect.

69.) I hate to say it, but I think I'd possibly consider a nose job if I had the means, even though I absolutely cannot stomach depictions of rhinoplasty on televison.

70.) I am desperate to see a stage production of Equus at some point in my lifetime.

One Word

I found this idea here, while I was doing a bit of random blog hopping. (As I seemingly have nothing better to do. Aimless web wandering must trump packing, even though I am planning to move on Tuesday, with or without my car.)

Anyway, apparently only one word answers are applicable. I thought it'd be a change of pace for me, as I'm typically a fan of littering my sentences with uncreative adjectives and participial phrases and lengthy asides and parenthetical commentary, etc. It's certainly nothing profound or especially exciting, but it's short. And short = readable.

Yourself: idiosyncratic
Your partner: whom?
Your hair: mousey
Your mother: endearing
Your father: commendable
Your favorite item: unspecified
Your dream last night: blank
Your favorite drink: tequilla
Your dream home: cozy
The room you are in: chilly
Your fear: disappointment
Where you want to be in ten years?: thriving
Who you hung out with last night: computer
What you're not: gorgeous
Your best friend: charming
One of your wish list items: success
Your gender: girl
The last thing you did: googled
What you are wearing: grey
Your favorite weather: radiant
Your favorite book?: timeless
Last thing you ate?: peep
Your life: shifting
Your mood: serene
The last person you talked to on the phone: Lauren
Who are you thinking about right now?: me

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.