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.

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.

Confessions

* I have been using air quotes way too frequently. I'll throw them into conversation, realize what I'm doing, and start mumbling about how I'm such a loser. I ususally just blame it on the brain tumor, which is a handy and fitting excuse for incidents involving falling down, running into walls, sober slurring of speech, eye rolling, rambling, dropping things, and inexplicably spastic behavior.

* I began writing an entry entitled "All Good Obsessions Must Come to an End or I've Got Issues, Yes I do, I've Got Issues, How 'Bout You?," after a dark day during which I had an accidential run-in with moldy turkey pepperoni. I was convinced that the mere sight of it would end turkey pepperoni's role as an almost daily diet staple for the past three years. Pepperoni loses enough appeal when one takes the time to consider that it is composed of bits and pieces of the junky, garbage meat that might not even be good enough for hot dogs, so I figured the fungus frosted version would be enough to put me over the edge. I started lamenting my loss, but the grieving period was short. I don't think I even lasted two days before buying another bag. I couldn't figure out what to eat in its absense. I am either less or more crazy than I had thought, depending on how you look at it.

* Reading the Elmira College Review makes me feel depressed. No joke. Maybe some of those people are liars . . . or at least embellishers. Maybe I am just a hopeless slacker.

* It'd be nice if brains came equipped with mute buttons.

* I am half convinced that the weather dictates my moods.

* I am highly embarrassed to admit this, but I secretly kind of like the new (well, recycled) legging trend. I have no explanation or excuse. Maybe some portion of my subconscious longs to be kindred spirits with Lindsay Lohan. God help me.

* In potentially even more disturbing news, I sometimes find myself thinking Taylor Hicks is all kinds of sexy.

* I am wondering if the reason I am so drawn to Hamlet is because we both suffer from the same fatal flaw - an inability to act. He capably grasps what he needs to do, yet agonizes over actually carrying through with it for forever and meets his demise as a result. He is crafty and intelligent and seemingly capable, but he is stuck . . . entrapped by his own mind, really. It has always seemed to be one the lamer tragic hero issues out there, but it's also more complicated and layered and realistic.

The Write Stuff

Over the weekend, I stumbled upon Jennifer Weiner's blog. I find the trend of established young writers maintaining blogs and websites to be interesting. It makes sense, as it serves as a way to keep fans updated and hopefully a venue to draw in potential readers. I guess I am intrigued by the everyday/personal nature of the author blogs (I found a few) that I visited. I guess I expected that they'd be more focused on bigger efforts (such as the ones that people actually pay to read), rather than the seemingly mundane stuff that everyone else and her mother is blogging about. It's kind of cool. I think both her blog and her website are rather entertaining, even though I've never read Jennifer Weiner's books. (I have seen In Her Shoes, though, and I think it's a lovely little film.) Her writing style is conversational, cute, and quirky. I appreciate her self-deprecating sense of humor and enthusiasm for reality television.

A few years ago, I was encouraged to read her first novel, Good in Bed, by multiple friends. Apparently, my pseudo-pretentious little brat persona shone through, and I refused, as I dismissively informed them that chick lit was not my style. The funniest thing is, I subsequently purchased and read Hungerpoint, which definitely deserves the same classification. The glossy, hot pink cover and slightly chubby, "lookin for lovin" protagonist both serve as dead giveaways. So, I nullified my entire argument with my spring break reading selection. If I were my friends, I would have laughed at me. Maybe I was adamantly opposed to reading Good in Bed because, judging by the title, I figured I wouldn't find the heroine relatable. Maybe I was just a moody snot, and the invitations to read the book fell consistently on bad days. Whatever the case, three years later, I am feeling a bit foolish.

While surfing around her site, I happened upon a page with tips for wannabe writers. It's practical, humorous, and refreshing. I especially enjoy step # 3: "Major in Liberal Arts (but not necessarily creative writing)." I am too often confronted with judgmentally posed questions/statements such as, "Why would you ever decide to major in just English?" or "What kind of decent job will you ever pick up with a degree in that?" and the oh so encouraging, "Well, that seems like a waste of money. My kid knows he/she better pick a serious major." And even when it's not directly stated, it's implied quite often. My response usually begins with me rambling in my haughty tone about how there are two different schools of thoughts concerning college majors; some prefer pre-professional routes and some favor the liberal arts. I tell them that many intellectuals prefer the latter, as it doesn't pigeonhole students, encourages them to think and reflect, and allows them to pursue a variety of worthy interests, blah, blah. Then I usually become defensive and explain that I intended to graduate with secondary ed certification, but spending an extra semester at a private college wasn't the most practical plan. (As if to say, "see, plain old English majors are sometimes practical, too!") I tell them that I would have had to attain a master's degree within a few years, anyway, and it is fairly easy to pick up certification at the same time. That was once the plan . . . Then I remember that it's almost two years post-graduation, and I'm nowhere near decisive enough or financially able to pursue my master's. And I'm not sure that I even want to teach and the thought of taking another slew of education classes is about as appealing as having my eyes gouged out. So then I start to wonder if maybe the critical parties' points hold some validity, and I feel defeated and panicky. At this point I shut my mouth, letting the mean people win.

Now, they will win no more. I will simple say in response to their inquisitions, "Kindly refer to www.jennfierweiner.com/forthewriters.htm. It is all a part of my long established master plan for penning books. Having already mastered many of her suggestions, all I need to do is care for a dog, go through a few nasty break-ups, and peruse some cereal box labels and Harlequin novels. I'm well on my way. Thanks for your concern. If you're nice, maybe I'll autograph a copy of my first publication for you." In all seriousness, I do think Jennifer presents an adequate and concise argument for liberal arts education. And I just might print it out and carry it with me, just in case. (And, no, I don't hold any real delusions of grandeur or expectations of supporting myself through writing. I'm average, at best, and much more skilled at writing about other people's writing than coming up with my own material. Plus, it is too often an arduous and draining process for me. It would be nice, though.)

Fat Bottomed Girls You Make the Rockin' World Go Round

In the first so-called "shocking" ouster of the current season, Mandisa was voted off of American Idol. I enjoy her, but, due to my long ago solidified Elliot fangirl status, (which remains constant despite the fact that he definitely messed up Gavin DeGraw's lyrics two weeks ago), I guiltily cheered in my head a bit when her Daniel Powter funeral montage began. (I think it's rather amusing that they use "Bad Day" for every single, "final glance of the nice person you evil, tonedeaf, teenage Americans who actually vote sent packing this week" video this year. Sure, it is fitting and catchy enough, though unfortunately overplayed at this point, but there is something to be said for variety. I just hope the guy made a significant amount of money out of that deal and that he, unlike me, did not allow himself to become another one of American Idol's countless bitches.)

Here's the deal. Mandisa is undoubtedly talented. I think that most people who've listened to her sing during some of her better performances would have a difficult time disagreeing with that statement. She has a powerful, booming, borderline shouty voice - a standout type of vocal style that is lauded and revered year after year by both the American Idol judges and the viewers . . . or at least the viewers who are manipulated into believing that the judges truly know what they're talking about. In any case, it is strikingly obvious that, more often than not, bigger = better on this show, at least in terms of singing style. It is not so much the case, however, in terms of body size.

When she was first featured in the audition rounds, I was automatically on Mandisa's team. That's how I work. I find myself, through some kind of habitual, mechanical impulse, rooting for the chubby kids. I guess I must feel as though I can empathise with them, assuming that they have been taunted or left out or criticized or humiliated in their pasts. I know it's not practical to make assumptions about people I've never met, and I know that most people, no matter what their size, likely go through periods of time in which they are treated unkindly. It just seems like a given, in my (potentionally dillusional) opinion, that the chances are particularly high in situations in which the individual is overweight, especially during his/her formative years. I guess I just worry that they will be publicly criticized for their looks or deemed less worthy than their less talented, yet more conventionally attractive competitors and end up broken and defeated or something.

Needless to say, I was happy when Mandisa made it to the top 12. The girl is stunningly gorgeous. She presents herself with such a huge level of confidence and poise, and it is safe to assume that the girl is legitimately comfortable with herself and how she looks. I find myself feeling rather envious and a bit shamed in her (television-induced) presence. Throughout her appearances, she never seemed to feel the need to hide her body or to even wear clothes that might be slightly more slimming. I've heard multiple comments about how she should never wear jeans or bare her arms. I don't know, maybe the sight of her exposed, fleshy skin or the stretchy fabric clinging to her thighs started burning holes in their retinas. My retinas must already be scarred from too much tanning bed exposure, as I happen to think watching her perform in such clothing is relatively painless and pretty awesome. Why must flattering always equal slimming, anyway?

Mandisa, in my opinion, was voted off before less talented and more annoying people. Examples include, but are not limited to: Kellie Pickler (who seems to be attempting to market herself as a twangier, stringier-haired, smaller-boobed, and stupider version of Jessica Simpson. I know that seems to be an impossible feat, but she is working it pretty well thus far.); Ace Young (I yell at the tv every time I see him because he's a crappy-voiced tool, and I can't see the hotness that everyone is always fawning over); and Bucky Covington (who seems like a nice enough guy, but is a mumbler who is out of his league. My brother and I enjoy referring to him as "Bonko" for no particular reason.) While I do consider myself to be a cynical viewer, I am not a conspiracy theorist, at least on most days. I merely think that a lot of Americans are dumb or easily manipulated, especially those who vote. Regardless, I have developed a theory about Mandisa's depature that might make you roll you eyes. I don't necessarily believe it. Despite the fact that I'm devoting an increasingly lengthy post to this silly reality show, I try not to spend too much time overanalyzing its outcomes. I'm sure it was a combination of a couple of things. I wonder if her proselytizing played a part. It can definitely turn people off, but I wouldn't think it would be an issue in the eyes in the majority of voters. It's likely mostly due to the fact that she had 2 subpar performances in a row, but I'm still going to go ahead and theorize for the hell of it.

During her final performance, Mandisa sang Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine." It's a novelty type of song, and they never seem to impress anyone too much. Her arrangement didn't allow for too much super special shouty singing and she was apparently off anyhow. (I am not the best judge of such things, as I am entirely tonedeaf.) The lyrics clearly indicate that the singer expects a man to treat her well and fulfill her desires, etc. I should probably be pondering the state of my mental health for actually pausing to take Shania Twain's lyrics into consideration, but that is another issue. So I find myself wondering if maybe Americans found a woman of her size singing those lyrics to be offputting. Like someone that big should feel lucky to have a man at all. That she is in no position to be making demands and presenting herself as sexy and desirable and worthy. She certainly lands far outside the stereotypically meek, obedient, apologetic, voiceless, invisible fat girl box. And maybe people grew tired of seeing that. I'd like to believe otherwise, but I'm not entirely convinced . . .

I know, everything isn't about fatness and feminism. It's just a thought.

And brevity is the soul of wit. I'll work on it.

Blast From the Past

For one reason or another, I reluctantly agreed to arrange an appointment with a doctor I had seen off and on throughout college for a follow-up of sorts. If I were to compile a list of people, dead or alive, that I would least like to be stuck alone in a room with, he'd probably make the top 10, falling somewhere below Adolph Hitler and Jerry Falwell, but slightly higher than (present day) Charles Manson. At the very least, Manson presents the opportunity for entertaining discussion, and I'd know with certainty that I wasn't the craziest person in the room. And if a lull in conversation did occur, we could always start belting Beatles tunes together to pass the time away. Plus he's old and probably drugged up in jail. I'm a good kicker and have mastered the basics of self-defense, thanks to the so-called expert ladies who gave us a lesson in the class Becky and I took 3rd term of senior year called "Growing Up Female In America." We naively believed the course would center around reading and writing about girl stuff. (Silly us, for blindly buying into the description in the course catalog. Even sillier us, for not taking 6 credits of dance, like every self-respecting senior who doesn't need to take any more credible courses for graduation should do.) The class would have been more aptly titled "Seemingly Free Group Therapy Sessions for Confused 19 Year Old Lesbians." By the fifth week, repeatedly hearing tearful stories that often started out along the lines of, "I loved reading this section so much because I like totally identified with her. When I was 13 . . .," became more than a bit wearying. More than anything, I felt embarrassed for them, having done more than my share of draining overspeaking during my younger days. But I digress . . .

So, yes, on most any given day, I think I'd prefer Charles Manson's company to this doctor's. Sure, that's a bit exaggerated and unfair and unscientific, as I've met one and not the other, but I think it speaks to the degree to which I find interactions with him to be unpleasant. And I consider myself capable of, at the very least, tolerating just about anyone. Someone may act stupidly or selfishly or annoyingly, but I understand that people are complex, their motivations are sometimes misunderstood, and their backgrounds are often unknown. Under normal circumstances, I am more interested in attempting to understand where another person is coming from, rather than automatically dismissing his/her opinions. I try to be, anyway. With this man, though, I make no attempts. If prompted to describe him, I tend to come up with something similar to, "a fucking arrogant, pill-pushing asshole who is totally judgmental and disinterested in listening to patients. He's also really really mean." I know, a statement like that just oozes with charm and eloquence. But that is what seeing this man does to me . . . I allow myself to instantly regress into juvenile thought processes and behaviors. For whatever reason (I don't even necessarily remember too many details from the first couple of encounters), he is cemented in my mind as a bad guy in a steady, unchanging position. In the past, I, at times, had to almost literally be dragged in to see this man. I'd cry, mumble, refuse to communicate with him. To be fair, these moments occurred in the midst of my drama queen days, in which I was ridiculously self-involved and far from the most emotionally stable person one could encounter. Looking back, I recognize that I was difficult enough to handle as a friend, let alone a non-compliant patient.

So, when presented with the opportunity to return to see him after a couple of years of blissful avoidance, I decided to give it a go. If I were to oversimplify things, I'd claim to be a totally different person at this time in my life. However, that's a misguided and banal phrase. More accurately, I have a different perspective at this time in my life. I am fairly mellow, far less dramatic, and certainly more competent and capable than I was a few years ago. Still the same old me, but a much more palatable version. So I viewed this visit as an experiment of sorts. I wanted to go into it with as much of an open mind as I could conjure, in an attempt to see if the caricature I'd created in my mind was at all accurate and to discover whether or not I'd unjustly demonized someone.

After considering calling to cancel on multiple occasions, I went on Thursday morning. I was brimming with anxiety, not surprisingly. I don't really care for doctors in general. I think it has something to do with the fact that they try to inform patients about what is best for their bodies. I seem to have some kind of underlying "it's my body, I'll do what I like with it" resentment about that. Plus, there is the whole lingering dread that they will start spouting unpleasant news indicating that one is not normal or about to die or something like that. Not that the latter was really a factor in this certain situation, but it must play a part of my overarching issue with doctors.

Shortly after entering his office, my blood pressure was taken. It was highish - 160/70, as I expected. It was taken again a few minutes later, and the reading remained the same. I figured it'd be worse. I don't think I've pulled off a normal blood pressure reading in a doctor's office in the last 10 years, at least. It's kind of pathetic, really. They call it "White Coat Hypertension," which is basically a whole load of nothing. I apparently get myself so worked up about doctor's appointments that I am constantly accused of having high blood pressure. And I don't especially appreciate it because, according to my brain, a person having high blood pressure at my age must be fat. Whether or not that is an accurate assumption, I can't really say. Regardless, I don't enjoy people insinuating that I am fat, so I don't take blood pressure discussions all that well. Now, when I was 13 or so and they started telling me that my blood pressure was high, at least I was legitimately overweight at the time. So I could maybe kind of see it. My family doctor finally stopped bugging me about it long ago once I proved that when I take my own blood pressure at, say, Wal-Mart, it falls within the normal range.

Well, this guy didn't seem to find anything more pressing to focus his lecture on, so a portion of our conversation proceeded as follows:

HIM: "Wow, your blood pressure is high."

ME: "Yeah, I know. It always is. It's not really high, though. Just pretend high."

HIM: "That's just not acceptable." (to the nurse) "Take it again."

ME: "She already took it twice. It'll still be high."

HIM (chewing his gum obnoxiously): "Well, you need to be medicated for it."

ME: "No, I don't. It's only high when I'm nervous. I've been like this for years."

HIM (flipping through the pages of my chart for the first time): "Well, it's been high every time I've seen you. 160/70, 160/70, 160/60 . . . "

ME: "It could have been worse, considering that . . ."

HIM (cutting me off): "Well, we can't keep ignoring it. This is obviously a problem and we need to treat you for it."

ME (twirling my hair): "I swear it's not really high. I just don't like doctors."

HIM (seeming to completely ignore me): "Well, it's not like it's a big deal right now. But, when you're older, you'll just get heart disease and die."

In retrospect, I wish I had followed that statement with, "Well, we all have to go at some point." Instead, I just listened to him talk at me about recording my blood pressure twice a week in order to "prove him wrong." He eventually moved on, and I proceeded to attempt to honestly answer a bunch questions that he read off the standard checklist. He gave me some suggestions, and I'm still considering whether or not I will take them. Overall, it was probably the most painless encounter I've had with him. His cavalier attitude, blatantly dismissive reactions to my opinions, and haughty tone of voice still make him extremely offputting. I'd never recommend him to a friend, which is unfortunate, as I have nothing but praise for the other professionals he is associated with. Oh, well. And while I've now established that I am capable of acting in a mature and civil enough fashion while trapped in a room with him, I don't intend to make a habit of it.

Strong Evidence Supporting The Fact That I Should Either Be Nominated For "What Not to Wear" or Put on Medication

For the past couple of nights, I have donned Christmas pajama pants. They are somewhat subtle. The lightweight, cozy material is colored a soft, bath bead green and accented with white and watery and grassy colored triangle trees. And snowflakes. In all honesty, they more closely resemble flowers, but, as they are clearly wintery pants, that doesn't make the most sense ever. You might not know they are holiday pants from, say, 15 feet away. And because it's not yet Black Friday and there is currently no snow on the ground, every time I put them on, the first thought that pops into my head is, "I really hope I don't die in my sleep tonight, because it'd be awful embarrassing to be found dead wearing Christmas attire prematurely." Then I rationalize my decision by assuring myself that it'd be even more humiliating if it were to happen in July, so I haven't yet hit rock bottom. Plus, I probably won't care so much if I'm dead. So then I realize that the situations I should actually concern myself with are ones that I will potentially survive to realize that my faux pas has been exposed, such as a fire or sudden overnight kidney failure or falling off the couch and giving myself a concussion. And then I start to ponder what life will be like when the fire engulfs my house to the extent that I am forced to wear my Christmas pants until the insurance money comes in or someone decides to lend me a pair of jeans (and hopefully a bra, as I'd likely be out of one of those, as well.) Sometimes, it is tiring inside my head.

On a similar note, the other day I wore a hot pink tank top under a lavender t-shirt shirt under a red sweatshirt, accented by green and blue striped socks. While it should be noted that the tank top, t-shirt, and socks were never visible, it just felt so wrong. If only I weren't hindered by severe time constraints and an unfortunate aversion to washing clothes beyond those necessary for work (hence the green socks, which perfectly matched my work polo that I decided to shed because layering green, red, and pink shirts struck me as an unflattering and cheap combination of Christmas + Valentine's Day. And, again, we haven't even hit Thanksgiving yet, people. Plus, I like to take off my work clothes, no matter what they are, as soon as I clock out for the day, for some unexplored reason. It helps me relax, maybe. Socks seem to be the exception.) So, throw "unforgivably mismatched outfit" into the "unfortunate attire to sport while meeting one's death" category and add "horrific car accident or falling down (or up) the stairs in front of a room full of high school kids or being abducted and dumped in a ditch" into the "catastrophic event" slot of the abovementioned scenario, and you'll have a pretty clear idea of what played out in my brain as I was rushing out of the house.

I may be a wee bit crazy, but I often keep myself entertained.

Dream On

Last Saturday night I fell asleep on the couch at approximately 10:30, to the sound of a schitzophrenic woman cryptically assisting police in catching her rapist on Law and Order SVU. I know, my Saturday evenings are the envy of many. At 12:30ish, my sister's cellphone started obnoxiously blaring the Chinese song from The Nutcracker, and I kind of woke up. (I always wanted to be in the Chinese dance in high school productions, by the way, but it never played out. Considering that the choreography usually called for two decent enough people en pointe (it didn't seem to change too much through the years), this is no surprise. I was, however, once cast as a soldier in pointe shoes. And let me tell you, wearing a costume that consisted of only a medium-sized white leotard, white tights, and tiny cropped jacket was more than slightly mortifying and definitely less than flattering on my big girl figure.)

Anyway, when I sort of woke up, the first thing I did was assure myself that no one I know owns a light gray station wagon introduced in the late 70's. And I felt temporarily relieved. The next thing I heard was my sister asking, "Sara, why are you crying? Wake up." To which I responded, "I'm not crying. I'm fake crying." (Still in a daze, of course. At least, I hope.) Oh, I was making some freaky noises - some combination of moaning and wailing. It sounded something like, "ooohhh" or "whoooo" or "awwww," high-pitched, fast-paced, and loud. When I finally sat up and stopped moping, I relayed the dream sequence to my sister. Since I still remember it vividly today, I figured I might as well share it.

Part 1. Definitely in black and white. Names withheld to protect the innocent.

A friend breaks up with her boyfriend, but they remain friendly. Friend and I visit ex's work because we both formerly worked there. Ex sees friend and starts pdaing with his new woman/coworker. He is an obnoxious ass. Friend becomes very upset and runs away, leaving me feeling a bit awkward. I decide it is in my best interest to drive off in a little gray station wagon that can't be worth more than $500.00, tops. I justify my grand theft auto by telling myself that it could be my great aunt's car, and she wouldn't mind.

Part 2. In color.

Someone is chasing me. I am still driving in the stolen, puttering wagon. Maybe the rightful owners of the car took someone else's and are tailing me. More often than not, someone is chasing me in my dreams, so I'm not surprised. (Yes, even my dreams are anxiety-ridden.) I am driving fast (something I don't enjoy or do particularly well), out of necessity, and I happen upon a familiar place. I think it is the PA Grand Canyon. As in, I have to drive across the bottom of the canyon. I guess it's dry down there. There is a fork in the "road," and I have to veer to the right, rather than the left, due to construction roadblocks. I have never traveled down this path before. The road is windy and narrow, and I could use some Xanax because I am forced to continue speeding. Then, I drive into a building. I don't crash into it; it is a building that is meant to be driven through. Inside, there is a car obstacle course. I maneuver through it well enough, and I even kind of enjoy driving across the multi-colored plastic balls that seemed to be stolen from the McDonald's play area. To complete the final obstacle, I attempt to drive over a giant pool of water on a bridge that is maybe half the width of my car. I somehow manage to drive across for a total of 2 or 3 seconds before my car plummets. The water is fairly deep; my car is entirely engulfed. I get out fairly easily, though I don't recall how. I hop off the side of the pool and start running, even though I'm no longer being followed. I feel guilty about leaving the car in the water, but I don't really have a choice. As I jog toward the exit, I cross a red line on the now gymnasium floor. A huge flag unfolds at the top of the doorway, similarly to the "STOP, FORREST" reminder at Gump's college football games. It reads, "CONGRATULATIONS WEIS EMPLOYEES!" I then feel extremely guilty because I am trespassing at the location of the grocery store workers' family fun day. I realize that the course is most likely not intended for cars, and I feel kind of stupid. I am relieved that I am alone. I am saddened to think that I have squashed so many of the stupid plastic balls. Dirty and deflated balls make for a less than ideal play area for kids. I worry that the car rusting in the pool will be a safety hazzard and that they won't be able to reposition the flag for its rightful viewers.

Part 3. Also in color.

I am home and extremely excited. I tell my mom that we have to book our initial plane tickets to go on The Amazing Race: Family Edition. I head to the computer and suggest that we purchase them through buytickets.com. (How very uncreative of my subconscious.) She hesitates and then says, "Well . . ." in the sing-songy, "I take no responsibility for my actions" voice she uses when she "borrows" half a pack of my cigarettes overnight or eats/gives away the remainder of a food item I've purchased. (The latter is an abhorrent sin, in my opinion. I am a strict believer in the unspoken rule of one. As in, if one should choose to eat someone else's food or drink someone's soda, one must be certain that there is at least one of the items remaining. It's common courtesy.) She cheerfully explains, "We were supposed to meet with the producers yesterday, but I declined because the Superbowl was on and your dad and sister wouldn't want to miss it." Being far from a fan of team sports, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my entire life, and I make it known. In shock, I go to the CBS website and confirm that our pictures are no longer up. And then, I start wailing.

So, yes, I fake sobbed for a lengthy enough period of time because I wouldn't be the newest face of reality television. I'm not so sure I want to know what that indicates about my character.