Falls with Grace

Lights Out

2009-09-17T09:43:00.001-07:00

I've been mulling this over for a long time...weeks, maybe even months. It's been a decision that has crept up on me, and basically made itself, as these things are wont to do.

It's time to shut 'er down. Close the doors. Toss the proverbial bottle into the ocean.

I have that statcounter doodad. I know that a few of you still read me every now and then...thanks for staying interested in my life and my ramblings. I know some of you see more of my life via the blog than you do of me in the flesh. Some of you only know me via the blog these days.

If I was going to overanalyze, I'd say that as I'm embarking on a new phase of my life, it's time to shut the door on the old one. It's all part and parcel of turning 30, a new perspective, a new lens...that maybe falls with grace was apropos of me five or six years ago, but slowly, I've found balance and grace, that the bumps and bruises (hell, major lacerations and near death experiences) of my twenties have slowly faded and I'm learning how to walk and run without falling at all.

If I was going to be honest, I'd say that while all that is true, I've found value in turning my attention to those right in front of me, of saving my stories for them, for paper and for a later date. Instead of relating what was, what happened, I want to turn my eye forward to what is and can be.

Maybe I just don't have any damn time and I'm tired.

Nah. That's an easy excuse.

I feel like I'm breaking up with someone...

I'll miss you.

Good night.

Just when I think I'm done

2009-07-21T08:36:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I might be
a) too busy
b) out of things to say
or c) just generally over it

something happens I feel necessary to share with the world. Reader (and I do say that in the singular sense, because I'm not sure anyone still reads this), you may hear from me less, you may see less evidence of my angst/celebrations/wild gesticulations. But never fear, I am not far away and very little changes.

So, before I get caught doing this instead of my work...

I had lunch with my mother the other day. She's lovely. She's my best friend and I talk to her everyday. She curses with me, cries with me, drinks with me (all elements of a healthy relationship, right)? She's supported me through marriage, divorce, moving, moving...moving...yeah, I moved a lot. She knows me well.

So she is telling me about a conversation she's had with my brother in law describing my relationship with the BF. BF, if you happen to read this, take note. This is your induction into the blog...this, my love, is the first in a long line of pieces I will write about me/you/us. Wink, wink. She is trying to explain to the Brother in Law my, ahem, shall we say nature when it comes to relationships.

Finally she says, "You know that Bruce Springsteen song The Secret Garden? That is written about my daughter."

And then she highlighted the following lyric: She'll let you in her heart, If you got a hammer and a vise.

Huh.

I looked up the rest of the lyrics today, and while I don't deny the insight, I tend to think I'm a little better than this crazybird the Boss writes about. And, anyway, doesn't that make the pot'o'gold at the end of the rainbow that much better, all the work? (That is not a euphemism...though it could be).

Oh, boy.

Secret Garden
Bruce Springsteen

She'll let you in her house
If you come knockin' late at night
She'll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She'll let you deep inside
But there's a secret garden she hides

She'll let you in her car
To go drivin' round
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down
She'll let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice

You've gone a million miles
How far'd you get
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget

She'll lead you down a path
There'll be tenderness in the air
She'll let you come just far enough
So you know she's really there
She'll look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
She's got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away

Summer Reading List 09

2009-04-23T20:33:00.000-07:00

So, I have this ever-growing pile of books on my bedside table. It keeps growing, day by day...I have been anxiously anticipating the arrival of summer and the free time to read them. And then I noticed the theme: food. And I remembered that this is, in large part, what I study every day. And then I decided to get credit for them.

So, here's Sarah's Graduate Course in Food, a Summer Reading List:
The Omnivore's Dilemma; Michael Pollan
Fatland; Greg Crister
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle; Barbara Kingsolver
The Ethics of What We Eat, Why Our Food Choices Matter; Peter Singer
Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History; Sidney Mintz
Food Politics; Marion Nestle
What to Eat; Marion Nestle
The End of Food; Paul Roberts

And then, my list of books to read in my space time:
Empire Falls (again) Richard Russo
The Fruit of Stone; Mark Spragg
A Little More About Me; Pam Houston
A Year of Magical Thinking; Joan Didion
Olive Kitteridge; Elizabeth Strout
The Art of Racing in the Rain; Garth Stein
The Autobiography of Mark Twain; guess who
A Slice of Organic Life

I know you're all thrilled...but if anyone feels like reading along, feel free. I'm always looking for company and conversation.

BIRD GONE THANKS (OWENSVILLE)

2009-04-21T20:23:00.001-07:00

fallswithgrace@yahoo.com has forwarded you this craigslist.org posting.
Please see below for more information.

BIRD GONE THANKS

Reply to: sale-ag3fw-1125205400@craigslist.org
Date: 2009-04-16, 11:24AM

BIRD IS GONE

Location: OWENSVILLE
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Original URL:http://columbiamo.craigslist.org/zip/1125205400.html

this craigslist posting was forwarded to you by someone using our
email-a-friend feature - if you want to prevent these, please go to:
http://www.craigslist.org/cgi-bin/te/hJ3ZmV2YsxWdukDOpJ3ZsVmeAFGZvxmYld2Zj5icA02bv

Not Hotter Than Me

2009-04-15T20:31:00.001-07:00

I'm actually contemplating this one...I mean, just for the sake of the experience.

Looking for Bridesmaids - w4w

Reply to:
Date: 2009-02-27, 8:53PM

So, my fiancee and I are getting married in June. He has 8 groomsmen lined up and I only have one bridesmaid. So, I need some girls who are attractive and around my age to stand up in my wedding. You can be single or taken. It doesn't matter....you just have to be hot. But, not hotter then me. Email me for more information. The wedding will be in Madison and you won't have to pay for a thing.
Hope to hear from you!

Location: Madison
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Original URL:http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/mad/1053693787.html

2009-04-15T20:14:00.001-07:00

Yet another genius on craigslist...I ask you, why o why would you sell one coffee mug?

Coffee Mug - $1 (columbia)

Reply to: sale-4qmmx-1124510430@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}
Date: 2009-04-15, 9:33PM CDT

This is a blue coffee mug with black handle, top and middle section. It has a stainless steel inside to keep your drink warm. :). It has a swivel top on lid that opens and closes. Used. We are asking one dollar cash only. We have to many so we are getting ride of this one.

Location: columbia
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Quitter

2009-04-13T12:11:00.001-07:00

I didn’t make any New Year’s Resolutions this year. None. I didn’t set goals, I didn’t attempt to break bad habits, I didn’t secretly in my heart hope to win the lottery or fall in love. I am a consummate list maker, so this is something quite unlike me. However, I’d like to go ahead and recognize the fact that in not planning out my bazillion goals for the year, I think I actually managed to achieve a few.

One being that I have, I believe, quit smoking. By accident, sort of. Here’s the thing. I smoked a lot in college. I smoked a lot after I got divorced and worked in a bar. Then I moved to a city where none of my friends smoked, you couldn’t smoke in bars or restaurants, where they cost almost as much as a mediocre bottle of wine and where it was generally looked upon as a character flaw. So, I cut back. When I say cut back, I mean I smoked once every few days. Sometimes, once a day. Sometimes once a week. But somehow, I just couldn’t quite give that up.

I moved back to Missouri where my friends smoked, but you still couldn’t smoke in public, and they cost as much as microbrew. One day on my way to work, I looked at the car pulled up beside me and saw a woman in her late thirties, not bad looking, sucking on a cigarette and looking completely unattractive. I mean, my first impression was "ew." Then I thought—Oh, God. That could be me.

When my Dad was diagnosed with cancer, you’d think it would have been the final nail in the nicotine coffin. I would have tossed them aside and never looked back, you know, bad genes and all. A better person with more will power might have been able to. I am not her. And, frankly, I don’t want to meet her because I don’t think I’d like her. As I tried to navigate a family in shambles, a financial disaster, and a complete lifestyle upheaval, I clung to the things that relieve stress for me: food (eating and preparing), booze, running and smoking.

We made it. Dad is officially in remission, less than a year after he was diagnosed with Stage IV colorectal cancer and told his odds were not favorable. After sixteen weeks of recovery from major surgery, after radiation and two rounds of chemotherapy, in less a month he will be out of the woods, a survivor. Personally, I have found some rhythm to my chaotic life once again. I have dug myself out of a financial wasteland (it’s been a long climb). And, somehow, I quit smoking.

I was at the doctor the other day and she asked if I was a smoker and I could confidently say no.

When I was twenty-two I had a long list of things I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to travel abroad, I wanted to go to grad school, to live in another city, to write for a living. I wanted to have a job that thrilled me instead of one that was safe. I put off a lot of those things in the name of love. Five years later, I'm finally able to say that I've accomplished those things. Or, perhaps better put: to have those experiences. I’ve found a certain peace in that…having doggedly gone after the things I truly, deeply desired, even when it was hard and scary. Thank God I did.

I’m twenty-nine. Perhaps it’s those challenges that I’ve faced in the last nine months, or perhaps it’s just wisdom with age…but I for the first time don’t feel a nagging feeling that the list of things I haven’t done is longer than the list of things I have.

I’ll probably always be a listmaker. I’ll probably always have things that I want to try. I have a little more faith that those experiences will come to me, that I don’t have to chase them quite so much.

Sort of like quitting smoking. It just stopped seeming fun, so I stopped doing it. Easy as pie.

Did I mention that I'm giving up sugar for two weeks? Old habits die hard.

Guess Where I'm Going?

2009-04-07T12:30:00.001-07:00

Yes, I'm gloating. But I'm very excited...its my 30th birthday present. Across the pond I come to descend on the land of my people...all by myself in Ireland for seventeen days. I can hardly stand it!!!

I recently re-read my list of 30 things to do before I'm 30. I have accomplished approximately half. But, frankly, the most important half I think. And I'm well on my way to another quarter...the rest are things like surfing and skydiving, and, well, the surf and the sky will be there for another year, I say.

Thar He Blows

2009-03-17T10:12:00.001-07:00

I’ve worked more than a few customer service jobs in my time. Between being a telephone operator, a server, a bartender and a “bookseller,” I’ve developed what I believe is a pretty thick skin, accompanied with a nice dose of humor and a well placed glaze of sarcasm. Said sarcasm is usually much more for my benefit than for those I’m waiting on, because, frankly, most of them aren’t paying enough attention or aren’t smart enough to figure it out in the first place. However, there are days in which my nerves are more frayed than normal, or when the skin is easier to wriggle beneath…and those days, inevitably, produce the most assholes.
I have a few things to say to the general public:

1. Use your words. You are a grown up. They gave you a driver’s license and a job for a reason, presumably. When I ask you a question, it is appropriate to respond with a declarative response. Yes or no will do, but if you weren’t RAISED IN A F-ING BARN, it would do you some good to use your “please” and “thank you’s.”

2. There are things I have to ask/tell you. I do this, frankly, to make our interaction as short and sweet as possible. When you are in my house, play by my rules. Otherwise, go somewhere else. If I ask you how you want your steak cooked, don’t act as though I’m troubling you in some way. If I ask you if you have a discount card, telling me “NO, and I don’t want one” is not an appropriate response. A simple “medium rare, thanks” or “no, I don’t.” will suffice.

3. When you are rude, I don’t offer you specials or discounts. Your food sits in the window longer, and could possibly arrive cold. I suddenly slow down the process of checking you out to a snail’s pace. Passive aggressive? Probably. I call it sanity saving.

I have more, but I’ll stop at those for now. So, one Friday night I worked at our friendly local Barnes and Noble, and a nicely dressed older gentleman came in to buy a pile of books. He was rather short with me, but I was willing to give our short relationship the benefit of the doubt, as he appeared to be a semi-regular customer. However, when he wrote a check and didn’t have an ID to go along with it, things went awry. No ID, no check, I say, as politely as possible, asking if he perhaps left it in his car. He says, no I never carry it (problem, as in order to drive, one is required to carry a driver’s license). And then began to belittle me...when he finally said “what are you trying to do, here, prove a point?” I looked right at him and said “No, this isn’t fun for me either, sir. I’m just trying to do my job, though admittedly, it’s less than pleasant at the moment.”

This exchange goes on for a while, and after several calls to the manager, he finally leaves. This leaves me a bit frazzled, to be truthful. Not more than a half-hour later, I take my lunch break. I try not to frequent the mall food court if possible, but in the absence of alcohol, I decided Taco Bell would have to do.

And there I am, standing in line at the Taco Bell, trying to place my order, when the jackass next to me, obviously less than sober, begins to…I don’t know, heckle me. I mean, we’re talking construction worker catcalling. I do what most women have been trained to do over the years—I mean, didn’t your mother ever tell you “they do that just to get your attention. Ignore them and they’ll just go away.” Yeah. Your mom was wrong.

You see, after several minutes of being ignored, this man, a 6’3” dude jacked up on uppers, leaned in and BLEW ON MY NECK. TWICE.

And that’s when I lost my shit.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK. Did you just BLOW on me? DID YOU JUST BLOW ON ME? That's fucking disgusting, asshole. No, do not turn away, mother fucker. Did you just mother-fucking BLOW one me? What the fuck are you trying to do? Get your nasty-ass Taco Bell breath the fuck away from me. Yes, step away. Who the fuck do you think you are—“ This went on for a while.

At first, he was laughing with his buddy. Then, his buddy started to back away. He had this look of panic in his eyes. Panic became pleading…you know, that “please, please stop yelling, lady” look.

I calmly turned back to the high school boy waiting to take my order.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I needed to deal with the man who just BLEW on me, you see. I’ll have the al fresco taco with chicken, please, and how about a diet coke?”

Once Again, I am not Dead

2009-03-12T13:36:00.000-07:00

Buried alive, maybe, but not dead.

Spring break occurs in approximately 8 days. At which point, I promise to post blogs about at least one of the following topics:

keyword analysis (ala Brooke)
the quality of care received at local student health center (yes, groan and look concern, as if I haven't heard that one yet)
the man who accosted me at the Taco Bell (this is a good one, trust me)

In the meantime, please enjoy a recent best of the best craigslist ad:

LOST: chameleon (Columbia)

Reply to: comm-derkz-1071216446@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}
Date: 2009-03-11, 11:07PM CDT

Lost a veiled chameleon, possibly snuck outside. She will probably be dark green, 8 inches long or so if you find him.. Please let me know.

Location: Columbia

AWOL and 2009

2009-01-17T06:29:00.000-08:00

In brief:

1. I'm still alive.

2. While lists and goals are one of my most defining characteristics, I did not make any this year. Yay 2009.

3. Okay, maybe I made one. Resolution, that is. I have signed up for the St. Louis (half) marathon. Come run with me. April 18 and 19.

Happy New Year.

Believe it Or Not

2008-12-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

For all those who thought I couldn't do it...I am on a mission. I'm doing all the things that I've put off for the last few weeks while I dedicated myself to the improvement of my mind:

running
going to the gym--yes, Mizzou's state of the art affair. I've finally found the place (because I've been searching again, you know).
eating like a human as opposed to a dog (as in, eating anything in front of me as fast as possible)
listening to Christmas music until my ears are bleeding
my art project
writing things that aren't research proposals
reading

School is finished and I've been doing everything but sleeping. I do not say that figuratively. I seriously can't sleep for more than four hours a night. Last night I fell asleep at 10:30 and woke up at 2:30. And I was awake. There is nothing worse than sitting in bed waiting, waiting , waiting for sleep. And we all know how patient I am. So I waited until about 2:35 and I got up, made some food, some hot cocoa, read a book...as in a whole book.

I said I was going to read 52 book this year. I've read 30. I'm probably not going to read 22 books in the next two weeks. Maybe before I go back to school, but not by Jan 1. But, damn it, i am going to give it my all. I have been to the library, and--God, I love the library. Especially on a cold, gray day. There's nothing better than the quiet murmur of people turning pages, gray and purple dusk creeping up to the windows, and the smell of old pages. As a general rule, I like to own my books. It's one of the only things I guiltlessly consume with reckless abandon. I like to see them lined up on my bookshelves, so pretty and colorful and inviting. Someday I'll have a floor to ceiling bookshelves. I'm kinda like George on Seinfeld: he wanted to be ensconced in velvet, I want to be buried in books.

I particularly like Columbia's library. Not so much the outside. In a relatively recent expansion, they did somethings to the outside of the building, including putting in a sculpture that looks like a chicken truck rolled over, and what's left of the birds is left fluttering on the highway. However, the inside still has much the same feel of the library I grew up with--don't ask me how, most people would say it looks very different. Something about those walls, though...

Side note: even more fun, to my mind, is Ellis Library, MU's flagship book receptacle. It's a nightmare if you're trying to actually find something, but there is something so beautiful and harmonious about the way they've been able to design the place with the most state-of-the-art technology, special glass cages, I mean, study rooms and copy centers coupled with the old, rickety stacks of books for floors and floors and floors, complete with old wooden study carrels (sp?) and green and red tile floors. I bet they still have card catalogs...the real ones. And there are wings, with funny letters attached, like 3R or 3L. And the stacks are my favorite place to get lost in.

I swear all this reading in dim places...I'm going to lose my eyesight by the time I'm 35.

Anyway, I was at the Columbia Public Library for like two hours, browsing, wandering, curled up in an alcove, paging through books, trying to decide which one gets the privilege of going home with me.

I said when I started this project I was going to diversify, not just read a bunch of children's lit or novels or comic books. So, here's what I got at the library:

Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin
New Zealand and the South Pacific Islands, John Chambers
The Green Guide, The Complete Reference for Consuming Wisely (forward by Maryl Streep. Go figure.)
So Brave, Young and Handsome, Leif Enger (this is not a romance novel)
This House of Sky, Ivan Doig
Come on Shore and We will Kill and Eat You All, Christina Thompson
Don't Get too Comfortable, David Rakoff

This is what I'm reading for the next week. As soon as I finish watching Pride and Prejudice (the really yummy Colin Firth version--be still, my heart) and It's a Wonderful Life (my very favorite Christmas movie, naturally) and Disc 1 of Northern Exposure, season 3. Because, even though it's been years since I've watched it, it is as brilliant at 29 as it was at 15 and 22.

Ask me when I'm going to do all this?

When I'm not sleeping of course.

Scarlett O'Hara style

2008-12-15T08:30:00.000-08:00

Today is the day. The last day of this semester, at least for me. I have finished the proposal, the paper (s), and am down to the last exam and presentation of the semester. Ah, yes. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel beckoning me. How I love school...and the procrastination that inevitably comes with. Let me count the ways:

1. I've read two novels that are not my school books in the last two weeks. Ask me how that's helping the writing process, 'cause I'll justify it, I will.

2. 30 Rock, the funniest show on television. I know because I've watched all of it: as in, every episode on DVD. I think I find it funny because Liz Lemon is so much like me...or, maybe I'm like Liz Lemon. And by that I mean a tomboy who doesn't wear dresses very often, is often mistaken for the hired help, and more often than not has food in her hair or on her clothes. If Liz fell more, we'd be sisters from anotha motha.

3. Facebook is the devil, and I'm embarrassed at how much time I've spent in the last week distracting myself reading other people's status'. I mean, how pathetic is that? I get my news on my friends from watching their status' change rather than picking up the phone...disgusting. I am not going to tell you about the other window currently open on my screen, and that it involves a lot of faces of my friends talking about themselves, what they are doing at EXACTLY THIS SECOND and the causes they believe in/people they are fans of.

4. I love all of you that write blogs and I wish and hope and pray that when the end of next semester rolls around, you will write, write, write until your little fingers bleed, dear friends. Entertain me, please.

Which brings me to something that happened to me on Friday, when I started the ten page monstrosity entitled This Ten Page Monstrosity That I Have To Write that was due by the end of the day. I offer that this was not procrastination's evil work, but rather, a necessary debacle stemming from an unfortunate end of the semester assignment timeline, Dad's five day stint in the hospital and, well, my inability to focus for more than an hour at a time. So, I was writing a paragraph at a time, while allowing myself Internet news and blog reading as a reward for each page finished. So, I read Brooke's blog, which inevitably makes me laugh, and took the Which Reindeer Are You Quiz. I mean, I can't imagine what my life would be like if I didn't know what reindeer I was.

This led me to learn the following about myself:
1. I am, evidently, Comet. Which I think means I don't think before I act, am quick tempered and daring. I mean, how completely off base is that?

2. I am so U.K....according to this quiz website I am: 75% Irish and Dublin. Yeah, don't ask. I am pretty sure this has nothing to do with my inability to speak at low decibles, my flair for the dramatics, and my ability to consume beverages of the alcoholic nature.

3. I am Halloween. Now, if the first few quizzes were at least in the same chapter, if not on the same page as me...this, well, we're not even in the same library. And I quote: 'You are a dramatic, wild even weird person." I mean, who are they talking about? Marilyn Manson? Pink? Angelina Jolie pre-Pitt and Maddox?

Among the quizzes I did NOT take:

What felony are you?

Would you have been a good wife in the 1930's?

If you would like to gain self-awareness and be one step closer to personal enlightenment, or if you're putting off a Research Methods exam, I recommend:

http://www.blogthings.com/

One Lightbulb

2008-11-25T16:43:00.000-08:00

I actually just sent this as an email to a friend...and then the more I thought about it, the more I was inspired by it...so here it is in expanded form...

I'm technically on vacation. That is, we have this entire Thanksgiving week off here at ol' Mizzou. There are several things about my life currently that are almost unfathomably different than they've been in a very long time.

1. This is the first time in eleven years that I haven't had to travel multiple hours, either by plane, train or car, to get to my destination for the holidays.

2. This is the first time that I've willingly worked over a vacation. And I'm not talking about picking up a shift at the Royale while home for Christmas, I'm talking, I've been "on vacation" since last Thursday and I've spent roughly thirty hours working on one big-ass research proposal for class.

Here it is, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving at about seven in the evening, on a deserted college campus. The hall is so empty I can hear the janitor's trashcan echoing from the floor below. I don't like flourescent lights, so I never turn the lights in my office on, preferring instead the light from my little desk lamp. Which means that my keyboard and screen and the pile of journal articles in front of me are brightly lit in a sea of darkness beside me, while I look out over the empty parking lot below. I like it this way.

I've been agonizing over this research proposal for what feels like decades. It's probably been a week or so. I probably should have been agonizing a little bit longer. It's brought me to tears twice, to fits of anger more than I can count and last night had me questioning my place in the world. I declared that research and everything about it was demoralizing, dehumanizing, and I wasn't sure how I could possibly consider myself to be in a place in academia in which this were a defining factor in my education and career.

And then, today, somehow as the remaining faculty and staff trickled out of the building, I hit my stride. The concept of the theoretical framework started to crystallize. I began typing madly about the theory behind human capital and gemeinschaft and geselschaft...and I won't bore you with the rest, but suddenly the links between this research and agricultural economics and familial structure and dynamics started to come together. And I am getting it...it's a shitload harder than I expected, but I am getting it.

I keep going back to this in my head over and over. These are the moments when you know you're onto something. These are the moments, especially after being furiously frustrated to tears, where you really believe all the irritation and annoyance and, frankly, abject poverty is all worth it. I think that this is what people must feel like when they decide they love someone....that even despite or because of all the heartache, despite the things that could or should ultimately be dealbreakers, they stick around because something undefinable makes it worth it.

I can't leave my blog on that saccharine note. Let me tell you about my bike ride yesterday...

It's dusk, I've worked all day, I'm ready to toss this masters program in the nearest dumpster and I'm f-ing hungry, and as anyone who knows me a little bit will tell you, this means that I'm extremely crabby. And I'm riding my bike home down a major thoroughfare in Columbia. It is, mind you, a BIKE ROUTE or so the sign TOLD ME. I'm whizzing along, my eyes watering and nose running with the cold, and I'm packing a messenger bag full of books. Yeah. Makes those hills extra-super fun.

So, anyway, I'm riding along, the impending fajitas and wine like a carrot in front of a donkey. I'm about eight inches from the curb when this jackass in a Mustang rolls up behind me and has the audacity to HONK. MORE THAN ONCE. And follow me slowly for a block.

I, naturally, am completely enraged and sit up on the bike (no hands), hand skyward, flip him the bird for a good block. Yeah. I said to myself at the time, I said "My bike-riding self is saving the earth for the likes of your lazy, fat, gas guzzling, pollution belching self, asshat. I'll take that THANK YOU when you slow way down for that yellow light. Go ahead, slow down, I'll put a size ten dent in your door while I'm at it."

Tis the season.

I'm really making an effort to be more kind and generous. After all, I continued to save the earth for him even though he was rude.

Do's and Don'ts for the Holiday Season

2008-11-25T06:56:00.001-08:00

I'd like to thank my college buddy Kerry for this one:

http://www.sorryimissedyourparty.com

Last week I was talking to the undergrad student I share an office space with. I was talking about a rather touchy discussion I was having with an acquaintance who happens to practice outlandishly passive aggressive behavior. In telling this story, my UG friend started to snicker. I was trying to describe my response to such behavior, and her response was "you bowled her over, didn't you?" Mind you, this girl has known me for a total of like 10 days or something. I thought about getting offended, but she's about right. I'm not much for subtlety. Sensitivity--sometimes. Confrontation avoidance? Maybe. But when cornered, I am nothing if not straightforward.

I have, however, decided that there may be times in which passive-aggressive behavior is necessary. Mostly when dealing with other passive aggressives...they often don't communicate the way the rest of us do, as in, in declarative statements. So, I've been practicing (not really, but it's fun to think about in my head).

This website has been giving me some much needed pointers:

http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/

Note to Faculty and Staff

2008-11-11T14:59:00.000-08:00

Since we're on the subject:

It does NOT make me respect you more when I see you come out of the bathroom stall and NOT wash your hands.

It also makes me never, ever want to shake your hand.

A Note to the College Kids

2008-11-11T13:57:00.000-08:00

I love you, I really do. I remember being you, with a vengeance. Those were good days...Nine times out of ten, I find your complete and total lack of regard for other humans sort of endearing. I don't even roll my eyes when I hear you talk about how "hard" it is to be in class 15 hours a week. You're driving, while abhorrent, is at least predictable in it's ridiculousness: fast, jerky and with lots of braking. And when you're barfing outside of my window at night, I chuckle and go back to sleep.

However, there is one thing I cannot abide, and that is when you smell.

Namely, because the vast majority of you (I do attend an institution not known for it's non-traditional student population, nor for the amount of students working full time while also pursuing their undergraduate degree) have mountains and vistas and oceans of time on your hands. I know, see, because I am you right now, and I'm writing a blog. You can't fool me. You have enough time to go out and get hammered in the middle of the week. You have enough time to shop for eleventy-billion pairs of shorts or sweats with P*I*N*K stenciled on your ass, and matching Uggs for every pair. So I know, I KNOW you have time to take a fucking shower.

There is no excuse, my friends, for the graduate student walking behind you, the grad student who was contentedly marvelling at the picturesque beauty of the scarlet leaves against the periwinkle sky all set to a lovely soundtrack of the bells at Memorial Union tolling the hour, to suddenly turn up her nose and wonder why the world suddenly smelled like dirty socks. There is no excuse for said grad student to, after a block of mulling this over, break into a jog with forty pounds of textbooks and lunch on her back so as to pull ahead of you and you cheese-feet smellin' self. And then, for that grad student to continually look over her shoulder like a paranoid schiz or a thief to confirm that you were indeed still there, lurking like a bad aftertaste, smellin' up the joint.

I was afraid some of your smell might have gotten on me.

And Lord knows, I feel sorry for whoever had to sit next to you in class, because I'm pretty sure you're that one that shows up late and has to wedge your way into the middle of the row in the auditorium, and then there's no escaping your funk.

Word to the wise: there is nothing that says "do me" like a sorority girl who smells like your fourteen year old brother's dirty laundry that's been left under the bed for six months.

Let America Be America Again

2008-11-05T09:29:00.000-08:00

Let America Be America Again
By: Langston Hughes

Let America be America again
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am poor and white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today-O, Pioneers!
I am the man, who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In that Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home-
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plains, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland for the free”.

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung.
The millions who have nothing for our pay-
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again-
The land that never has been yet-
And yet must be-the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine-the poor man’s, Indians, Negro’s, ME-
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me an ugly name you choose-
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath-
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain-
All, all the stretch of these great green states-
And make America again!

Obama-Rama, or The Barackattack

2008-11-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

Okay. I've been very conscious of not getting political on my blog. Firstly, because I try to avoid getting into politics with people and secondly, because I hate to proselytize. But dammit, I freakin' love election day--really, I love any sort of festivity, but this is especially good. It's way, way, way more important than which bunch of guys in pads wins the game.

I, believe it or not, am a liberal. I do, in fact, identify myself as a Democrat. I also am a Barack Obama supporter. If this rankles you, even raises the hairs on the back of your neck in the slightest, I suggest you stop reading now.

So, I could hardly sleep last night I was so excited. I've been waiting for this day for a while now, quietly, calmly, respectfully. And now, I explode. I have donated time, money, and more time to the campaign. And today, I really believe it will all be worth it.

This morning I donned my Rocky Bams t-shirt and headed to the polls at 7AM. I cast my vote, got my sticker and headed to the campaign HQ where it looked like someone had barfed "Change 08" all over the place. It was as I hoped it would be: loud, raucous, enthusiastic. People were pouring in off the streets to offer their help. Well, pouring might be an exaggeration. At 8AM they trickled. But as I drove by the office this afternoon, they were pouring. Matt, my new friend, and I prepared to pound the pavement in North Columbia.

Now, I am from the Columbia area, but I don't really know the area outside of central corridor all that well. Matt, a Columbia native, tells me that this is a "rougher" part of town. We split up to hit most of our houses, and frankly, most of the residents weren't home. Surprise--not at home at 9 on a Tuesday?

At the end of our morning, we split up. I took a page of addresses that appeared to be an apartment complex and he decided to drive to a few outlying addresses farther away before swinging back to pick me up. As he went to drop me off at the dilapidated apartment complex he said "Are you sure you don't want me to come? Are you sure you'll be okay?" I have a bit of experience going door to door in rough neighborhoods, so I was not fazed by the people milling around. In fact, I was excited. I mean, to be completely frank, I was wearing a Barack Obama t-shirt and passing out Barack Obama literature. I was pretty sure no one was going to bother me.

And I have to tell you, oh reader (if you've made it this far). It was actually inspiring, what happened to me in that enclave of dirty, rundown apartments. It was like a party. As soon as people read my t-shirt, they cheered. They chanted. They called to me from across the street "Hey lady! Hey! I voted! I voted for Barack!" Like they knew him. They invited me into their homes. At one point a young man rounded up his friends and called out to me:

"Hey, yo, can you talk to us? Where we go to vote?" I told them, I showed them on the map and told them I'd just walked right by and there was no line.

"Aw, man, I ain't got no ID." One kid said. I told them to take anything: his student ID, any goverment issue ID, even a peice of mail. He perked up. "Awright. Awright, I'll go right now."

I saw a man in his late twenties drive up in a beat up old boat of a car, booming bass shaking the windows. He asked me a few questions, wanted to know if I'd voted. I responded with a few questions of my own. Come to find out, he's the unofficial chauffer for the 'hood. He's "made himself available" to drive anyone to the polls that wants to go, all day long.

"We all gotta do our part, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Um, yeah. I do.

Go Vote. Preferrably Obama.

This is how much I love Barack:

2008-11-03T09:53:00.000-08:00

1. I now own a t-shirt that says Rocky Bams (see previous post).

2. I am more excited about the election than I have been about anything in a very long time...maybe since the Cards won the World Series.

3. I will do nothing but run for Obama tomorrow:

7AM at the polls to vote
8:45 at Change HQ to volunteer
all before a full day of work and class that lasts until 9PM

4. And then I plan to be awake until it's all said and done, the votes have been counted and we have a new president. I might also be very, very drunk, but hey...who said change can't be fun?

So, um, if I can do all that, you can go to the polls. Do it. Make a decision. I don't even care if you vote for the people I don't like...just do it. It's one more way we can start to change things. Columbia is expecting a 70% voter turnout. That is incredible!

GO VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE.

Check out my friend Steve doing the GOTV and election coverage thing.

What Change Looks Like

2008-11-02T15:37:00.001-08:00

Funniest Text: the '08 Installment

2008-10-28T12:04:00.000-07:00

This is what I do when I have an exam, a paper and a presentation due. Drumroll: from the in AND the outbox:

Elvis is not here from what I can tell so I'm safe.

Woohoo! You are officially a white person!

Luck o the Pirish to ye, me maties.

Irish beer makes people want to have sex.

Just taking a quick dump, down in a sec.

My right ovary hurts.

It's like when Carrie moves to France with the Russian artist. Except it's you moving to Missouri with Lucas the accountant.

When i was 21 I was dumba as bread. Now I'm 28 and french bread.

If I had a paper bag I'd be drinking like a homeless person.

I just peed myself over the new Harry Potter trailer.

Let us know when your flip flop gets out of the shop.

Sorry about the bruise I don't remember giving you.

Yes, bring wine, I'll mix it in with the Ben and Jerry's I'm having for lunch.

I'm here and waiting and officially bored. I hate when I'm not late.

Do not put on the tweety bird pants yet, have a drink with us!

This movie sucks balls. They made a movie about a charity case? All those people didn't even know what they were chanting...rudy, rudy...could have been someone's dog. I have to get off this couch.

F*$@ him. And not in the good way.

I think I lost my girl card today. I smell like a barn and an old gay man admired my muscles.

Question: how best should one deal with very well coiffed customer with a serious booger hanging?

How was the radioactive funny farm?

-2197

2008-10-28T11:38:00.001-07:00

I am a woman who enjoys spontaneaity and often operates under the credo of "leap and the net will appear."

I have just done something rash.

Something that has made my palms sweat and my heartrate pick up.

I just deleted my entire inbox. On purpose.

I got tired of trying to organize it...I'd gotten so far behind on the filing that it just became overwhelming. I'm about to do the same thing with my file cabinet at home, and as soon as I put together the funniest text messages of aught eight, I'll be deleting all of those, too.

Purging. Letting go. Making room in my brain for something more.

Follow your nose

2008-10-27T20:28:00.000-07:00

It was a pretty normal Sunday evening filled with good homemade eats and movie viewing, cat cuddling and early bedtimes. Amber and I had cleaned the kitchen, stowed the blankets, started the dishwasher and were heading up the stairs. She crawled into her bed as I began folding the three foot tall pile of laundry atop my own bed.

Once, back in the days of paying for laundry, I thought "when I have an actual laundromat in my apartment I will never, ever, ever again let the laundry pile up so that it becomes my weekend plans. Never again." It is true, I probably do a load every couple of days, so my laundry is consistently clean, however, it is still rarely if ever folded and hung neatly in the closet. I often pile it on my bed just to force myself to wade through it before getting under the covers. And, I inevitably forget that I've done this (I'm very easy to fool, have I told you about my alarm clock trick?), and walk into my room at midnight and am all "Wh-wha? Where the shit did all those clothes come from?"

Anyway, I absentmindedly forgot my book in the living room, as I do every single evening, and went back down the stairs to get it. As soon as I hit the upstairs hall, however, I noticed a very distinct, very disturbing odor.

It smelled very strongly of Chloroseptic.

I thought maybe Amber wasn't feeling well. But as I continued down the stairs and into the living room, smelling this all the while, I thought hmmm...that's some strong-ass throat spray. So I yelled for her to wake up and smell the chemicals with me.

Amber can be a bit alarmist in these situations. Actually, it may be more accurate to say that once I've confirmed that there is something strange afoot, I lose interest. As soon as she took a sniff and said "Smells like a box of Band-aids," I was ready to crawl under the down comforter. No such luck.

We scoured the apartment for something, anything that might be exuding this chemical scent, but to no avail. I hypothesized that the neighbors must be doing something next door...spraying for bugs, trying to cover up a monster fart, making meth... Really, I wondered if it was just our place or if the scent had snuck through the walls. It took Amber absolutely no prompting to go over to the neighbor boys' house at 11:30 on a Sunday evening to investigate.

I adore the boys that live next door. They're cute little college kids doing all the things that twenty-one-year-olds do so well: eat, drink, talk about cars and girls, and occassionally barf on the driveway. Ah, those were the days. I have said this more than once, attempting to not sound totally Mrs. Robinson, they are cute in the best way possible. They've made a rock garden in their front lawn, they have wall decor, they wash their cars twice a week and when they barf on the driveway, they hose it off before I have to leave in the morning.

Anyway, so Amber goes next door and bangs on the door, hoping to get some insight into our chemical problem. After several minutes without a response, a curly-headed skinny kid answers the door, wide eyed and paranoid. And she can barely make out his face, as he's entirely engulfed in blue smoke. When the smoke clears, she sees a large bong on the coffee table and hears Bob Marley playing in the background. When she relayed the story a few minutes later, guffawing, she said "I didn't even know how to ask what I was about to ask, so I just asked it."

"Um, I live next door and, well, I was wondering if you smell anything funny?"

To which the response was blank stares, so she followed up with "I mean, I guess you wouldn't, I mean, considering, it's just that our apartment smells like Band-aids. Or Chloroseptic."

Again with the staring. She turned on her heel and came home, where I spent the better part of the next five minutes doubled over, cackling. And then came the knock on our door.

"Um, we just wanted to check and make sure you all were alright." The college boys, each appropriately attired in cargos, Mizzou sweatshirts and tattered ballcaps.

"Do you smell it?" Amber asked.

"Yeah, something ain't right," one comments. The other sniffing around, says "Did something die in here?"

Oh brother. Wrong kind of smell...and a whole new thing for me to worry about.

"Well, thanks for stopping by, sorry to interrupt your fun," Amber says good naturedly. "Don't worry, we don't care." We are, after all, flaming hippy liberals. I, barely containing myself at this point, saw their eyes light up.

"Oh, yeah? Do ya'll want to smoke a j? We've got one all ready to go."

God bless twenty-one. You can barf on my driveway anytime.

The Tunnel

2008-10-22T05:47:00.000-07:00

Beware: mopey blog ahead, I apologize, sometimes you just have to get the shit out of your system, and at 1:30 AM on a Wednesday, it all seems either really, really good or really, really bad.

I got home this evening later than usual, around 11. It was a rainy, cold, blustery October evening, and it's melancholy in a comforting way--hearing the big giant leaves getting tossed around by the wind and the rain is like a harbinger of the winter fast approaching. I was looking forward to my soft bed, my cozy down comforter, my cat purring (because it inevitably, no matter how bad the day, makes me feel the most loved) and my book. The front porch light is out and my roommate already long asleep and the house dark, making my homecoming a little more lonesome.

The rain started coming down harder, and as I ducked under the eaves, I thought I heard a plaintive little meow. At first I couldn't tell where it was coming from: inside the window next door? Behind my own front door? Had my wiley Grizzle-cat escaped and lost her wits a few steps from the porch again? Just as I was about to walk inside, the cries grew louder and a skinny face poked its head out from under the neighbor's car.

His little voice was hoarse from crying, and when the wind picked up he darted between my legs and under another vehicle, wailing the whole time. Just as I walked closer, he poked his head out again, and as I reached out my hand, he flinched away. I continued to squat next to my neighbor's sedan in the rain, shivering and cooing at this cat that just wouldn't quite come to me.

And I thought the better of it. What was I thinking? What would I do with a strange, wet, angry likely flea and/or disease ridden cat in my little apartment with two fat cats of my own? What was I thinking? Griz would never forgive me.

So, I went inside and got ready for bed as usual.

As I lay under my open window, thinking--as I have been more often than not-- about my dad lying a few miles away in pain so difficult he can't sleep, I hear that cat cry again. Somehow in my exhausted, overtaxed and highly emotional brain of mine, the cat became my dad. Stuck in this fantastic rainstorm he doesn't understand and desperate for the light at the end of the tunnel. And not a moment of rest for the weary.

I can't sleep. I am left with this feeling that I could have done something more. Perhaps because when I think about my dad, his choice and his current situation, I wonder if I'd have the courage. The willpower, or the wherewithal, to keep the end in sight, hoping that the odds are going to work in his favor and things will get better. Because I can see how that might begin to seem as though it's not worth it--and he keeps going.

I don't know if I could.

Cat's still crying.

I wonder if I'll worry more when it stops.

HELP

2008-10-14T09:39:00.001-07:00

If you read this and I haven't already emailed you, and you live in the, you know, region, as in somewhere I can drive quickly and easily...

I am working on an art project and I need your help. Please save magazines for me: I don't really care what they are, but the more pictures the better. And pass this along to anyone you know! I need LOTS and I'm willing to pick up...and I will recycle anything I don't use...and when I finish this monster of an art project, I'll post pictures.

Muchas gracias!

4 Things

2008-10-14T09:14:00.000-07:00

My friend Jonah, courtesy of my friend Kelly, both of whom do the blogging thing, tagged me with the task of writing about four things I hate to admit. I've been thinking about this all morning, and here's the thing:

Um, that's my whole blog--things I would sort of hate to admit. I mean, I told you that I listen to the Backstreet Boys and Britney in the same blog that I admitted to sneering at other people's Amazon wishlists. I have no problem celebrating my clumsiness, my snobbishness, my complete and total ability to stick my foot in my mouth. I'm not ashamed of being poor as shit, completely inept at relationships, and I'm currently working on a blog about my experience with dad-has-cancer-therapy (sounds thrilling, doesn't it?).

So, I'm having some trouble coming up with anything that I'm hesitant to admit (well, that's PG-13 rated). So, here goes:

1. I sit on the toilet seat. Yep. On the rare occasion that I find a gas station bathroom that is too disgusting even for me, I attempt the hover. I firmly believe that this is the reason that my quads are so weak--lack of use. I can't decide if I'm

lazy
have a very, very high gross out quotient
just don't really care

I will say that those of you who squat and piss all over the m-fing seat absolutely infuriate me. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES AND THE REST OF THE WORLD CAN PEE WITHOUT PERFORMING QUAD EXERCISES.

2. I don't really like tomatos that much. I mean, I like all the goodies that come out of them: salsa, red sauce, you know, pizza. But if given the option to have a tomato on my sandwich or not, I'm opting out. Cause, um, I just think they taste a little funny and they're kind of squishy. I understand that I am missing out on one of the small pleasures of summer's bounty, but I have tried and tried and tried and I just can't. And I don't think I'm that picky.

3. I have a horrible nervous habit of picking my eyebrows. I think it stems from the caterpillars that crawled across my forehead in high school, and this nightmare that they might come back by accident, but I always find myself picking at my eyebrows when I don't have something else to do with my hands.

4. I really loved Jackass. And Jackass Two. I can't help myself...I also watched Bam Mageleirgoriam (whatever the f his name is)'s reality show. And while we're on the subject, I also LOVED and could not be torn away from Rock of Love with Bret Michaels (though I don't think I'm alone in that). And I hate the Hills. Everyone I know loves it, either with a true and deep love for LC or sort of ironically "let's study the craziness in human nature" way, both of those completely bore me. I mean, the "characters" on the show probably say no more than 60 words per episode and I'd guess only 10 of those have more than 2 syllables.

Also, since we're clearing the air, I made this atrocity of a lunch today. First, I decided at like 10:20 that i was hungry for lunch, and I wanted mac'n'cheese. I started said mac, and realized we didnt' have any milk. So I experimented: noodles, butter, soy milk (yikes), and sour cream, throw in some shredded cheese...it was not so good.

I'm not tagging anyone, but I bet Brookayla would have a few hi-lar-ious things that she'd "hate" to admit.

Ciao.

My Friends

2008-10-07T19:36:00.001-07:00

19 times.

Very friendly gentleman.

WWF, I mean, Decision 08 Presidental Debates

2008-10-07T18:55:00.000-07:00

First of all, watching the presidential debates with Amber rivals watching a Cards v Cubs game with a bunch of South City hoosiers about seven Busch's deep.

Secondly, I am counting the number of times Sen. McCain says "my friends." I'm up to fourteen. I'll keep you posted.

C, best comment of the night so far: " Sen. McCain, the straight-talk express lost a wheel on that one..."

More to come...

Seriously?

2008-10-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

I am torn between utter disbelief that we made it to the point of allowing this sort of technological advancement and doing a little "thank you techno gods" dance because I can see major advantages...

Gmail 'Mail Goggles' stymie drunk e-mailing

I'm pretty sure if I had Gmail I'd be all over this shit, that's for certain. Maybe not even when I've had too many glasses of vino, but when I'm sleepy or overcaffinated.

God bless the nerds.

Glow

2008-09-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

Here’s the thing about cancer: everything is suddenly monumental. The only way I can describe it, and in fact, the picture I have in my head, is that it’s like you’ve been shrunk—like that horrible Rick Moranis movie I watched in middle school. One minute you’re normal sized, and all the issues, problems and troubles are normal sized, and then suddenly by some cruel twist of fate or genetics or science or something equally baffling, you’re eeney-weeney and something as simple as a sneeze or a word of condolence huge and life altering.

I try to explain this a lot—it’s because everything has changed, everything has blown up, you and your immediate family are ultra sensitive to the motion of every blade of grass, because suddenly the meaning of everything in your world is catywampus. You can’t help yourself. And you know you’ve changed—inside and out—and you are trying desperately to have some control over the new person that is emerging from this catastrophic cocoon.

I can still have some control over my cocoon. But my dad, he doesn’t . They’re sticking needles and pumps and assorted other apparatuses all over him. They inform him that they’re going to pump some odd cocktail of drugs into his body and give him a series of unimaginable scenarios: you’re hair might fall out, you might never be able to sleep enough, you’re throat might close if you drink something cold. Might.

No one likes change. Some of us embrace it or deal with it better than others. Good change is usually a little easier to stomach than bad change but it comes easy to no one. So as my family and I negotiate this world that suddenly seems so HUGE I often think about how we can best navigate with the least damage done. And in the process we dodge these bullets, mostly unintentional (kind of like the sneeze that nearly blows the teensy-tiny kids away in the movie). And here’s the thing: regardless of whether they are oversights or mistakes or misspoken words or simply not what we need when we need it, or how we want or need to be cared for, we have to learn to accept. This monstrosity of a reality that we find ourselves in isn’t going anywhere, and we have to accept it, forgive it, and move on.

What’s hardest to forgive, I think for my dad and me, too, are the things that make us feel even smaller than we’ve already become in this big, bad, awesome world. Because a doctor speaking too fast with too much jargon or a neighbor giving well-meaning yet utterly ridiculous advice, or hearing “I know how you feel” over and over and over makes us shrink a little more, and feel a little bit less like ourselves.

What happens when you already feel so small and vulnerable to the world is that it’s easy to turn black and let that hurt darken and turn you into that troll under the bridge. It causes the anger to fester and grow and eat us from the inside out. The injustices and misdeeds pile up and we continue to feel so small, miniscule in fact, as though suddenly the only thing in our minds and bodies is that big, ugly C. For someone who is a pro at letting it go, internalizing, reflecting and being quick to forgive and forget, this is new and ugly territory. I know how good it feels to forgive someone or something. It makes me feel bigger, better, stronger…like a whole person. It makes me feel good about myself and good about the world. So why can’t we just do it? I continue to struggle to figure out how to navigate in, out, or around this, this, ginormous mess. And I have felt myself withering with the stress of it, day in and day out.
I don’t want that.

We’ve all been wearing yellow since the creation of Healthy Marty. I haven’t seen my dad in anything but yellow for weeks. It was meant to represent hope, life, rebirth. I’ve come to view it slightly differently—it’s my attempt to battle the smallness, the dark. The physical representation of what I want to be: light, happy, glowing, captivating and STRONG.
And while I think that I’d like to go back to being the forgiving/forgetting person I was, the cheerful, live and let live person I’ve known my whole life, I know that’s not possible. I know both in my mind and in my heart that staring at this big, big world changes you.

But it changes for better. Because we’re braver. Because we say what we think now, and we say it louder than ever. Because we know we’re capable of doing it. Of making it. And getting through it. And because we’re not going to let any of those sneezes get in our way—we’re standing up for ourselves. Because we’re loving the world, all of it--strongly, bravely, kindly—even when it’s big and ugly. And that might feel better than just forgiving and forgetting.

I can't believe I ate the whole thing

2008-09-16T13:42:00.000-07:00

You know you live in a college town when...

So the local Chipotle, which is about a half block off campus, was giving out free burritos to MU students today. They told us this at orientation, and I kid you not, it was written in my calendar: "Eat Burrito." So, I walked over there today at about 3, thinking this was likely the least busy time to wait for a free tasty treat.

The line, I do not kid, was around the block. A few months ago, when I had a normal, albiet small, salary coming in, I would have turned my nose up at an hour wait for a free burrito.

But I'm poor.

And I really, really like burritos.

So I waited for an hour with the hordes of snarky twenty-year-old college kids. And I got to the front of the line and ordered my burrito. Now, I like them chock full of goodies. Every veggie you can imagine, and any condiment in arms reach, slap it on there. I like all of them. This kid working the counter is struggling to roll this monstrosity into something that vaguely resembles a burrito, and he's obviously had a hell of a day. He looks at me.

"Were you planning on eating this?"

"Mmmm-mmm," I reply, smiling.

"It's not going to work."

"Oh, I'll get a fork, don't worry."

"No, you're past the point of fork. This is going to taste like shit."

What is one to do when the burrito kid tells you your food looks like shit?

Smile, take the burrito and leave him to seven more hours of snarky college kids.

I'm very, very full.

A moment of silence

2008-09-14T06:46:00.001-07:00

Just a moment for David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide yesterday. I'm shocked and dismayed that such a talented, young writer and teacher has left the planet.

http://www.davidfosterwallace.com/

I didn't love (or even like) a lot of what he wrote, but it cannot be debated that the man was good, even great at what he did.

If I had whiskey, I'd have one for him tonight.

Why spitting on a public street should be punishable by caning

2008-09-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

I'd just like to take a moment, before I launch into a totally pathetic and whiny story to say that I am aware that there are more important things in this world than my dignity. I'm aware.

But this is just funny.

So, I wake up this morning, a Thursday, which happens to be my only day without class or work, gung-ho to work on my statistics homework. Yes, I said it, I was excited about statistics. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I'd been putting off said homework until I could devote a lengthy amount of time and I was excited about the possibility of a whole day in front of me with no obligations. Anyway, after the obligatory email/news roundup/celebrity gossip/social networking checks, I dove in.

And then very quickly discovered that I don't know how to swim. Moreover, it's as if I'm trying to swim while missing more than one necessary appendage.

Um, for those of you who find excel to be a swift and easy program with which to work, I say damn you to hell.

I hate statistics.

So, after determining that I hate statistics and that I am never going to make it through this abomination of a class, I decide to walk to school. I get more done there, and I wanted to dive into some research material...it's only about 3 miles, and it was a nice day.

So I thought. Until I get about halfway there and realize that I've sweated entirely through my shirt. When I get to my building, I am too embarrassed to go in the front entrance because I am literally glistening with sweat (glisten is a good word, isn't it?), so I sneak in the back, sneak into my office and lock the door.

Whereupon I immediately crank the AC, take off my shirt and roll up my pants as far as they'd go. And I sat like this, attempting to use the equation editor in that Abomination of a Database Program, for like two hours. Because I HATE not knowing how to do something.

I get nowhere, naturally, and at 4 PM, head out to meet my mother for a happy hour drink. It has begun to rain, naturally, and I'm in a hurry. As I'm rushing down the hall, my flip flop catches on a stair and I go flying into the wall while my shoe ricochets off the wall behind me. I am scrambling to recuperate before anyone finds me planted in the linoleum, and discover that my shoe is in fact broken.

Which means I'm relegated to walking across campus in the rain with no shoe on.

Gross, disgusting, I need to take a bath.

This is why you should not spit on the street.

What I'm Learning

2008-09-09T09:54:00.000-07:00

1. "The proportion of beer and spirits consumd in public places [in America] has decline from about 90 percent of the total in the late 1940's to aout 30 percent today." --The Problem of Place in America, Oldenberg.

2. "True friends don't care what's in your piggy bank." --my raisin box from lunch.

3. I should never have given away all those hoodies before I moved from Seattle. I miss them.

4. In viewing the statistical data regarding the average women's height and based upon the 68-95-99.7% rule for normal distributions, I am an outlier.

5. The more things change (i.e., moves across the country, change in student status, sick pops, blah, blah, blah) the more things stay the same:

How many of us have seen that expression before?

Officially wearing the gear!

Good ju-ju

2008-08-05T06:03:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago my dad went to the doctor for a rather minor surgical procedure. He went in with enlarged lymph nodes and came out with a diagnosis that none of us can confidently say or spell, but uses that big, ugly C-word.

Over the last few months, he’s been markedly un-dad-like. Upon returning to MO, I noticed that he moved slower and less confidently. He’s tired. A lot. We attributed these changes to a lot of vague states—age/hard work/stress. We assured ourselves that things would be different when he slowed down/took a vacation. And yet, we were shocked to hear this vowel laden word, these seemingly foreign phrases sandwiching one that hurt our ears. It sounds like a curse word. Because everyone makes the same face when you say it.

Emotions and crises are funny things. No matter how you know yourself, they are unpredictable, thereby impossible to prepare for. Dad’s private nature and stubborn pride insisted on downplaying the situation. My very reactionary younger sister was markedly calm and action-oriented. My mom put on her big-girl pants and began directing traffic in her gentle, easy way.

I, woman of inexhaustible capacity to socialize and high energy reserves, found myself in a hole surrounded by my books, TV on DVD, and a half empty bottle of wine. As the shock wore off, the idea of seeing anyone, much less attempting something that might resemble a conversation seemed impossible. When I wasn’t doing pointless research on the internet, I was exercising my remote control operating muscles. I read two books in four days. I left the house to feed and run, no matter what the weather, and thank god for that. If my God-given appetite had disappeared, I am certain someone might have considered having me committed.

This, I stress, is uncharacteristic behavior. Despite my quiet summer, I still have a difficult time going more than a few hours without some sort of human contact. The last time I was this reclusive might have been when I was in utero. But day after day, I’d try to figure out how to say it, and the only thing I could physically say was “the doctors found cancer.”

A friend emailed my parents testifying to the powers of positive thinking. Everyone we’ve spoken to stresses the concept in some fashion, whether they endorse prayer or visualization or “keeping your spirits up” or “having a sense of humor.” In this email, though, there is a direct correlation between positivity and the chemical make up of your body.

And so I wonder, how do you find the balance between optimism and truthfulness? How do you feel sad and betrayed and still hopeful? How do you honor your hurt feelings or distrust and still hope for the best? How do you feel like shit and frame it in an affirmative way? “I feel as though my bones are trying to grow out of my skin, and it feels great!” I’ve spent the greater part of the last four years learning to embrace how I feel, to own it and let those feelings empower me. I’ve found the saddest, angriest, most hurtful moments to ultimately be the most triumphant. How do you allow yourself to feel what you feel and still be a better person for it?

I woke up one morning a few days ago, and I got dressed. I washed my face, and as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, I shuddered. My sunshine-browned face was gray and pale, and there were purple smudges under my eyes. But worse was the blankness that my eyes held. I looked like a drug-addicted creature of the night. I looked like Golem. I practiced smiling in front of the mirror until it started to reflect in my eyes. I ate a healthy breakfast and said good morning to my roommate and went back out to work in the sun (thank God for the sun).

I believe in the power of honesty.

To be honest, I don’t want to brainstorm solutions. I don’t want to discuss options or think too hard about what it all means. I don’t want to play the cause and effect game or look for clues we missed. I don’t even really want to hear about all the other people, famous or otherwise who have: had it, beat it, lived with it, have it. And I definitely don’t want to hear about the people it killed. I don’t want to stop eating peanut butter or cheese or red meat.

What I want is to laugh and to be hugged without asking for it. I want to hear a completely inappropriate joke and to hear the really good “I caught one thiiiis big” stories. I want to listen to loud music too loud. I want to marvel at the beauty of the white fence row against the green hills and purple twilight all the while snickering about the overwhelming smell of pig shit (god love Missouri). I want to run because it makes me feel bigger, better and stronger with every step, not because it will ensure I don’t find an incurable disease when I’m fifty-five.

My mom drew a picture she calls Healthy Marty. It’s an outline of him with a big, happy red heart and a smile, and all filled with sunshiny-y yellow. First she made copies for the family to post on our refrigerators. Then the people she works with asked to each have one to put in their offices. She took them to Dad’s doctors, all of whom smiled and nodded. She sent them to his friends. My sister sent it to her friends, and her boss at the media company where she works insisted on printing a stack and sending them overnight to us to keep the momentum up.

Sunday, mom and I hung 50 Healthy Marty drawings all over the backyard, the house, the shop and the garden like a protective shield around him. It was like decorating for Christmas. We giggled like kids as he came out of the house and looked around. He shushed us at first, and then joined in. We sat out in the heavy heat of Missouri August and looked at the Healthy Marty’s dancing in the wind. He thought it was so funny he taped one to his behind, like a nice version of the “kick me” sign. The whole afternoon felt strangely celebratory and cathartic.

Tonight, I am spent. I am ready for a good night’s sleep. And I can say it now:

My dad has cancer.

So far, we're still laughing.

Why Cyclists Wear Helmets

2008-07-21T05:43:00.001-07:00

I wrote a blog a few weeks ago ruminating on where the tongue in cheek name for this blog came from. Someone asked, I responded with a very nicely worded description of how my life resembles the sentiment--I find myself in embarrassing/awkward/unbelievable situations, and find my way out.

Last week I got a nice little reminder that truly, there is more to this falls with grace thing. As in, I also physically fall A LOT.

When you're a kid, summer is just one big accident waiting to happen. No school, unsupervised neighborhood shenanigans, hot weather, fewer clothes, and multiple recreational activities utilizing wheels add up to lots of skinned knees and elbows.

Most people grow out of that in, oh, middle school. Not me. Just about every summer, I somehow find myself nursing some ridiculous wound, usually not amounting to more than a week or so of band-aids, but still less than pleasant. There was the rollerblading incidents (yes, there were more than one, and I've since sold those evil torture devices), the breaking the foot while dancing incident, the falling down the bluff incident...I can't even remember them all.

So, last week I had Tuesday off, and despite the July in Missouri temperatures, I decide to take the bike out for a ride. I've inherited this piece of equipment from my dad, who had it all checked out, tires replaced, etc., etc., before I arrived. Evidently, someone overlooked something.

My plan is to ride the MKT Trail to the Katy Trail (both are walking-biking trails, the Katy stretching across the state), and out to a little town about 12 or so miles outside of Columbia. I'd have my lunch, read my book, cool down, and ride back. Good plan for a sunny Tuesday afternoon.

I had just passed the 17 person town of Mcbaine when I found the gears to be, well, misfiring. Without boring you with the details, the damn bike wouldn't stay in gear. I spent fifteen minutes stopped, trying to adjust or readjust--I don't know, actually, anything that would make it work. I was about ten feet from the Missouri River, and the mosquitoes were having a field day on my elbows and shoulders, and I finally gave up. The bike would only stay on the smallest gear (uhg), thereby creating a very long, annoying 10 miles back home.

So, I turn around. And, impatient as I am, I get about twenty feet before I decide that perhaps I can hold the shifter in place with my thumb so that I stay in a higher gear as I ride. I think the worst I'm asking for is a hand cramp. I get maybe a hundred yards (at top speed, mind you) before the whole shifter explodes, and pieces of the bike start popping off like popcorn. It was like a cartoon, the bike is rapidly deconstructing, I'm trying to keep my balance, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I am launched into the air.

My foot was still stuck in, well, something. I would assume the pedals, but who the hell knows. What I do know is that I skittered across the rocky trail like a rock skipping the surface of lake water. And then, I laid there, shaking.

My right side gave me a whole new appreciation for the term "bloody pulp." I was disgusting. And, given that I'm not so good with blood to begin with, I'm starting to get woozy. When I looked down at my knee and saw goo and rocks and blech, and my white tank top spotted in bright red.

It's Tuesday afternoon. I'm ten miles from Columbia. My bike doesn't work. What's a girl to do?

Start walking.

And, thank my lucky stars that God invented the cell phone. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in Mcbaine with my head between my legs trying not to barf and waiting for my oh-so-kind roommate to arrive with a car to take me home. I didn't do a lot of thinking, but I did resolve 1) to invest in a helmet and 2) that I must have done something terrible in a past life to continually, as a nearly 29 year old, have these ridiculous accidents.

I'm sorry for whatever I did, please, please let me keep the rest of my skin.

Nothing a little vino and prescription pain killers can't fix.

Ingenuity and Rural Missouri

2008-07-12T15:30:00.000-07:00

I have some catching up to do. I have been AWOL. What with the work and the moving and the visiting, it’s been a full summer so far. But that’s no excuse… I have so many things swirling around and a free day of reading and writing, so get ready for new reading material.

I’ve been saving this one up.

My first week back in Missouri was spent living in my parents basement. This prompted this conversation, over and over, with my mother:

“I’m a single, divorced twenty-nine year-old woman living off my unemployment with my cat in your basement. Are you so proud of me right now?”

“Shut up, Sarah.”

“When you run into people you haven’t seen in a while and they ask what I’m doing, what do you tell them?”

“Enough.”

Ah, it’s funny because it was true for about a week.

Since my return, I keep trying to pontificate about small towns, the simplicity (both a pro and a con) of the lifestyle. I love that people always wave. No matter what, if you wave, they wave back. I love that every child has 4,235 parents looking out for them at any given moment. But this is starting to sound like the rough outline of my graduate school admissions essay. I’ll save that entertainment for another blog altogether, but it should be noted that this illustrates the beauty of the hamlet. And reader beware: I have many thoughts, stories and examples and will likely keep espousing this move I’ve made.

That first Thursday, my mother and I decided to meet for a beer after work (her work, not mine). So, we met at the nearest town to my parents place, Rocheport, MO, home to about 250 people and best known for the Katy Trail. Rocheport is about 15 minutes west of Columbia, and has managed to graduate from blue-collar river town to a cute “getaway” hamlet on the river, complete with wineries, a couple of B&B’s, a restaurant or two and bike rental shops.

Evidently, Thursday is regular’s night at the Rocheport General Store, which is exactly that, right on the main drag. The only drag, really. Beer, wine, a bit of nosh, some sundries, occasional bands. You know, generally, a fun place to be. The regulars are the townies, some of whom have lived in or around town their whole lives. They pull tables and chairs out onto the sidewalks, they drink Miller and Bud Light like it’s a race to the end of the keg. Kids write on the sidewalk with chalk, dogs walk from person to person looking for love. The more beers consumed, the louder the din gets. They holler at folks they know (which is everyone) as they drive down the street. When the mayor, a thirty-something kayaking buff turned village-politician, and his wife and kids show up for ice cream, they heckle him good naturedly.

My mom and I follow suit with the chairs and tables. My parents aren’t quite locals, having officially moved to town just a few years ago. However, the fact that they raised their children just down river in Boonville grandfathers them in. There’s this guy, Dean. He’s the guy who takes care of Rocheport. I would call him a maintenance man, but I don’t think that’s quite descriptive enough. He mows, he takes care of big issues, works with the utility companies, but also, the little old ladies in town know that they can call him and he’ll come help them out.

Dean recognized my mother and came over to chat. He is a slight man with gray hair, a deeply lined, suntanned face, but youthful eyes and a bright smile. He spoke deliberately, with a soft voice. And, just to complete the picture, he wore a tie-dyed t-shirt and Hammer pants. The dog, not his, stayed close by. Neville, the kid, also not his, hung on him, poking his face and nudging him as if they were related. A good egg, as they say.

“What’s up with the cop car that always parked, empty on the hill?” My mother asked.

Dean grinned for a moment, pausing for effect. It was obvious a story was coming.

“You know Rocheport doesn’t have a police department,” He began.

Rocheport does not have a police department. They depend strictly on the county sherriff’s department, but as my dad often will say, to traverse the distance across the county would take at least thirty minutes, people often just peaceably deal with the law in their own way. About a year ago, Rocheport citizens began to complain that people were driving down the main drag to fast—exceeding the 25 mph speed limit. Because the town is ridiculously small, they were sure that those guilty of speeding were the out-of-towners. Depending on the highway patrol or the sheriffs department to combat the speeding issue was ludicrous. They contemplated putting in speed bumps, but everyone pooh-poohed that idea.

The creative solution they came up with was this: purchase an old City of Columbia police car. Remove City of Columbia seal. Stencil “City of Rocheport” on side of car. Strategically park dummy cop car on main drag, cocked as if ready to take off at any point. Move it every day or so to throw people off the scent. Speeding issue averted.

Just take a second, please, to let that sink in…how awesome is that? I love when people take the law into their own hands...and what better way to deal with a pesky issue like this one. Think about that…could Tower Grove South really take in upon themselves to dummy up a cop car to combat speeding, or burglary or car theft? Not a chance.

If that isn’t amusing enough, the story gets better. There are a handful of people that have keys to the cop car. The mayor, Dean and another dude (and I don’t know what he did to deserve a copy of the keys). It seems that there may need to be a check-in and out system for the car, because those with the keys often utilize the car for non-speed reduction related issues.

For example, we offered to buy Dean a beer. He thanked us and said “I wish I could, but since my truck transmission is on the fritz, I’m driving the cop car. Gotta be in decent shape to drive if I’m gonna drive that thing.” Mind you, Rocheport is about ten blocks by ten blocks. He looked up, serendipitously at just that moment to see someone driving away in the cop car.

“Dammit. There’s goes my ride. I guess I will have that beer now.”

He told stories about tooling around Columbia in that thing eating cookies and drinking milk out of the jug while the soccer moms in their SUV’s stared. He antagonized bad drivers, tailgating, until he was told by his cohort that “you can’t do that when you’re driving this thing, Dean.”

Seems to me that you can do whatever you want when you drive one of those black and white Crown Vics.

God love the small town and good old fashioned ingenuity.

2008-06-20T16:29:00.000-07:00

I really hate it when people spend too much time talking about their dreams. It's annoying. Great, so you had some ethereal dream about sticking a bamboo stick in your ear. Maybe it means stop eating Chinese food.

In fairness, I do believe that dreams are often trying to tell you something, I just don't always want to be the person that deciphers that for you.

Well, this dream is too good not to share.

I had a dream involving Valentines Day. A big day with lots of love, or at least the physical representation of such. I had a dream that my love (who, incidentally, was a kid I went to grade school with and haven't thought of in years...maybe I should look him up) sent me, like all the other girls, a gift on the big VDay. Other girls got flowers, or the more coveted box of chocolates.

I however, opened my heart-shaped (yes, heart shaped) box and found...spaghetti and meatballs.

Oh, there is a God. And a possibility of true love....it does exist somewhere out there. My dreams tell me so.

Maybe I live in a black hole

2008-06-19T14:02:00.001-07:00

Someone inquired about the name of my blog (which is also the name of my email) yesterday. Interesting name, what's the blog about? I hesitated, because how do you coherently summarize that which is really nothing more than pathetic, self-centered ramblings about things such as paperdolls and spying on people via their cd collections? So, I said, "it's about how I continually fall on my face, again and again, and gracefully find a way to laugh." Which is probably the most accurate and eloquent (puts a shine on that rose, eh?) way to describe this pastime-o-mine.

To that end, let me tell you about my latest misadventures.

But before I do, I have been ruminating about something. I think Missouri is star-crossed. For me anyway. I love it here, I am so glad to be back...I am not going to ramble on about that...but something happens to me in this Show-Me State. Bad things happen here that don't happen anywhere else. I feel as though I didn't get into nearly as much trouble--Scoff List notwithstanding--as I do in the confines of these state lines. Maybe I'm wrong.

As of late, though, my friend Lucas (also my co-pilot on this long trek across the country), has taken to shaking his head at me. This means one thing, a thing that goes without saying. "Only you..." As in, only I have this sort of ridiculous luck. It's like Murphy's Law, but with a silver lining. Sarah Law. Let me give you some examples:

1. driving across the country in Pete the Pensky truck with car trailer as gas prices skyrocket (not the greatest example, as a lot of people are grumbling about this, not just me).

2. Realizing upon attempting to open a bank account that my drivers license has been invalid for the last 10 months. Because I owe the state $12.50.

Corollary to that statement: not only do I owe them $12, I have to drive to Jefferson City to pay them so that I can continue about my banking business.
One more: apparently not only do I owe the state, but I inadvertently wrote them a bad check. Are you kidding? Who the hell am I? This all goes back to the douchebag that stole my wallet almost a year ago...burn in hell.

3. Being given $200 in gas cards to drive across country, only to discover that not only is this particular gas station non-existent west of Missouri state lines, but when I finally do hit one up, the gas cards malfunction and I have to have them mail me more.

4. I am given a job to do at my new employer, the Garden Center. I am to water plants. The manager says to me "this is a pretty easy job, though there have been a few people over the years that we've had to politely suggest they tender their resignations because they couldn't get it right." Whatev, man, it's watering. I think this until I fall ass-first into the front table of daisies while trying to yank the firehose that I'm supposed to be using.

Ok. Enough. Let me tell you about today's greatest adventure: boobs. Yes, I'm going to tell you all about them, I have no shame.

I went to the dreaded Columbia Mall today to look for a shower curtain. Along the way I tried on some things, just cause. Not really in the market to spend any money, however. Yet, I stroll by the Victoria's Secret big-sale-o-the-year. I wander in...I am definitely not in the market for a $50 undergarment, but I decide to peruse anyway. I'm floored by the amount of bras in my size. Floored!

Here's the thing: I have been blessed with very long legs, long arms, big feet...in short, I never, ever find anything on the sale rack because I need LOOONG and EXTRA LONG and clodhoppers. I'm a reasonably normal size, but I need long. I measure my inseam with a yard stick. The one thing that (this might, actually, be another Sarah's Law thing--or God just being mean) I am not blessed with are big boobs. Not even average sized boobs. They're nothing to sneeze at, but they didn't call me Kansas in high school for nothing. Since then, I like to think I've gotten pretty good at doing them up right, but then...today happened.

I tried on bras. And I was simultaneously stunned and embarrassed by what I have been doing to the girls for so long. I did it, I spent the money on the bra, it's amazing. It's like a piece of equipment, not just an undergarment. I stood in the dressing room, texting my girl friends with tears in my eyes "OMG, I have died and gone to underwear heaven. I've found the most amazing piece of equipment...." I am not sharing the rest as it's slightly more R rated. I couldn't wait to get home, where I promptly spent my afternoon clad in new undergarments, mainly because they are now the nicest thing I own.

I suddenly understand what all these women have been talking about--good bras. I always assumed that little boobs don't need all the bells and whistles. I've changed my tune--little boobs deserve nice things too.

Maybe what it's really about is buying something nice, as opposed to something on the sale rack. Maybe I'm bucking the trend.

And, once again, Sarah's Law: the nicest thing I own is to be viewed by no one but me. Beware, roomie...

On the Road Again: A Photo Blog

2008-06-10T08:22:00.000-07:00

I am officially back in MO, settled into the new house. I have a bajillion stories and thoughts about leaving, traveling, a career in over the road trucking, arriving, family, friends, the Midwest, small towns, and humidity, but for now, I'll give you the visuals...more picks at the flickr if you're interested.

Team Boylston represented in paperdolls.

Team Boylston at the going away party.

Team Boonslick the day after.

I am loading.
Team Boylston along for the ride.

The rig.
TB driving through Oregon.
TB on the coast in Cali.

The statue talks.

TB vs. the big trees.
Welcome to Chester.
The biggest attraction in Chester, CA.

We drove through the biggest little city, and the rest of Nevada. Then:

The Bonneville Salt Flats. It was windy. We were tired.

Good advice.

Both members of Team Boonslick made it alive. And smiling.

Happy Birthday to Lucas.

Evidently we are still young enough for shots.

Evidently shots still lead to this.

The trip ended the next day after a long day of Kansas...and I'm home.

More to come.

Cinco Cervesas

2008-05-05T17:10:00.000-07:00

It’s a good day, this Cinco de Mayo. It’s four thirty in the afternoon and I am at happy hour. I find that I sound less like a drunk when I refer to my beer drinking accompanied by my computer, my book and my cat at four thirty in the afternoon as happy hour. After all, I’m happy, and it’s the four o’clock hour…place and company be damned.

You may ask “why, Sarah, are you sitting on your back porch in fleece drinking bad beer on a Monday afternoon when you would normally be learning some soccer to the kiddos?”

Well, let me tell you:

It has come to my employer’s attention (via me) that I will be leaving to attend graduate school in the very near future.
Subsequently, it has come to my attention that because of a significant budget shortfall, my employer will be cutting staff positions.
1+2=3, or Sarah=impending joblessness.
This is likely to happen very quickly, as in tomorrow. Hence why I found it exceedingly important to clean out my closet. So important, in fact, that I need to call in to work to do so.
As this has come to my attention, it has also dawned on me that Sarah-job=poor or Sarah must leave Seattle, stat. This doesn’t make Sarah happy, not to mention the three people that she lives with.
However, despite extensive research on U-Haul truck and trailer options, long distance waitressing job searches, and trolling craigslist.com for apartments, I have come to resemble one of those really annoying Chihuahuas that bark and run in circles for no apparent reason.

This, my friends, is why I sit with a beer in hand and another lined up to take the place of the empty when the time comes. Because I am soon jobless, homeless and, well, a nomad. God, life is grand.

Mizzou or bust, people.

Ole~

Embarassingly Self Centered

2008-04-09T11:57:00.001-07:00

I just did something terribly, embarassingly self-centered.

I was surfing the web, and was looking at a profile for a woman who I do not really know very well. She had a link to her Amazon wishlist. Well, frankly, I liken the wishlist or goodreads booklist to a virtual version of spying. When I go to anyone's house, anyone, whether I'm house-sitting, baby-sitting, party-hopping, having dinner or having a sleepover, the first thing I do is look at their bookshelf/cd collection. It would be nice if I could truthfully say that I was just curious, but in truth I am doing what everyone else wants to do: make sweeping judgements about one's character based upon their tastes in music and reading material.

Here's why. With regards to books, you can tell a couple of things. You can tell what they like to read vs. what they want people to think they like to read. For example, if you looked at my bookshelf, you'd see more than a handful of heady Nobel Prize winners coupled with more than an handful of "classics" whose spines have never been cracked. They were either gifts or books that I bought as an afterthought, thinking "Every self respecting writer and reader should read Madam Bovary." Mmmhmmm. That was six years ago. Then, you see the collection of cotton candy reads, sometimes shoved on the bottom of the bookshelf. Sometimes it's true crime novels, chick lit or romance novels. For me, it's a weird assortment of children's literature, angst-ridden, self-deprecating and yet completely ego-maniacal collections of essays (think Chuck Klosterman or David Foster Wallace) and The Nanny Diaries. All of which I will defend to my grave. And then, somewhere, sometimes in a different room completely, a collection of books that have the obvious yellow band declaring "used" or "I came from a University Bookstore." What is more fun than learning that the accountant who is friends with the guy on your soccer team studied The Psychology of Deviant Behavior in college?

Music is similar. Unfortunately, with the advent of Itunes and music piracy, it's harder to make snap judgements based upon a CD collection. For example, if you looked at my actual CD's you'd make the assumption that I really enjoy whiny, self-righteous chick music, "alt-country" and old school rock. Which is true. I went through my Ani DiFranco phase. I still dig on some Wilco. And every self respecting high school pothead had to own a little assortment of Jimi/Doors/Zepplin. If you looked at, for example, the B section of my Zune (because I'm not one of you Mac worshippers) you'd find the following:

Backstreet Boys (yeah, I like it that way. suck it.)
Band of Horses
Barenaked Ladies
The Beach Boys
The Beatles
Beck
Beth Orton (whom I don't even really like that much)
Beyonce (check up on it, yo)
the Blue Scholars (NW hip hop, whoda thunk it)
Bonnie Raitt (I used to despise, but then I realized that it's just that one song, the one about talking about people, that I don't like)
Boyz II Men
Brad Paisley (um, Ticks. That's all I have to say)
Bruce Springsteen
Big Head Todd and the Monsters
Britney Spears (she rules my running playlist)

It's much easier to hide our idiosyncratic tastes with these newfangled electronic devices. Ten years ago you had to hide your Britney and Boyz II Men under your bed.

Anyway. So, the wishlist is the electronic version of snooping through someone's CD's. So, I click on this unsuspecting young woman's wishlist link, and start looking through it. Making judgements. Raising my eyebrows. Sneering. I think I even muttered "that's a bit of a pretentious choice, don't you think?" under my breath.

However, despite my judgments, I concluded that I would ultimately really like to be this young woman's friend, after all, some of those books sound interesting, if a little high-falutin'.

And then I realize, that by some glitch in the system, I am actually viewing my own wishlist. I know this because it says "Welcome, Sarah Ratermann!" at the top of the page.

I am, officially, a dolt.

If you would like to pass further judgment (if the B's from my Zune--and the fact that I do not own an ipod--aren't enough), here's my wishlist. I won't even make you google it.

Views from the other side

2008-04-09T09:51:00.001-07:00

One of the most truly thought-provoking blogs I've read in a while, though it was probably unintentional by the author...be sure to check out the follow up post as well.

www.thoughtleader.com

Greatest News Ever

2008-04-03T09:56:00.000-07:00

I love the fact that I am now old enough to actually view reunion tours the second time around. I mean, not that I saw the Spice Girls when they were kickin' it in the 90's, but I certainly could have. Up until very recently, I usually catch these big time acts the second time around...when they're kitchy, not when the buzz was vibrant and authentic and contagious.

This though, this NKOTB reunion, it is the mother of all reunions. I mean, not quite as good as, say, The Police or, uh, I dunno, some other really great band, or maybe Blind Melon (who is touring with a new lead singer, I hear), but still, the kitch factor and potential for true, well rounded entertainment complete with light shows and sing-a-longs, well, this is where it's at, folks. I mean, they're the precursor to N'Sync and Backstreet...it's funny how the pendulum swings...everyone loved the New Kids, and then suddenly there was this horrible backlash of hatred. Suddenly not only was it not okay to like them, you could be ostracized from every skating party for the 90-91 school year.

Whatever, cool or no, I'm way, way more excited about this than the Spice Girls:

Boy band New Kids on the Block to reunite

Group sold 70 million albums in 80s; new album and tour planned

	The New Kids On The Block, from left to right, Joey McIntyre, Jonathan Knight, Donnie Wahlberg, Jordan Knight and Danny Wood. After more than a decade, the platinum-selling group has reunited for a new album and world tour. View related photos
Olaf Heine / AP file

BOSTON - They may be pushing 40, but the New Kids are returning to the block.

The boy band New Kids on the Block, which sold 70 million albums in the 1980s and early ’90s, has reunited and plans to release a new album and go on tour. The reunion comes 20 years after the release of the group’s multiplatinum album, “Hanging Tough.”

“The fan response to this has been incredible,” band member Donnie Wahlberg told the Boston Herald.

Wahlberg said he was persuaded to get back together with his former bandmates — Joey McIntyre, brothers Jordan and Jonathan Knight and Danny Wood — when they decided to record new music. Wahlberg said he wrote 80 percent of the new material with McIntyre and Jordan Knight.

“I had no interest going out on a nostalgia tour and singing the same material,” said Wahlberg, 38.

But he added: “We absolutely will do the old songs for sure.”

Producer Maurice Starr formed the group in Boston in the 1980s, hoping to recreate the success he had with another teen group from Boston, New Edition.

At the height of their popularity, New Kids sold out world tours, marketed millions of dollars in merchandise and spawned a Saturday morning cartoon.

The group disbanded in 1994. Wahlberg has acted on television and in movies, while Jordan Knight, McIntyre and Wood released solo albums. Jonathan Knight became a real estate developer.

Um, ok. A real estate developer? I can't believe Jonathan Knight, who was certainly the least easy on the eyes, and most ape-like in his stage presence, is now a real estate developer. Awww. Way to truly sell out to the man.

As if NKOTB wasn't working for the man back in the day.

I think Donnie is tired of being upstaged by his younger, tougher and possibly more well-endowed brother. This is his last ditch attempt to regain some semblance of a career before hitting the big 4-0 and allowing himself to go down a path of booze, cigarettes, gambling and cheap women. As so many washed up stars do.

Whatever the motivation, money, fame, or simply the desire to rekindle an old relationship (speaking of, isn't Jordan gay? Or is it Joey? Wasn't he on Dancing with the Stars?) with former boy banders, I will be waiting on the edge of my seat.

Funny Thing Happened On the Way to School

2008-04-02T10:27:00.001-07:00

So, many of you know that I have recently applied to graduate school. I have a long, drawn out and ultimately completely ridiculous story about the application process. Bear with me, the results are not only triumphant, but completely worth it in the long run.

1. I decide to apply to graduate school. This requires taking GRE. I spend hours upon hours upon hours studying basic math skills and vocabulary. I also sign up for the test that happens not first thing in the morning, as one might expect, but at 4:00 in the afternoon, thinking that I'd be more alert and at my best. WRONG. I would not recommend this to anyone...rather, I was completely nervous and highly caffeinated. While I did fairly well, I didn't do nearly as well as I'd expected from my stints with the practice tests.

2. Take the advice of my friend Tho, the rocketologist (which I use as code for what he’s really doing…getting his PhD in electrical engineering and robotics): apply for PhD program, get full funding=education for free. I consider, decide this sounds like a great idea.

3. Begin application procedure. Ask former professors and employers for letters of recommendation.

4. Talk to grad school faculty over Christmas break. Express interest in grad program, specifically the PhD program. I am told, gently, that only in very rare circumstances do they accept candidates straight into the PhD program. It is advisable to instead start with getting the masters degree, and then continue if applicable. Funding for masters level students is less likely, and the program only accepts 10 students per year. Huh. I listen to all of this and sort of shrug “eh, ok. You win some, you lose some.” However, program is sounding more and more interesting, faculty are extremely pleasant and engaging, overall I’m totally wooed.

5. At this point, I reluctantly conclude that I will apply for graduate program, but will only be able to attend if I’m able to go for free. Unlikely, yes. However, the Pollyanna that I am decides that I will not even consider the alternative, at this juncture, my plan for the years of 2008-2010 are to be a full time student, with a very unlikely possibility of continuing. I will also likely win the lottery and marry Matthew McConaughey.

6. After eight weeks of waiting to hear back, I conclude that I am destined to a long life of being someone’s assistant, and to the bleak future of apartment living and sub-compact car driving. That, and I’ll never even be able to afford a dog, much less a family or a vacation.

7. While in the midst of a horrible bout of 103 degree fever, fever in which I thought my brain was slowly roasting away, I read my email and discover that, according to the department chair, I have in fact been accepted into the grad program!

8. One week later, I learn that I’ve been granted funding! Free school! Yay!

9. Here it is. The twist. I am on my way out for a run and I stop to check the mail. I see a nice, skinny envelope from the University of MO. Yay. My acceptance letter, I think. I open it, read the first line and burst out laughing. It says Congratulations! We’re very pleased to accept you into the Rural Sociology PhD program at the University of MO. Say what?

Ok. Here’s the thing. Awesome. I’m totally pleased with just being accepted into the masters program, doubly pleased that it will be free. My Plan B was to get my masters, work a couple years, and then get the PhD (if so desired) and teach. Because hey, that’s a cool deal. Now, looking down the line at the next seven years, I see school, research, teaching…and, frankly, seven years of a job and funding and very little chance of getting fired. Bring on the recession!

All that said, who in the hell ACCIDENTALLY gets admitted to a PhD program???

You’re stuck with me now, suckers!

Funny, yet frighteningly true

2008-03-12T13:43:00.000-07:00

In fact, so funny that I am debating retiring from the blog on the whole...

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com

Good Rule of Thumb: Crack, regardless of type, is always Whack

2008-02-20T14:46:00.000-08:00

I don't really have a topic about which to write a cohesive blog...however, I have a long list of funny things that have happened to me in the last few days/weeks. And I'm bored, at work, it's sunny outside and not only am I stuck in this office like a mental patient, it's winter break week in Seattle, so all of my schools are closed, therefore I have no opportunity to go run around outside with kiddos and I'm F-ING STIR CRAZY.

1. I rode a mechanical bull. Which sounds easy. It's not. I swear one could break ones wrist doing that shit....it's funny, though, to see guys get on that thing with all this bravado, like they're going to "show" that piece of machinery masquerading as a real live animal. Inevitably they're confident for about four seconds before they realize they're getting the shit kicked out of them. It's not about strength, its about balance, and we all know how well balanced I am. I lasted for about 10 seconds and took my leave of the bull via nose dive into padded floor.

2. I did karaoke. Yep. I know there are a number of you grimacing at the idea of me, microphone in hand, singing. Don't worry. I spared the world the pleasure of my true shower singing voice; I picked a song that really just requires animated yelling. Which, surprise, surprise, I'm good at. It was, incidentally, Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy, I sang with Amber and ML, and we were quite the crowd pleasers. Mmmhmmm. It does take a fair amount of Miller Light to convince me to put a microphone in my hand, the same Miller Light that convinced me to do the one and only dance I really feel confident doing: the boob dance, which really just consists of me shaking them. Said dance is like a mating call at a karaoke bar. ML, Amber and I looked around like we'd landed on another planet...suddenly we were surrounded by a host of hungry wolves, I mean dudes. The same guys that have a lot of bravado when attempting to get on mechanical bull...they listened to us talk for about ten minutes before they decided we were way too much to tangle with. I've since decided that the boob dance will be something of a social experiment...in what settings does BD elicit similar responses? From whom? What is the level to which alcohol is involved? And what is the lighting like?

3. So, I'm at the gym yesterday, running on the treadmill. I'm a little tired from the 30 minutes I've done on the bike previously, so I'm at a light jog. It's about six o'clock, prime time at 24 Hour Meatheads Anonymous. This guy, an older gentleman clad in loose sweatpants and a t-shirt that's just a wee bit too short, climbs on the elliptical machine directly in front of me. He's gotten on the last available machine, and we're toward the front of the room, so there are a few lurkers (you know, the people that are waiting like vultures for you to drop off the machine you're on so they can snatch it up) around. Well, I notice as I peel my eyes away from the Food Network (which seems like a cruel, cruel joke to me--who chooses the Food Network to be on the television at the gym??), that said gentleman, we'll call him Bert, is showing a bit of crack, and not the kind you buy on the street. Ah, well, I suppose we're all subject to a far amount of indignities while at the gym. I mean, who looks their best when working out? Who hasn't let out an inappropriate grunt/passed gas/smelled particularly unpleasant while at the gym? No big deal, Bert.
Well, I look back about 35 seconds later (he's kinda hard to miss, that Bert) and do a bit of a double take. Are his pants actually a big lower than before??? Surely not. Two minutes later, crack check proves that they are indeed climbing southward at an alarming rate. At this point, I don't know what to do. It's like a car accident, it's hard to drag your eyes away, especially when it's directly in front of you. But what, am I going to tap Bert on the shoulder and tell him that his pants are falling down? Maybe a nicer, bigger, braver person than me would. I, cowardly and horrified, just kept turning up the juice on the treadmill until I was literally sprinting. It was the only way I could distract myself from the ever emerging crack.
I noticed out of the corner of my eye, however, that a lurker had also noticed the crack problem. After a muffled guffaw, I saw him approach a friendly neighborhood 24 Hour Meathead employee. We'll call him Jim. Jim listened, looked in our general direction and nodded. As the lurker returned to his lurking territory, I saw Jim hang his head, obviously not looking forward to what he was going to have to do. He walked bravely to Bert, tapped him on the back, and put his head very close to Bert's. Bert immediately jerked his drawers up around his armpits, at which point I was too winded to do anything but hand over my treadmill to the lurker. I don't care who you are, girl, guy, old, young, in shape or not, crack is always, always whack.

4. I spilled tuna juice on my shirt today when I was making tuna salad for lunch. Uhg, I thought at the time. Luckily, however, since it is Winter Break (see aforementioned boredom and stir craziness) and I'm not seeing anyone outside of my coworkers today, I figured no big deal. However, it just dawned on me that my cat might try to eat me when I get home.

Signing off from the weirdo world of Sarah. Adios.

ISO New Fave

2008-02-14T09:39:00.000-08:00

Pitchers and catchers report today, folks...and we're six weeks out. I'm in a bit of a tizzy. One, I'm far away and have to actually work at learning all the news/rumor/gossip with regards to those Birds. In STL, and less so in other regions of the great state of MO, all that is necessary to have some working knowledge of Cardinal news (and generally have a grasp of the Great American Sport itself) is to be conscious. Barely.

Blah, blah.

I have mixed feelings about the new season. It's as if part of my family went away and now I'm having to learn to love new people. Um, wait. It's not as if, that's actually what happened.

My heart has been particularly shattered by the loss of my mono-syllabled friend, So. I So Heart So. I may wear a black armband for the season just to remind myself of the hole in the lineup where So once (occassionally) was.

All that said, I have been on the look out for my next great love, and it wasn't difficult to settle on the next in line....Yadier Molina, whose heart is bigger than the average hormone pumped bicep, with his little boy enthusiasm and arm like a, a, catapult--yeah, folks, there's a reason I'm not a sports writer--he's officially made it into my #1 spot. And I just finished reading about how he's lost 15 pounds to take care of his knee for the long haul. Which, let's be honest, folks, Yadi had at least 15 to lose. And, frankly, you're making a couple mil a year, take care of your knee. It's an investment. But, he's on a mission to win the Golden Glove, and then I remembered that the kid is only 25. When I was 25 I was still trying to figure out which way was up and deciding which I preferred: Grolsch in the big green bottle or PBR in a can.

I heart him, but I So Heart Yadier doesn't have the same ring to it. How 'bout Get Outta Here Yadier?

This is What Happens When I Get Bored

2008-02-10T22:06:00.000-08:00

Interesting things happen to us when we age...things I never thought would happen to me have. Namely, I've discovered the onset of crows feet at the corners of my eyes, that hangovers last doubly as long as they used too and that more often than not, one glass of wine and a good movie or book by far beat out loud music, loud people and beer. None of that is surprising, I suppose. What is far more surprising to me is my loss of invincibility, and for that I grieve just a little bit, and my desire for roots, for community, tradition.

Aforementioned facts coupled with the following evidence demonstrates to me that I, just shy of 30 years old, have finally made it to what one might call Adulthood. Hallelujah. No one really believed it would happen.

I spend time thinking and working to improve my health, both now and in forty years
I spend time thinking and attempting to improve my financial situation, both now and in forty years
I procrastinate significantly less often.
I pick items off the rack at stores and put them back, realizing they are not age appropriate for me (I think the days of the denim mini skirt may be long gone for me).

I swear, if you don't know me, despite what the preceding paragraphs might lead you to believe, I am not a Paris/Lilo/Brit wanna be, I have only had one altercation with the law and am not a recreational drug user (I smoked, I did not inhale). I do not have promiscuous sex with paparazzi or other photographers, nor do I blow money on, well, blow, or Chanel bags, though I have been known to spend a wee bit too much at Old Navy on occasion. In reality, I just enjoy the fun, and have firmly believed that until a consequence proves to me that something is bad, I will continue to enjoy it.

My ongoing desire to put down roots in a place that feels like home have grown stronger, and I can only attribute this to the fact that I've cooled my heels with the wanderlust thing. Or, maybe I haven't, I've just realized the importance of having a home base. Ultimately, I continue to find myself searching for foundations, for a base from which to leap. That must be part of getting older...all this may seem very random, but I'm getting to a point.

What I really wanted to write about was Fat Tuesday and the season of Lent, which is now upon us. Fat Tuesday made me think of Bacchus which led me to my love of everything that alludes to hedonism, mainly because I tend towards the hedonistic myself. And then to Lent, the opposite of that Bacchus celebration, the giving up, the sacrificing, the almsgiving, all to bring one closer to God. Now, my churchgoing has been pretty spotty over the years, but I do believe that when one is born Roman Catholic, there are somethings that are just bred into your DNA. One is Catholic guilt, and the other is the need to make up for things. Which is essentially what Lent is. Making it up to Jesus. Thanks, man, for what you did for us, I'm not going to eat meat on Fridays.

For all I joke about the subject, I actually think this custom is both fascinating and worthy of our utmost respect. The idea of sacrificing to bring yourself closer to God--to fast, to give up something, to give to your neighbor, I believe these are all worthy of commendation. Plus, I like challenges, and I think that despite your religious beliefs, I think it's great to give things up in the name of something you care about or believe.

Now, I'm not sure what I believe with regards to God and all that. I am convinced there is one. I know that on occasion I enjoy church, and if I'm going to go to church, I usually find myself at a Catholic one, mostly by virtue of the fact that almost everyone I know that would influence me to attend church is Catholic (grandma, friends who like to get married, Marilou's mom). I am usually really, really nervous when I go to Mass. I always feel like I'm going to screw something up, and someone gray-haired dude in a charcoal suit is going to come out of the wings of the church and demand to see my C card. Which, by the way, I have, though it's pretty rusty and quite frankly could use some polishing. However, I always want to quietly be part of this tradition, partly because I want to make myself better and do good things for other people, and this just seems like a good excuse to do so...and, partly because I always have this glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, my giving something up, my volunteering, maybe it will bring me closer to God...maybe I'll find what I was missing all along.

Which is huge, and deserves a moment...yep, it's sinking in. In searching for this foundation, this base, I think there's a part of me that wonders if my I'll ever settle upon a faith as well. I have faith, I think. Somewhere in there. I believe in things. I'm not going to sit and list them for you now, but I am not a total heathen. I've always been alright with the fact that they weren't necessarily specific to one religious body. But maybe part of getting older is looking for one of those. Or, maybe for me, trying it out to see if it works. It might not. I might just not be cut out for organized worship, the same way I'm not cut out for organized social engagements like happy hours or company holiday parties. But I feel like I need to give it a chance.

That said, I've decided the following:

I am giving up buying things for Lent. I mean, things I don't need. I will still need food and beverage and toilet paper and that sort of thing. However, this resolution has posed a bit of a problem for me: what if I need, say, eye shadow or hair product? Is that truly a need, or is that frivolous? What if I want to have a drink at a bar? Do I need it? No. Uh oh. Initially I was thinking that buying the pack of gum at the gas station or the magazine in the grocery store check out line would be curbed, that I would do without a new t-shirt or book for 40 days. Perhaps I will have to come up with some guidelines.
Now, with regards to that whole giving to thy neighbor thing...I am going to do that too. Now, I am no angel, but I find that whether it's for my job or for fun, I do a fair amount of giving to my neighbor. But I am going to try to do things that I would not normally do as volunteer work...I don't exactly know what that is. Most of the time I find volunteer jobs that are playing with kids or teaching or something like that...I think I should broaden my horizons.
Ok, take a deep breath. Exhale. Yep, I'm putting this on paper. If what I said above is true, and I always have this little glimmer of hope that somehow God will part the clouds and speak to me if I do these things, I figure I should put my whole self into it. I mean, this has sort of become a bit of a science experiment (I know that so many of you are so close to taking offense to this right now, and believe me, as cheeky as I may be, I am being serious about this). So, I"m going to go to church. Once a week for the next five weeks, I am going to go to church. I am making no promises about what sort of religious service I'll go to...maybe Mass, maybe I'll check out a Pentacostal service. I know that the Episcopalian church just near my house does a service of monks chanting on Sunday evenings and I like that. Who knows. Wherever the wind blows, I'll check it out. Pigs are flying, I know.

I'm as wary as everyone else is, don't worry. And I probably won't mention it again. But let it be known that as I sit here on a Sunday during Lent that I'm giving it the ol' college try. If nothing else, I'll spend less money, buy less crap and help out those less fortunate than me...and maybe frustrate a priest or pastor with my inane questions in the process.

God speed.

What now? Really...I want to know.

2008-01-27T22:41:00.000-08:00

I can feel my brain rattling around in my head.

I'm bored. B-O-R-E-D. I'm feeling blah and uninspired and boring and, well, bored. I need a project.

This is what has happened to me! I took on a million ga-jillion projects for aught eight and I zealously attacked them, achieved success and now I'm tired of them. On top of that I gave up all my favorite vices (booze, food, television, on and on and on), and now I don't have anything fun to do either. Great. So, I'm destined to have a long and healthy life complete with low cholesterol, cavity free teeth and low body fat, as well as a pretentious and annoyingly large vocabulary, but no fun.

Here's what I've done in the last 27 days:

read 5+ books
studied for GRE
took GRE
applied for graduate school
wrote letters to people I love
called people I love (I am sometimes really bad at that)
worked out 5 days a week
jump roped 2000 time 2 days a week (I just started that)
cooked all my meals (gave up going out to eat)
made some CD's
wrote an essay or three
cleaned my room
did seven loads of laundry
filled my trunk with goodwill items
flossed 23 times
took care of two parking tickets

I'm sure I did some other stuff too. But really, the reading 52 books thing and grad school thing and working out/eating well thing have kept me pretty busy. And now that I've got that under control, I'm bored.

I need a project. I operate really well when I have something to do with every single second of my day. While I was studying for that abomination of a test and working on those applications my days were such that every single second, from the moment I got up until the moment I was forced to close my eyes for a few hours, occupied by some very productive task. I woke up every morning and had a plan for the day, almost down to the minute. I slept very little, granted, but I was operating on all eight cylinders...I could almost feel the energy radiating out of my body, like everything was electrically charged.

I know that no one can maintain that sort of pace and lifestyle forever...but it was encouraging to see that I can for a while, that in my old age (hah) I can still power through and enjoy it. I do enjoy it, which is contrary to most people, I think. And after over a year of lazing around, getting adjusted and recuperating, I am off and running once again...

It just dawned on me, literally this second--I never finish anything until the moment it is due. I am a procrastinator, or something akin to it. I think I just really hate waiting for things. For example, in an ideal world, I will always be the last person to arrive for something, but mere minutes behind the second to last person. Why? Because I don't want to miss anything, but I hate having to wait for the party to start. Same thing for assignments. I'd rather work really hard to turn something in right on time than turn it in early and have to wait around.

This is my problem.

I think I just got more mature in '08. Cuz here's what happened: I finished all my jobs early. Mmm, hmm. I did. I said I was going to do something and then I did it, even though I didn't have to start right away. And now, I don't know what to do with myself because I'm not used to waiting for the next thing.

I guess it's not a bad thing, huh. I kinda feel like I could conquer the world if I wanted to. Maybe I should learn something new, like how to climb mountains or snowboard or scuba dive or weave baskets. Maybe I should start marathon training--I've been saying for years that I want to do it, though I am beginning to think that my hips and shins are in no shape for 26+ miles of running.

Suggestions are more than welcome...I'll entertain any and all, no kidding. In fact, if you are a friend/loved one/regular reader, please, do me a favor and chip in an idea of two. There's no such thing as a stupid suggestion (actually, that's not true, there are lots of stupid suggestions out there, but the teacher in me says to keep an open mind). You give em' to me and at the very least I'll consider them via blog, and hey, even if it's a dumb idea, writing a blog about it will occupy me for a half hour.

Let's try to keep them in the range of FREE. HELP ME ENTERTAIN MYSELF.

Mr. Smith Went to...New York

2008-01-24T12:06:00.001-08:00

Grampa went to NYC and is now edjumacating the kids (demographic 15-24, which I find amusing, incidentally).

Mr. Smith now has even more toys to clutter up his mafia-room office above the Royale, all to allow him to follow and report on the 2008 campaign. The MTV Street Team-Missouri style. Way to go, Steve-o, I'm getting all my news from you from now on!

Check'm out here:

My Love Hate Relationship With Everything that is Wet

2008-01-11T16:19:00.000-08:00

I try not to complain too much about the weather in Seattle. In my more rational moments I realize that it's both ludicrous and pointless. Everyone knows it rains. All the time. For months and months, it’s just rainy. Why, oh why, would you spend any amount of time and energy talking, much less complaining about the rain? Button it, you’re wasting oxygen.

Yesterday, I had a complete and total break from what you might call sanity. I was driving home from work, on my way to the gym…a new gym, one I hadn’t been to in the past. Unfamiliar territory, you might say. And then there was that snarl of Seattle traffic, which even on it’s worst day, St. Louis can only wish to be, and then there was the rain. More than sprinkling, less than real rain, just a nuisance on the windshield. And I lost it.

“Fucking start or stop for the love of God! I am so sick of this half ass sprinkly mamby-pamby bullshit wannabe weather. Jesus, I can’t even find a fucking windshield wiper setting, and the defrost is never the right temperature and I can’t see through the damn spit on my windshield…this pansy ass rain is going to drive me over the m’fing edge!”

And then I ran out of obscenities, so I just yelled.

I would have given my right arm, my eyelashes, one by one, perhaps even my first born for a bit of sun. I ran and ran through the rain (because I never could find the damn gym or a parking space nearby), and the cold drops eventually calmed the steam that seemed to be exuding from my very pores, and I started acting like less of a shrew.

I left work today at noon, presumably to prepare for the Big Bad Standardized Test. The plan was to do a quick gym visit and then off to study one last time. I have not, by the way, done that yet. As I drove north on I-5, past Boeing Field and over the hill, just when I started to see the skyline in the distance, I noticed a couple of things. One, something was making the skyline shimmer just a bit…could it be the sun? Oh, joy of joys, there it was, peeking over Beacon Hill, a ray or two. And then, to the west I glimpsed the snow-capped Olympics, normally cloud and rain obscured. I swear I felt my heart flip over a little and my throat swell up.

I scrapped all plans, all of them. I sped home, ran inside for running shoes, fleece and work out pants and headed back to the car, praying that the ever-so-ellusive sun might disappear in my absence. And as I drove to the west, to my favorite beach, I couldn’t tell if it was the sun in my eyes or tears of relief making them squint just a bit.

I sat on a big rock on the far north side of the beach, watching the tide come dangerously close to my patch of sand, soaking up the rays like a lizard. And then I ran--in the SUN! In my hurry to get out in it, I'd forgotten everything--music player, gloves (my hands get really cold sometimes), even my hairband. So there's me, like a little kid, running across the sand, slip sliding over rocks and shells, the wind whipping my hair around me so I couldn't really see anthing except that glorious light that kept even my hands from getting cold.

I never, ever thought I’d miss it so much. I never thought I could feel such unadulterated disgust for this place that I love so much, this Seattle. I never thought that the gray would get to me. But it has. I loved the rain when I lived in the Midwest. I loved any sort of weather: snowstorms, ice and I loved thunderstorms. I relished the rainy days, I loved when it got cloudy and gray in the winter for days at a time. I swore the Northwest wouldn’t bother me.

I was wrong. I admit it. Here’s me agreeing with the rest of the world: the rain for months at a time, yeah, it sucks sometimes.

But how absolutely gloriously sparkly and shiny it is when the clouds lift and the colors are in full bloom, when the mountains peak out and the water glitters. And the glittery water and sailboats and smell of salt in January are enough to make me forget about the rain for at least a few hours (or until the puddles seep through the soles of myshoes once again).

OMG

2008-01-07T12:07:00.001-08:00

I just learned the coolest new trick. Now you'll officially get postings all the time, because I can do it from my email.

Um, welcome to the world of tech-savvy, right?

Also, beware, for with this new ease of posting comes a significant increase in the following: random and completely uninteresting blogs about nothing, lack of spell check and a much more conversational tone.

Two things I've decided today, as I'm officially back to the grind full time:
1. I have been wearing my glasses almost exclusively because apparently my eyes don't tolerate contacts anymore. Funny thing about that is the whole eye make-up thing. My sister, the fashionista, once told me that it's even more important to wear awesome eye make-up because glasses, particularly mine, magnify your eyes. So if you don't want to look like a shlub (which I am trying very hard not to do these days, and with my return to the land of hoodies that's been really, really hard...it's like an addiction, I have to constantly tell myself to put on real clothes and substitute my addiction to hoodies and sneakers with something like sweaters and flats), one should put on pretty eye make up. Sigh. Well, it's really hard to do that when you're BLIND AS A BAT. I looked in the mirror after I got to work and saw the eyeliner smeared across one eyelid and nodded to myself. This is what happens to crazy old ladies with scary eyeliner and lipstick. They can't see, but they are still determined to make an effort, dammit, and good for them. Ah, Lasik, when will you take away this pain?

2. Someday I want to be the one who gives directions instead of being the one that says "Yes, ma'am."

New Years 2008

2008-01-05T13:22:00.000-08:00

We received The Book of Lists at work the other day. You know, that publication that the local Business Journal puts out listing the top 20 richest people/companies/blah, blah, blah in every category known to man? Yeah, kinda pretentious and annoying, but I love it. I've been known to read it cover to cover. I think it's fantastic....I like to know these things. I like rankings; for someone who doesn't really like rules and constraints, it's strange that I so enjoy the black and white nature of the list. I guess everyone needs a little order to their chaos.

I absolutely love this time of year...I love the looking back, the reassessment of things accomplished and/or experienced, coupled with the looking forward to what may be coming. It makes me feel grounded. Many of my more pragmatic friends often shake their heads at my capriciousness, but I implore you: look at this, this list making as one hope in an otherwise completely baffling existence. Yes, I do have an ultimate objective, it’s just that I often change the path in which I think I might get there.

An old friend and I used to refer to timelines as the ST, MT, LT (short-term, medium-term and long-term, respectively). It was about as specific as either of us felt comfortable getting about our plans. I have always had the same LT goals. For the most part they are pretty specific and clear in my head. ST, well that tends to be looser: whatever feels good at the time. I have trouble with MT. It’s like a black hole in my future, I never quite know what the medium term holds until it’s on top of me, mostly because it’s a lot of work.

I think this is why the lists are good for me. As I get older and presumably more responsible, I think about the MT more automatically. Isn’t that the way we all sort of evolve? Some people are born with the ability to set a goal, list the steps to achieve said goal and then do them. Others set the goal and then do nothing. I tend to set the goal, think about it for a while, then as I’m jumping off the cliff with what appears to be little or no planning, I announce the plan to everyone else in my world as they pull their hair out in complete agitation and fear for my well being.

All that said, here’s my Best of 2007 list. Oh, and just to be more self-centered, these are completely based upon my own criteria, did not necessarily come out in 2007, but were discovered by moi. So there.

Best Books of 2007

Freakonomics, Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner: Ok, so I pooh-poohed it for a really long time, but when I finally gave it a shot, it sucked me in. The author’s (the economist and the actual writer, that is) way of picking completely arbitrary things and finding an unexpected yet totally logical common thread between them is brilliant. For example: why do all gang members live with their mothers? Because they can’t afford anything else. Why…? Well, I’m not going to tell you but suffice it to say that the answer is quite fascinating. It’s a quick read, too.
IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas, Chuck Klosterman: I debated including this one, namely because I think Chuck Klosterman is kind of a pretentious asshole wannabe hipster, and he represents everything that I despise about my own generation, probably because I often find the same pretentious hipster tendencies in myself. Anyway. Putting aside my egocentric and completely inconsequential insecurities, the book made me laugh. A lot. I sat for an entire weekend this summer, sunning myself and reading this book cover to cover because it was just so interesting. Made up of mostly interviews and essays, Klosterman’s humor and cynicism seeps out of every word, which while annoying, is also freakin’ funny. He’s like that guy that your friends are friends with, that you more often roll your eyes at, but can’t help laughing with sometimes. And, my own personal snotty bratty consolation prize: the mini-novel at the end is crap.
The Solace of Open Spaces, Gretel Erlich. I read this one at the tail end of 2006 into 2007, but I spent a couple of days sitting in coffeeshops watching the snow (in MO) and rain (guess where), rolling this one over in my brain like a really luscious chocolate. Erlich writes about rural Wyoming (which seems like it should be a redundant statement, right?), and her accidental love affair and subsequent adoption of the cowboy lifestyle. She’s a lyrical yet simple writer, and is writing this little gem from a place of self imposed loneliness and solitude…I love the High Plains and the West and everything about the stark, hard, beauty of the landscape. She personifies it in a way that made me fall in love like an adolescent.
Harry Potter 7. I’m not even going to get into it. Let’s just say it was everything I wanted and more, except for that stupid epilogue that I’m sure some dumbass editor made Rowling tack on to put a cute fuzzy bow on the final tale. Whatev. The rest was fantastic and tear-worthy. Tear as in cry, not as in rip.

Top 2007 Music Pics:

Band of Horses: My roommate and a few of the local friends give high praise to these guys, who remind me a little of My Morning Jacket (another newfound fave), but I never really got on board until the second album was released, at which point I discovered the err in my ways. Yeehah, horses rule.
Easy Tiger, Ryan Adams: Really anything by this man makes me quiver. Yes, I said it, what? He’s awesome, and talented and sexy, and hi, he loved Parker Posey who might be the most talented actress in Hollywood, so I can fawn a little. I didn’t think I could love an album more than the Rock’N’Roll/Love is Hell situation, but I do really, really love this one.
Sky Blue Sky, Wilco. Everyone knows it. It’s just good stuff. I’m not going to beat the dead horse.
Trouble, Ray LaMontagne. I love his music, his sort of old school Van Morrison with a twist of folk quality, but I also love the story of how he got his start. He was a factory worker in the Northeast, and one day he heard a song (Steven Stills, incidentally) on the radio and just decided that was it. He was meant to make music, so he didn’t go to work that day, and look where he is now. I’m a sucker for the follow your heart stories.
What I Mean to Say is Goodbye, Tom Brosseau. Specifically “Tonight I’m Careful with You.” Sometimes I hear songs that inspire me to write really sweet, optimistic fiction that would likely be ridiculed by the literary community. This is one of those songs, one that makes you want to tell the happy stories, the pretty stories, to lose the inner cynic and indulge in childlike optimism.

Honorable Mention:

· Graduation Day, Kanye West. There’s about four songs that I could listen to over and over, though the rest I could give or take.

· Night Ripper, Girl Talk. Awesome DJ who layers and layers of samples of the most ridiculous combinations—think the Pixies, Ciara, Phantom Planet and 2 Live Crew. In a 5 second clip. Awesome.

· Rascal Flatts. Yeah, so. I’m from the Midwest, I’m from the country, and I really like that song Stand. I sing it really loud in my car when I feel like giving the NW the bird. So suck it.

I’ve got so many more lists compiled, I could write my own Book of Lists, but I am not sure anyone in the world really cares about some of them (best day trips of 2007, greatest purchases of 2007—think Zune and green and blue striped socks--, most favorite places to look at water of 2007). So, I leave you with what’s upcoming.

What I Really Am Going to Do in 2008 (ST, MT, LT)

Get back in shape—I know everyone says that this time of year, but why not. I really want Jennifer Aniston arms by tank top season.

Not necessarily a goal, but to provide assistance in achieving #1 and for a fun experiment, I am attempting to not drink for a month. Or, perhaps I should amend. I am attempting to not drink much for a month ( I foresee some circumstances in which this may be difficult and because I do not view this as the same kind of goal as, say, quitting smoking, I will not be absolute, but will have a sip here and there, just no gulps). Empty calories and late night munchies be gone. This plan will also likely help achieve goal #2.

get smarter

study for GRE (which I am supposed to be doing as I write this)
take GRE
apply to Grad School and convince them that I am the smartest candidate they could accept into their precious program so they will give me an exorbitant amount of money
Read 52 books this year.

i. This is in response to Brookie’s challenge issued on most recent blog. I’m going to try. I keep track of the books I read every year, and usually shoot for about 25. I am going to have to significantly step up the pace. Though I am going to count the three GRE books I’m currently reading in the 52. Call it cheating if you want, I’ve devoured every word, and I think that counts. (If you’re curious, last year I think I only read 15 books, so I failed miserably at ST goal).

Cheers, 2008 is here. In the words of Tony the Tiger…it’s gonna be GR-R-R-eat!

Who Knew Math Could Be Fun?

2007-12-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

The world has gone all topsy-turvey. Cats are barking, dogs are mewing, and pigs are flying. And Sarah is actually enjoying math.

Yep, I said it. Math is fun.

Let me tell you about my day yesterday. First off, I haven't been sleeping as of late. Not in a bad way, per se, but still not sleeping. Sometimes I get really excited about things, projects, etc, and I can't stop them. So, I have a number of projects that I've tackled in the last couple of weeks, some holiday related, some related to my newest endeavor (will explain later), some just because the creative juices are flowing again. Regardless, every time I go to lay my head down, I can't fall asleep. Or, if I do, I wake up very, very early to start again. I'm existing on like 5 hours a night. At best. It's like having a newborn (I think).

So, yesterday I got up ON MY OWN (as in I wasn't bodily removed from my bed) at 5 AM and went to the gym. Why on earth would I do such a thing, you ask? To make more room in my schedule, you see. Then it was off to work, and then to purchase more art supplies for Christmas projects. Quick stop at home, and then to the Barnes and Noble to study.

Yes, study. For the GRE. Which, incidentally, factors into The New Endeavor. The New Endeavor called Grad School.

Now, let me be honest. I am not much of a studier. I never studied in high school, so I never really learned how to do so for college. I often flew by the seat of my pants and settled for B's instead of A's. No big heartbreak, right? Plus, I was a writing major. Studying for my classmates and I often involved a big bottle of wine and late-night writing sessions the night before an essay exam. Not exactly the same as cracking a text book and memorizing facts and theories and formulas, right? And the further I got into the writing major, I often found that I was working on final projects (as in plays and stories and whatnot) rather than even the essay exams.

So, anyway. I am planning to take this GRE thing. The program I'm applying to doesn't even have a minimum GRE score to be accepted. So big deal, right? And at first I was all like "whatever, I'll just take it and if I do well, great, and if I don't, then big deal." And I sat on that for a day or so, and then realized that it is not in my nature to be that ambivalent. I'm either going to rock that test or I'm going to totally blow it off. And I like being smart, so I'm going to do what I can to rock the hell out of the GRE. So I started studying.

Funny thing is: I'm to cheap (poor) to purchase all those GRE study guides, so instead I've been going with my Phd student/rocketologist/neighbor to the cafe at Barnes and Noble adjacent to the UW where I borrow their study guides and work in my 39 cent notebook. And I was a little skeptical of my ability to really focus for hours at a time, but then suddenly, I realize that 3 hours have gone by and I haven't even gotten up for a coffee refill.

So far, I'm rocking the verbal section. Not to toot my own horn, but thats kinda my things, so no big surprise. And now I'm on a quest to get as close to ace-ing the thing as possible (insert crazy joke here). And, plus, it delays my studying for the math portion, right?

The Princeton Review has given me a vocabulary list that I should know. According to The Princeton Review, there are a lot of things that I should know, but don't, including but not limited to the circumference of a circle or the area of a triangle and when to use who and whom. In Ms. Oerly's sixth grade Language Arts class we had to write out definitions and then use the word in a sentence. So I'm doing that. Enjoy. And I want no comments about the words I don't know, so there.

I often abscond from work to write blogs.

My coworkers and friends are surprised at my alacrity to learn how to play soccer.

I have been accused of capricious behavior, however, I tend to think that I simply enjoy spontaneity more than the average person.

The only way I could achieve a perfect math score on the GRE is to employ some chicanery.

The dude who came up with this test is very erudite-ly. (Yeah, I said it, put that in your pipe and smoke it.)

Amy J is the biggest neologism creator I've ever known.

My need to use the bathroom has become exigent.

Often after three or more PBRs I tend to fulminate with anyone who is not a supporter of Cardinals baseball.

Most writers, myself included, pride themselves on a certain perspicaciousness.

This vocab thing has infiltrated my brain. I was reading my book before I went to bed last night and kept looking up words in the dictionary. Now I have no idea what I read.

So, then I moved to math. Who knew it could be fun? Maybe it's because I've made it into a game. Tho, my neighbor, the one who has a bunch of prestigious fellowships and is getting his PhD in electrical engineering (or, as I usually say, rocketology) is working on math problems with more letters than numbers, and I was getting really excited when I could isolate a variable.
No, really excited. As in, I'd throw my arms in the air as if I were a referee indicating the team had scored a touchdown. The more answers I got right, the more vehement the gesticulations. Tho is amused. People are staring. I am proud of myself. And it's eleven o'clock.

As I walked into the empty parking lot, a little dazed, a lot tired, looking at the Christmas lights and my breath hanging in the air...it felt a little like college, but better. Because I was savoring every bit. And it was fun. The studying, the hard work, the putting every ounce of energy into something, the camraderie of sitting around with a bunch of other people studying their brains out too. It feels good when you get the right answer, when you remember what the word means, when you re-read the sentence and it clicks.

And, if I was wondering at all if this decision to pursue The New Endeavor was a good one, the right one...I'm pretty sure this answered my question.

I went home and dreamt of dictionaries and equations.

Installment 1: My Trip to the Bay Area, or Re-entering the World of Good Shoes

2007-12-13T09:56:00.000-08:00

I am not a business traveller, really. I don't know that my line of work really calls for "business trips." Local travel, all the time, regional meetings, sure, the occasional conference perhaps. But regular business travel, not so much. However, given that the organization I work for is one of many national affiliate offices, and that when you live in the UPPER LEFT CORNER OF THE WORLD, regional travel means several very, very large states and getting on a plane. So, I went to a regional meeting last week in San Francisco.

I've never been to the Bay Area, or California (Cali, as they say). When I told my oh-so-not-straight neighbor about my trip, his response was "Omigosh, NoCal is way MORE than SoCal." Um, wow. The unnecessary abbreviations are something akin to office jargon in that they wiggle their way under my skin like a giant splinter and fester. Anyway. So, here's the story of the girl from the Midwest by way of Seattle going to Cali.

I sit in my room at midnight the night before my 8 AM flight, debating what to pack. 48 hour trip necessitates very little, and when coupled with the fact that I will likely be carting whatever I bring with me the entire time, I'm determined to fit everything in my backpack (incidentally, I tell Amy J this and you could hear her blood pressure rising over the phone). Shouldn't be too difficult, right? I know what I wear to our office (warm up pants and red logo t-shirt, often with red pullover hoodie). Take it up a notch to represent SEA favorable, and bam!, I'm ready.

Here's what my pack contained:

1 pair of underwear
2 pairs of socks (because I always, always need more socks for my cold feet)
1 black t-shirt
1 long sleeved white tshirt
1 tube of mascara
blush
lip gloss
toothbrush
contact case
glasses
2 novels
2 notebooks
camera
1 hoodie

This is significantly less makeup than I usually wear, for the record.

I am clad in jeans, sneakers, t-shirt and (you guessed it) a hoodie. All is well, I almost miss my flight, but make it just in time. The dude in a suit and tie sitting next to me asks me what I'm doing in the Bay Area and I tell him I'm going for work and he spends the rest of the flight puzzling out what sort of work I might be in. I read. I get off the plane and the kind and wonderful Roberto and girlfriend, both of whom I've never met, meet me at the airport and we go off to the event I'm supposed to be observing. Roberto is dressed in nice dress pants and a dress shirt, and I'm mildly nervous about my attire. However, we arrive and I see that most of the staff are also dressed in jeans and T's, so I relax.

And then, they all change. Into dress clothes. And then they ask if I want to change. I do a mental inventory of my backpack. Nope. I'm good, thanks.

I get over it, work the event, ship the kids off on their appropriate buses and then we're out on the town for the eve. Those Bay Area folks, they know how to have a good time. Initially, we're just across the street from the main event center in downtown SF at a Chili's or Chevy's or something, so my hoodie is appropriate. And then Roberto and GF take me on the driving tour of SF (complete with Chinatown, North Beach, the Wharf, the Golden Gate, and streetcar). I'm totally enjoying myself--I have never seen so many bay windows in my whole life. And I had the worlds best taco (not at Chilis or Chevys). And then, we're pulling over and parking in the downtown district.

"We're taking you to the best view in San Francisco," Maribel explains. Cool, I think. I have to pee anyway. I get out, complete with my backpack, and we hike through down town, and suddenly I find myself in an elevator going to the 40th floor of the Marriott. There is a fantastic arched window thing and a beautiful bar and a lot of people wearing really nice things. Like dress shirts and pants. And ladies with heels. And make up.

I looked around the room as I sipped my $9 Sierra Nevada. Not one single hoodie in the whole place. And that's when I realized that I was back in the world where people don't wear yoga pants to work, where clogs are not considered "dress shoes," and where people wear hoodies to work out in, not as going-out wear.

And here's a picture of me at 826 Valencia, one of the coolest places in the world. I'm in the Pirate Shoppe, dressed as--you guessed it--a pirate. I told the store clerk my story about how I got hit in the eye with a frisbee (thank you, jpryor) and had to wear an eye patch to school during spirit week, and everyone thought I was really enthusiastic in support of the Boonville Pirate football team, circa 1996. That, I'm afraid, was not necessarily the case. However, the story elicited enough laughter to outfit me in full pirate gear.

Moral of the story: my clogs, my favorite, favorite, favorite pair of shoes finally just bit the dust. As in, the soles have completely disintegrated and I can no longer wear them. So, I've been debating what to purchase to replace them. I'd been teetering on a pair of those not quite a tennis shoe, not quite a loafer shoe (aka Merrill or Keen). As I sat in the airport waiting for the fog to lift enough for my plane to take me home, I vowed that I would purchase something with leather and a heel. Vegetarians be damned, I will not let the City of Bad Shoes suck me into hoodie-ville any longer.

Amy J just dropped to her knees and thanked God that I saw the light.

**You should totally check out 826 Valencia, btw. Of Dave Eggers fame. It's an awesome program, two thumbs up. And they also have affiliates all over the country. Hear, hear.

Running from the Law

2007-11-17T12:54:00.000-08:00

I'm on the lam. From the law. I guess, actually, that's what being on the lam is...I don't think you are on the lam from your next door neighbor's dog or a mugger. I wouldn't really know, I've never been on the lam before.

I truly believe this is going to be an enriching experience for me. Character building. I'm going to have so much damn character after this, this, lam, that I'm not going to be able to fit in the room.

I have made the list. Not the Most Wanted List or Megan's List (or whatever that is for sexual predators, I can't remember). No, I'm on the Scoff List. I am not kidding. It's actually called that. Evidently, here in our fair city of Seattle, this is a list of individuals who have more than four unpaid parking tickets. I, evidently, have seven. Little did I know...and those babies don't come cheap. Let me tell you how I became and then discovered that I was a member of this exclusive club.

I live in a city that places high value on their street space. This is true of the street in front of my apartment, which means I have to pay for a parking permit to park there. I have problems with the notion of paying to park anywhere. I do not demand parking lots everywhere, they are atrocities, but I do feel that when it comes to my work and my home, I should be able to park for free. Somewhere. I'm not asking for a garage or even a secured lot. I'm just asking for a place to put my car. I won't beat this dead horse, I'm fairly certain it's a touchy subject. Because I do not have Washington State plates on my car, I cannot purchase said permit (I won't bore you with the details). No permit=parking tickets. Seven of them, though I really didn't think I had quite that many. And, incidentally, all parking tickets were assessed in the first 12 weeks of my residence in Seattle. Since then, I have procured a garage parking space, where my car is safe from rain, homeless people and parking enforcement.

Well, I was in a hurry on Tuesday evening. I had a big date with the volleyball court. Yes, you read correctly. My neighbors and their friends play volleyball every week, and hearing that I did actually play a bit of it in my younger years, invited me to come along. Now, I liked volleyball. It was fun, good exercise and they play at the UW fitness center, which is phenomenal. So,I figured it sounded like a good idea. I'm thinking an hour-ish at most, it's already 7PM, and i'm running superlate (surprise), and I figure I'm safe to park on the street.

I tornado through my apartment changing into shorts and tennies, and then tear out of the house and on my way to the gym with the boys. In case you were wondering, those Asians love their net-sports, and they are generally really, really good. Which I didn't know. I spent the entire time I played cowering from them. It was terrifying. This was not a simple bump the ball over the net kind of game, this was rotations I have never seen before, this was jump-serving and whoa. I couldn't even be embarassed by my lack of practice and skill...it wasn't even in the ball park. I bowed out of game two and went to run on the treadmill.

In addition to not completely understanding these guys intensity, I didn't understand just how long they play. Three hours later, I've used every machine in the building, I've lifted weights, I've checked out the track and the climbing wall, watched a racketball game, badminton game, basketball game, and people swim. That's when they finally decide to wrap up the volleyball playing and head for home.

I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm spacy. We're pulling up in front of our place, and I wrinkle my brow....I could have sworn I parked behind the maroon SUV. But no civic. Huh. I jump out of the car and walk around to the garage...could I have forgotten that I moved it? Nope, no civic. I wonder if someone borrowed my car, but the only person at home is my roommate who can't drive a manual. I'm truly stumped. And my heart is pounding...oh, god, did my car get stolen??
No, it didn't get stolen. It got towed. I can't tell you how relieved I was to hear the news that the towing company did indeed have my little grocery-getter in their parking lot. It's nearly midnight and Maria and I drive down to the lot. I pay lots of money to get my car out of hoc (I can't believe I can actually use that phrase. The grizzled gentleman behind the glass informs me that I have been placed on what they call the Scoff List.

At this point, I'm seriously worn out, and I haven't eaten since lunch, and EVERYONE who knows me knows how I get when I'm hungry. I'm completely aghast, I'm in such a fluster I've forgotten my credit card and I'm nearly in tears of frustration with myself, the city, the tow truck guy, and the clock. And now this dude, who is trying to be nice to me, is telling me I'm on some special criminal list...

And then I just start laughing. Seriously? I'm on a list of people who park illegally. And it's actually called the Scoff List, which brings to mind a bunch of condescending, suited, bespectacled old men sitting around looking down their noses at all those renegade parkers.

It's a damn good thing I have a sense of humor, because otherwise this could appear to be incredibly pathetic.

The House That Sarah Sat

2007-11-11T22:56:00.000-08:00

So, my roommates and I have spent the better part of the fall housesitting. I'd say I've spent more weekends at other people's houses than my own. Why, you ask? Because my house is depressingly small and dark. As winter approaches and it's dark everywhere, this is less of an issue, but on a day when I don't have to turn my headlights on for safety, I can hardly step inside the coffin-like interior of my living room without feeling as though I can't breathe.

I never thought it was small until this summer when I spent so much time outdoors, and then the inside, complete with four people, two cats, a partridge and a pear tree all made for increasingly close quarters. Anyway, the place is clean, we're settled there, our neighbors are at least as "quirky" as we are and we pay a ridiculously cheap rent, so I don't think we are going anywhere fast. However, when offered the opportunity to stay in someone else's spacious and drastically more liveable home, especially when equipped with FREE laundry, we jump at the chance.

I've found that the thing that I miss the most is sitting around a table. My family spent most of our bonding time around the kitchen table, as opposed to the couch or the television. Currently, we don't have a dining room or an eat in kitchen, which means we eat on the couches. Not that big of a deal, I thought. Last weekend as we house/cat/guinea pig sat for Maria's boss, a lightbulb went off for me. The owners of the house not only don't have cable, but also do not have a television that gets network channels clearly, and is shoved off in some storage room in the top of the house. So rather than sitting in front of the tube, we turned on the music (owners sprung for speakers in every room of the house, which is super duper cool) and the girls sat around the kitchen table talking and working while I made soup. We ate together and drank wine, folded laundry and read the newspaper. It was perfect.

The kitchen table is in a sort of breakfast nook which juts out from the side of the house, almost completely enclosed in windows. That evening as I walked out to my car to retrieve a CD, I looked back at the light glowing from the windows. My little family sat on the benches, eating and laughing, opening another bottle of wine and singing along to some old James Taylor song. It almost felt like a frame from a cheesy WB drama.

I miss the kitchen table.

The holidays are coming, and our schedules are chock full of house/pet sitting gigs. If you're interested, you'll have to book well in advance. We're really good at taking care of things, nothing has broken so far. We don't even charge for our services, however, we will eat all your food, use your laundry and possibly raid your liquor cabinet. We'll replace it, don't worry, but you should definitely hide the good stuff.

The Crazy Scale and Peices That Don't Add Up

2007-11-07T21:52:00.000-08:00

When I started blogging, I vowed that I would never write about the following:

1. relationships
2. work
3. illegal activities of any sort

Thus far, I've made it several years doing little more than dabbling on the subjects. It's easy when you don't have much to say about work, when illegal activities are limited to renegade parking and the occasional unsanctioned U-turn. Today, however, I'm breaking the rules. I'm writing about relationships. And I'm pretty sure I'm not going to come upon any groundbreaking territory. Be forewarned.

Here I am, attempting to write about the one subject that I just can't seem to wrap my brain around...what makes a relationship stick. I have a couple of theories on this subject, the most developed being The Crazy Scale. To put it simply, we all fall somewhere on the Crazy Scale, one being so normal it's almost creepy, five being adorably quirky and ten being too crazy to have a functional relationship, hold down a job or be allowed to check out library books. Let me give some examples:

1: Laura Bush (aside from the fact that she married W. that's fucking weird)
5: Lucille Ball. Adorable, affectionate, well meaning, but absentminded and klutzy.
10: Britney Spears. She doesn't wear underwear or shoes and beats people with umbrellas. She's nutters.

Okay. So, generally speaking, in order to create a most perfect union we must find someone who matches our crazy level. A 2 (someone, perhaps, working in the field of computer programming that drives a Ford Focus and goes to the dentist the appropriate amount of times per year) cannot realistically be with a 9 (someone whose hair is multiple colors, works "seasonally" on a cruise ship or is a ski instructor, and hitchhikes as their primary mode of transportation). Not unless the 2 has a deep, dark craving to jump trains and eat the occassional candy bar without brushing and or the 9 has a secret predilection for fastening his/her seatbelt every time they get in a car and files their income taxes months in advance.

The trouble is, those that find themselves on the middle of the scale tend to pair off rather quickly, as logic would have it. What is left are those of us that make up the far ends of the spectrum, therefore the pool is significantly depleted. It doesn't look good, folks.

Anyway. I digress.

I have been in love twice in my life so far. Sometimes this worries me...what if I've had my run of luck? And I reassure myself, shakily, that these were trial runs, that I am flexing my muscles, stretching myself for the real thing, which will totally blow my mind at some point. I have been having these conversations with my friends and family lately, as it seems to be weighing on everyone's mind.

All satire aside, I can't quite figure out how to make this love thing work. I think of the men in my life that I've loved and I can truly say that I was there, fully, with them. All the peices were there, but somehow all the parts didn't add up to a whole. Some part of the mechanism didn't work, no matter how much I tinkered, I oiled, I kicked, I screamed, I pleaded but for whatever reason, it just didn't work. Looking back, I can see that some of the parts might have not been in the best condition, and at the time I didn't realize it. But I am still sort of stumped...

How is it that if all the peices are there, things can just not function?

I realize that this is the grand question, one of the biggies, up there with the meaning of life and all that.

The other day I talked to one of those guys. It's been quite some time since I've heard that voice in my ear, but the same thing happened to me that does everytime. I turn into the babbling idiot. I cry, I tremble, I suddenly go from a vocabulary of a well-educated 28 year old to a C average sophomore in high school. And then, after the conversation ends, I usually fall into a deep, dark hole for several days in which I seriously wonder whether my purpose on earth is simply to circulate air for my houseplants.

The thing is, I don't think that this fellow is a bad person, nor does he do anything outrageous to incite such behavior. In fact, I think he's a genuinely nice guy, and on the crazy scale, probably is a good solid 5. So, why in the hell does he bring out this Anti-Sarah?

I asked one of my oldest friends, and she simply said "sometimes it's just a bad mix." And I think she's right. He and I had all the pieces, or at the very least, a good number of them. And yet, for whatever reason, it's like vinegar and ammonia. Mix it together and the reaction doesn't work...it eats away at me and turns me into a horrible, horrible person.

I realize that's an exaggeration, but it was so amazing (and frustrating) to watch that happen so quickly...to see my entire personality dissolve and run down the drain. And I can only imagine that it must do something similar to him. I like to believe that is the case, that I'm not the only one who feels like a fish out of water, gasping for air...

So, I guess it would stand to reason that when the appropriate person comes along that makes me see all the really great things about me instead of the pages and pages of things that make me crazy, when I instead feel bigger than myself instead of smaller, and when I feel my voice pealing out of my head instead of shrinking, that will be the person that does it for me. And it would stand to reason that perhaps this quality is the unnameable, undefineable and un-findable oil that makes the parts all work together.

Sometimes it just ain't about the parts.

Do it for the Kiddos

2007-10-25T11:49:00.001-07:00

So, I'm bowling for the kids. As in for Big Brothers Big Sisters. And I'm looking to raise some dough while I'm doing it. I know we all get asked all the time to throw money at this cause and that cause, but this one is a good one, a really good one.

Not to get sappy or sentimental, but I'm going to go ahead and give my personal testimonial. I worked there for not quite two years and it was the hardest job I've ever had, for a number of reasons, not least of which was the fact that no matter how much you try, you are constantly reminded of how tough these kids have it. The great part, the really warm fuzzy part, though, is that you also get to see how much your couple of hours mean to kids who have next nothing and a slim chance of getting any thing more. And they will tell you how much it means to them.

I had a little sister, who many of you met and remember, probably. She was fifteen when we met and probably the smartest, most with-it kid I've ever met. I respect her more than most. Growing up nearly parentless and in the neighborhood that most of us don't venture into very often, she is attending one of the best private schools in the St. Louis area on scholarship, and will graduate in May. Despite transportation issues, financial difficulties and a ridiculous amount of hard work, Taylor continues to shine.

We don't all have the time to donate to a kid twice a month consistently, I get that. How about five bucks? Ten? I'm pretty strapped for cashola and I'm throwing in.

If your interested, you can check out our bowling team's page (Maria's o captain my captain) and throw us a couple bucks. Imagine me in bowling shoes wielding a heavy ball. It's funny, c'mon. Anyone remember the time I fell down the alley-thingie? Anyone want to take bets on how many gutter balls I throw?

The kids thank you.

Oh, and Charles Nelson Reilly...thank you for your generous donation to the cause!

Rain makes my brain work

2007-10-24T19:17:00.001-07:00

I was thinking about melancholy and rain and how comforting that is today...and then I read Allison's blog and thought about how fitting that we were both writing (or thinking) about the same things.

I am wearing wellies right now. Yep, thats right. They're navy blue with cherries on them. I've got the jeans tucked into them and my big grey sweater on...I look I belong on a fishing boat. But I'm sitting at my new favorite place, Joe Bar, which is only a few blocks from my house and a cross between a coffeeshop and a bar. It's a coffeeshop in that it's super quiet and people are all reading and writing and working on their computers, but a bar in that they serve food and booze. Hah. Because, quite honestly, after the first day back at work today the last thing I was really looking for was a cup of freakin' coffee. And I like my job. So, I am installed in the window table, computer and earphones close by, listening to Uncle Tupelo and the cars drive by in the rain.

So I sit, my first day back after a whirlwind tour of the state of Missouri. I flew into Kansas City last week on a ridiculously windy and ominous Thursday night to suprise my father for his birthday. I was sitting next to a gentleman that was a friend of a friend, who was flying to Missouri to watch his son play college football. He'd never visited before, and was leaning over me to see the rolling fields of western MO. "It's so green. It's not nearly as flat as I expected. Not like Kansas. It's really beautiful." I agreed, he's right. Driving home under those ominous thunderclouds as the night descended, I felt enveloped by those hills and the green. I spent the next few days being enveloped by all those old friends, the arms and jokes and easy relationships I've know for my whole life. It's as if the hard exoskeleton I'd developed over the last year of meeting new person after new person, new job after new job, new situation after new situation melted away and there I was, just me, with everything I was familiar with cushioning my fall out of the Seattle sky into the Missouri landscape.

I often wonder how long it takes until I'll stop feeling like a fish out of water. I can only imagine these sorts of adjustments must be incrementally more difficult the older you are, as if the ground gets harder and the roots are more adverse to digging in deep.

It was a clear day when I flew home, and I had a window seat and my head was swirling with all the visits and talks and catching up I'd done, and with the wondering how I'd ever be able to be the kind of daughter--friend--person that I wanted to from 2000 miles away. And I could see the Missouri River, that powerful but nondescript and unromantic water (so different from the lakes and salty inlet I live near today) that I've spent my life straddling, and the fields and hills and trees flanking it's banks. And then the fields grow bigger, and greener and then slowly a sort of yellow-y brown hue before they start turning into red canyons and then mountains before descending into Phoenix (1. because it makes perfect sense to fly to Phoenix on your way back to the Pacific Northwest and 2. that's the longest run on sentence ever).

I used to take drives west on Highway 44 or 70 from St. Louis because I felt I couldn't breathe in the city and it's confines (mostly emotional, less often physical). The farther out I got, the farther away from that little nebulous of my world, the more free I felt. It's funny, anywhere I go these days--maybe this is what happens when you get older and less footloose--I mostly just have the desire to grab ahold of what I love and draw it in closer to me.

You'd think that I'd be melancholy returning to this land of people who wear bad shoes (no comments about the wellies, please) and wouldn't think of purchasing a car without a roofrack, the land of rain and stark beauty of mountains against water, the smartest city, the hippest city (too "smart" and too "hip" for me)...but I'm not. Everytime I go, I come back with more answers about myself. It's like these two places I love so much are the physical representation of the two sides of me, the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Sarah. I've handpicked the best pieces of those parts and am now just looking for the best way to combine them both.

I've made some decisions about my world, though:

1. I have to start getting out more. I miss concerts and art shows and sporting events. I miss socializing for a reason beyond the boozing. I like getting likkered up for a reason. Not the pretentious ones. The fun ones, the ones where everyone is part and parcel of the process.

2. I'm totally taking the soccer class, despite the ridicule I suffered at the hands of the Royaleites on Sunday. I thumb my nose to all of you.

3. I'm back on the blogging horse. It's raining, what else do I have to do?

4. I'm totally turning in my crappy notebook journal for a moleskin. I love them. I don't care that they cost an arm and a leg. They are a luxury, much like good wine and coffee and running shoes, that cannot be shirked.

Stay tuned. The wheels are turning again.

Pics of the trip will be up this weekend. Yaa-hoo.

The Apocalypse Has Been Averted

2007-10-07T23:59:00.000-07:00

We were having a discussion in the car today that resulted in this assessment: we as humans have gotten so bored and shallow that the Apocalypse is truly imminent. We are so ridiculously in need of entertainment that we've created a slew of completely useless products just so that we as a society can spend more money and aquire more shit. Gimmicks. America: there's always a better gimmick to be had. What follows is a list of the products and projects that support this arguement:

* The beer that tells you when it's cold
*The chewing gum that warms your mouth
*Rock of Love with Bret Michaels (don't get me wrong, I absolutely could not stop watching this show, it was so amazing, but seriously? 25 dumb bitches show up to be on a show where they could possibly win a "dating relationship" with the washed up 44 year old singer from Poison? WHAT??? This guy is making money on this shit.)

Every time I think we've reached a new low and certainly the apocalypse--or at the very least some sort of locust infestation or tidal wave or huge Ice Age--is upon us, something good happens to restore my faith in the human race.

UHG

2007-10-02T12:35:00.000-07:00

Forecast for Seattle, WA (98102)

10-Day Forecast

NEW: Larger Radar Maps & No Ads

		High / Low (°F)	Precip. %
Today Oct 02	Rain / Wind	56°/50°	100 %
Wed Oct 03	T-Showers	52°/47°	70 %
Thu Oct 04	T-Showers	52°/42°	70 %
Fri Oct 05	Partly Cloudy	55°/45°	20 %
Sat Oct 06	Showers	52°/50°	40 %
Sun Oct 07	Showers	55°/49°	60 %
Mon Oct 08	Showers	54°/48°	40 %
Tue Oct 09	Partly Cloudy	54°/48°	10 %
Wed Oct 10	Showers	54°/50°	60 %
Thu Oct 11	Showers	54°/48°	60 %
Last Updated Oct 2 12:06 p.m. PT

A New Kind of Anniversary

2007-09-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

The rain has descended. In great, heaping sheets, it's fallen like a big grey blanket on the city. It's as if someone flipped a switch and suddenly it became winter.

I've never before been so sad to see summer go...I've never loved the sun as much as I did for the last three months. And it's gone away for the next seven, and I've got a nice wet winter to look forward too. Pardon me for feeling a little gloomy...

Because that's what's happened. I've lost my ju-ju, the spunk or spice that usually keeps my head well above water and occasionally in the clouds. So I'm thinking about the fall and thinking about what I was doing a year ago...and it occurred to me. A year ago I was putting my shit in the back seat of my car, pulling out onto South Grand for the last time and heading West to the sounds of Joe Buck and the Cardinals on AM radio.

One year ago today I was on my way here.

I didn't move to Seattle for a stellar job, or love or to "find myself." I moved here for the same reason you buy a new pair of running shoes--because the old ones don't have any shocks left and your feet hurt. And you slide into the new ones and you can feel cushion and the tightness of new leather, and it feels good. They[re shiny. They're clean. Suddenly you can't wait for the next run. And they hurt at first; you're still breaking them in...but eventually the mold themselves to you and you're off and rollin' again.

So, I've been here. I embraced the rain and the weirdo Northwestern attitudes, and gear and bad shoes. I've cheered for the Mariners and I've learned all about water sports. And now that I think I've broken things in, I'm trying to figure out how much of me molds to this new place and how much I attempt to mold it to me. Because while I found myself long before I came here, I don't want to be diluted.

So give me a little time, a little hiatus and I'll be back, well balanced and better than ever.

AWOL

2007-09-18T23:04:00.001-07:00

I'm here!

I'm still here! I haven't fallen off the planet, as you might have guessed. I've been savoring the last bit of the beauty that is summer in the Northwest...and now, I think it might be officially over. The chill is in the air, the sky is that brilliant blue that I can only associate with autumn, the clouds are beginning to roll in and it's getting darker and darker earlier and earlier. I'm back in the schools, where I love to be and it just makes it feel even more like fall...and a little nostalgic for fall in the midwest, because I for whatever reason I can't think of a more quintessential fall than apple pie eating, football watching, leaf raking under vast blue skies in middle America.

So, while I enjoy the last few drops of sun before the rain begins in earnest, you people hang on tight...I'll be back in a few.

Go Cards, ask Lucas says as of today it is still mathematically possible, and I'm plugging for you.

Quickie

2007-09-03T15:41:00.001-07:00

Real blogs coming down the pike, but to tide you over, check out the new pics at flickr...

And, just for fun...check me out online...

Thanks Shakespeare's bean counter!

God love the world wide web.

And, while many of you have probably read this, just an homage to my favorite pizza on the planet: I wrote this review back in the days of Code Red and Stltoday.com reviews. Viva Shakes.

Field trip to find Shakespeare

If I am anything, I’m a food junkie. Not to be confused with a foodie, which to me indicates a level of snobbery. I love to eat, and I love to eat everything from perfectly-cooked, melt in your mouth filet mignon to crispy-yet-melty grilled cheese from a truck stop. I eat without prejudice.

There are two things that I consider myself fairly qualified to judge, however. Burritos and pizza. My first job out of high school was working for Minsky’s Pizza in Kansas City. It was pretty good pizza. Upon moving here, I was introduced to the St. Louis style pizza. Personally, I’m not diggin’ it.

There are a few criteria for a good pie: crust that is crispy on the bottom, yet fluffy. Sauce that has spice without overpowering the toppings. Toppings that are fresh, and liberally applied. And while I’m a fan of the cheese, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. In my estimation there is but one place that meets and exceeds these criteria. It does, however, require a bit of a field trip. Shakespeare’s Pizza in Columbia, Missouri is worth the hour and thirty minute drive.

It should be noted that I am from that neck of the woods, and was dining on Shakey’s long before I understood what the “Clapton is God” graffiti on the outside of the building meant. Just this week I was in town visiting the folks and stopped in for lunch. I was reminded yet again of the pure genius of the place.

First of all, for $7 I got an 8 inch pie and a beverage. They have whole wheat crust, which I love, the mushrooms are fresh and the pepperoni is nearly an eighth of an inch thick. The sausage comes from a vendor on The Hill, and is made especially for them. Upon walking in the door, you can view the pizza-cookers to your left, behind a tall counter and glass. Place your order at the counter, and then take a stroll through the three adjoining rooms, all filled with booths and high top tables, as well as video game machines galore. You’ll find a bar in the second room that serves Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on tap (my first exposure to my favorite beer), and the World Cup games on the tube.

Aside from phenomenal pizza, the staff at Shakespeare’s is another story entirely. I often run into Mizzou alum, and I’ve found that the most fun and interesting of them were also Shakespeare’s alum. The kids that I knew that worked behind that counter were usually the ones that gave the phrase “career student” a whole new meaning. There was often a long haired, party-hardy quality to the staff, but more than that, I’ve never been served by a surly, grumpy or remotely un-engaged employee.

On that note, somebody at that joint has a sense of humor, and I like it. Their table tents are funny. Their signs make me giggle. If you’re in town for a Tigers game, or to take a ride on the Katy Trail, or just have nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, check them out. If nothing else, their website is definitely worth checking out, if for nothing else than the Mission Statement: “It's the pizza, stupid. And maybe the beer. Everything else can go fly. Have a good time doing it, just wash your hands before and after.”

Shakespeare’s Pizza

225 South Ninth Street

Downtown Columbia, Missouri 65201

www.shakespeares.com

Quickie

2007-09-03T15:41:00.000-07:00

Birthday Magic Update

2007-08-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

1. I have no reflections to share with you, reader, regarding my age, my battle with immortality or wrinkles. It is what it is, and that's all I have to say about. And at the risk of retreating on that statement...I am thinking that my lack of reflections might be a direct demonstration of my growing maturity.

2. Birthday: Ray's Boathouse, on the water, wrapped in fleece blankets because it was f-ing cold, many IPA's consumed. I then proceeded to play skeeball at favorite watering hole, where I kicked neighbor/friend's ass. I think he let me win, but whatever.

3. Weekend of birthday: commenced with an afternoon of sunning myself on the rooftop deck, a nice little suntan and a happy hour at the tiki bar down the street. The plan was to build a fire on the beach that eve, but it seems as though this was not an original idea, as half the population of Seattle was on the beach with firewood, so we instead sat happily in the sand, again wrapped in blankets and fleeces, shivering, in August, and wishing for socks and gloves.

4. Fried Chicken ala Oprah. My lovely, fantastic neighbors got this tray of fried chicken that was seriously out of control. So much. And we ate the hell out of it to lay the foundation for the evening of fun.

5. Bar. My roommates, god love them, they should be party planners for a living, reserved a part of one of our favorite bars and then invited everyone we know to join. And I wasn't sure how that would turn out, because we don't know very many people. But lots of people were there! And I know lots that couldn't make it! Which means I officially know people in Seattle.

6. Why I feel old and why I am so glad that I do:

So, my neighbors, with the chicken, have this 22 year old cousin. She was visiting with her friends from Vancouver for the weekend that coincided with my birthday. She brought two of her 22 year old friends. They were ready to get down and dirty and party like it was 1999. Though they likely don't remember 1999. Because they were going to bed at 9 p.m. while their parents did the partying. Anyway. Two of the girls were riding with ML and I on our way to the bar. They asked how old I was turning this birthday. I told him 28. And here's the subsequent conversation:

"Oh, my god, you're totally kidding. No way do you look like you're 28!"
"Yeah, you totally look like you could be our age!" Mind you, all of 6 years younger than me. I've dated guys that are twice as old as that older than me...did that make sense at all?
"OMG, I hope I look like you when I'm 28."
"You've aged so well!"
"Yeah, what's your secret?" Lots of booze, not enough sleep, lots of embarassing moments and a good mixture of aloofness and desperation.
[Under her breath to friend, re: ML and myself] "They are so tight!" This I took as a compliment, and thought, hey, all those sit-ups on the ball must be doing me well. Untill I realized they weren't talking about bouncing a quarter off my abs, or ass, or any other part of my body...no, they were talking about our dazzling personalities. Damn it. I'd rather you bounced a quarter off my ass. This just goes to show that I'm not totally down with the kids.

I am just so glad that while I may not have left my days of boozin', carousin' and playing like a kid behind, I have gained some semblance of tact and wisdom. Or, at least, I don't think I sound like THAT any more. Which is good.

7. I consumed the following:

4 peices of fried chicken
2 glasses of wine
1 juice cocktail
2 IPA's
1 glass champagne
1 jager bomb (blech)
1 Washington Apple shot
who the hell knows how many beers when I returned home and decided to prove to the youngins' that were passed out next door that I could still pound beers like a 21 year old. I was successful in proving that--what I was less successful in was recovering the next day. Uhg.

Thanks for all the wonderful birthday calls, cards, messages, emails, etc, etc. You all rock.

Birthday Magic Installment No. 1

2007-08-08T20:56:00.000-07:00

Just a few weeks ago I wrote on this blog that I was craving Shakespeares pizza. Well. Ask and you shall receive. Mama Marilou delivers.

I love my birthday. I love Shakespeares. This t-shirt came in a box with:

1 cheese double cheese pizza
1 mushroom and black olive pizza
1 mushroom pizza
(please note lack of meat products due to the fact that it is illegal to ship meat products across state lines without proper permits. Just in case you were thinking of shipping some meat products in the near future)

1 Shakespeare's pint glass
2 pink Shakespeares knit roll-down skirts

After the pizza/t-shirt excitement died away, I inquired further about these skirts. One of which, by the way, is so short it barely covers my asscheeks. The photo above is taken with considerable doctoring of said skirt. Evidently this is a new product that you can purchase from Shakespeares. Marilou did not, however, purchase said skirts, but they were sent as promotional material. Probably because she bought so much of the other merchandise.

We ate the hell out of those pizzas. And while I cannot say that they were quite the same as a normal gooey, cheesy, Shakespeares yumminess, they were damn close, and probably the most fun gift I've ever gotten.

So it begins, my week of birthday madness.

My birthday is an all inclusive event. It's like New Year's Eve for me. It usually lasts for more than a couple of days, as evidenced by the early celebration this birthday eve. And it usually also encompasses at least an afternoon of contemplative writing about the past year and what the next year will hold. Usually because I think about what I thought I would be doing at the age of ___ when I was 14, much to Amy's chagrin. And then I think about whether I'm happy with the fact that I most likely am not doing what I thought I would be doing, and if in fact I am, do either of those situations make me happy. This usually followed by a "bender" of monstrous proportions that most likely induces illness for at least a day or so to follow.

So, stay tuned for
A) moody, self-conscious, over-analytical blogs evaluating past year, complete with what I thought ages 27 and 28 might include.
B) story of up coming bender

As for the Birthday Eve, this little Shakespeare's dining and ensemble was accompanied by some Bitch wine (see photo) and a little music listening, courtesy of my lovely roommate TBanks. He has the fortunate situation of listening to new and fun music because he works at a record label. We as his roommates get to mooch off his fortunate situation.

Tata for now.

A Big Shout Out

2007-08-03T14:04:00.000-07:00

I'd like to give a big, fat Shout Out, Thanks and an F-You to the Asswipe Theiving Gutless Peice of Shit Abomination of a Human Goat Fucker ('scuse my language, but truly cannot be described any other way, as this person has, in fact, attempted to fuck me backwards and forwards) that stole my wallet right out from under my nose last Monday. I'm glad I was able to provide you with the following conveniences:

a bunch of old reciepts
the Discover card, long since closed that I never bothered to take out of my wallet
my Safeway frequent shopper card
my Borders Rewards card (dammmmit)
several business cards, including that of my banker, my friend and my former trainer
my Missouri state drivers licence
my checkbook
a really cute orange wallet that actually belonged to my roommate

I only wish I could have provided you with a little spending cash or at the very least a couple of quarters for the parking meter. You do, however, have my drivers license, which should come in handy when you write checks in my name. Oh, wait! You've already figured that one out. Good for you. Too bad you didn't look at said license to see that your very legible signature in which you use each of my names in a nice girly script looks NOTHING like my own. Nice try. Bank of America foiled your plan just after you drained my already feeble bank account and cost me several overdraft fees. Luckily, BOA and I are on great speaking terms, I know this because I spent much of my morning talking with six different members of their staff.

I only wish you'd had the decency to toss the drivers license (well, and maybe the Borders card, and the wallet for Maria's sake) out in the parking lot where I might have come across it, because that would have been handy. Especially since replacing a drivers license from a state in which you no longer reside is not easy, and requires some serious finagleing.

But thank you, AGTPSAHGF, for doing your part to irradicate the biggest frivolous expense from my budget--drinking. As a newcomer to this fine city, I have yet to really define myself as the barfly that I am to any particular establishment, therefore, most bartenders do not, in fact, recognize my face and know that I am a good 7 years past underaged drinking. And while I have officially reached the age where it is a little bit flattering to be ID'd when I order my frosty ale, it's inconvenient when I have to prove that I am indeed, old enough to drink.

And I know you might have forgotten, as we humans are wont to do, that next Thursday is my birthday, a day usually fraught with tasty bevereages of the alcoholic nature with friends and loved ones, usually at a festive location, like say a bar or restaurant. I understand that often we are too busy writing fraudulant checks to remember these minor details, and while I sit on my couch watching the Mariners game with my cat while my friends and roommates are enjoying the birthday party that I CANNOT ATTEND because I am, in fact, unable to prove that it is my birthday, I will think of you fondly.

As a side note, I was lucky enough to spend the remainder of my morning listening to the pleasent chords of Pachabel's Canon in D over and over on the Missouri Department of Revenue's hold music. Also, I've discovered that in Missouri, it is grammatically correct to refer to one's driver license as opposed to drivers license, as I heard the gentleman reciting the recorded options refer to the Driver License Bureau at least fourteen times while I was on hold.

I can truly say that these experiences are gifts that are irreplaceable, and if I have the chance to someday repay you for your trouble, I will surly be prepared to deliver a most powerful kick to your overly zealous balls, one hard enough in fact to drive them out of your remarkably wretched face.

Goodday to you too.

Post Harry Depression

2007-07-31T14:18:00.000-07:00

I finished it.

And, mind you, while I am not a crier, I wept through the last 150 pages. Wept. Had to get out of my bed at 1:30 in the morning to get the roll of toilet paper. That kind of wept.

So worth it.

Though, I could do without the epilouge, not to be nitpicky.

There is a little hollow place inside of me where "waiting for the next installment of Harry Potter" used to live. I'm in let down land. I want to go back and re-read the last 100 pages again, just because I can't quite give it up.

I might need therapy.

The World is Just A Little Brighter Today

2007-07-26T09:10:00.000-07:00

In the last 24 hours, the world has gotten a little brighter....

1. Unfortunate accounting error has since been resolved without incident. Yay.

2. I heard my boss ask someone if they had enough "bandwidth" to complete a task, and while I find this office-speak buzzword crap incredibly irritating most of the time, this time I just laughed. Bandwidth. Really? Because that's easier than saying "time?"

3. Perhaps my ability to laugh at said situation is because I AM LEAVING CUBE LAND, PRAISE ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY.

Yes, you heard me...I am soon to be a full time, permanent, salaried, benefit-ed employee of _________ nonprofit. I"m not going to tell you because, well, it's just stupid to post that shit on a blog. However, it's soccer and writing, all wrapped up into one cute little package. If you want to know more, you can email me.

I've been pining over this job, so it's super exciting that it has finally come through, complete with a nice salary package (well, nice for a nonprofit) and something like 28 days of paid time off. Paid wha-wha-what? Yep, I said it. For the first time in, um, several years, I will be paid to go on vacation, what a concept. And, um, yeah, someone else is paying for my visit to the doc. And the dentist. And the eye doc.

While all those things are terrific and exciting and nice to have, I think that the two things that I'm most excited about (aside from the actual job, which sounds to be fun and interesting, but again, I'm not telling you about that here) is the fact that the non profit is very small, and is housed in one big open-air office. Open air=no cubes. Just desks, all situated next to windows that look out over a state park. And, while it will be nice to be able to stretch and not hit half-walls, the best part of the whole deal is that I'll rarely be sitting at said desk. I'll be out and about and moving and rarely sitting. Which is good for me.

So, yay.

Adios, cube land, it's been fun...

One More Reason Why I'm Weird

2007-07-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

I sold a lot of things when I moved. Furniture. Clothes. Electronics. Kitchenware. My sanity. My books. You know what I'm the most broken up about? My books. Six in particular. I never would have thought it...but in light of the most recent Harry Potter Mediaganza, I have suddenly and painfully realized the error of my ways.

I owned all six of the HP's, hard bound. They're heavy. They're bulky. They don't move well. And after the number of moves I've dealt with in the last 36 months, I'd prefer to never EVER have to lift a box of books again. Somewhere along the line, this prompted me to SELL ALL SIX HARRY POTTER BOOKS.

I'm an idiot.

Now, this is not why I'm weird. Most of America would say something similar if the devil possessed them and forced their hand to the used book store. Most, post exorcism, would slap their foreheads and wail "what the hell was I thinking?" In this, I am not unusual.

I went to the bookstore the other day to investigate the seventh and final Harry installment and just couldn't bring myself to pre-order. Why, you ask? Because the thought of that lovely book sitting alone, all by it lonesome, on my bookshelf, without its six siblings....that I had so callously parted with...the thought nearly brings me to tears.

It's like I've given six of my children up for adoption, and then kept the seventh.

I still haven't bought the final book, for I am too torn up about my rash decisions.

I'm hoping that I can get over it by lunchtime today so I can hightail it across the street to the bookstore and greedily eat up the end of the saga. I am going to push through my pain and give that lonely book a home.

Why am I such a dork?

And, all I have to say is this book better be worth all the drama I'm putting myself through...

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Book Review and Assorted Complaints

2007-07-24T15:47:00.001-07:00

I had a quickie lunch on a park bench in the sun...both the lunchbreak and the sun were much needed after A) a full day of corporate shenanigans and B) a week of clouds. I sat, chitchatted on the phone and read my book. Which I will tell you about. After I tell you about the shenanigans that filled my day.

Assorted Personal and Corporate Shenanigans that Added Up to One Really Annoying Day

The first email I see when I get in this morning: "ALERT...there has been 2 incidents within the last week of someone going to the bathroom (#1) in a paper towel and then tosses it into cars with their windows rolled down, even just cracked windows. " Great. Now, I decided to take the gamble and left my sunroof cracked, as I usually do. Stay tuned to see if I get a piss towel in my car.
Rescheduling the same interview FOUR times. I swear this is karma for that damn job I used to have.
The unpleasent discovery of an accouting error leaving me with approximately $2.35 in my checking account. I say accounting error as if I balance my checkbook--who does that anymore? Online banking is the new checkbook balancing system. Accounting error in my world means that I took the gamble and decided to attempt to cut it REALLY close when I went to the grocery store yesterday. Which normally doesn't bother me... walking the line between black and red (I'm used to it at this point). But! Today, it annoyed me.
This is the crowning achievement of annoyances for the day. The pleasent and happy discovery that yet another one of my former intimates (and I'm not talking about my underwear here, people) has found himself--willingly--in a binding relationship (they call this marriage in some circles) or fathering children. Yep. Nearly half of the dudes I've ever had an intimate/romantic relationship in my life are giving it up to the White Picket Fence Gods. Which is really cool and good for them. Yay. Congrats and all that. (The other half, incidentally, are probably crazy or have issues similar to my own...like attracted to like, right...committment phobes, I'm your woman).

Let's talk about number 4 for a second, shall we? Let me do what I can to completely, and with annotated rebuttals, write exactly what you are all thinking.

90% of the time I'm very much happy for and in support of the White Picket Fence Gods and worship thereof. In fact, I anticipate, that in some alternate universe somewhere, I might do the same. Or, a few years down the line, I might sell my soul to the Live In A One Bedroom Apartment with Significant Other and Child(ren) and Cat and Dog and Have a Very Cute, Albiet Poor Life Gods. I hope so, in fact. 90% of the time, I'm quite happy with my very single, very free, and very independant lifestyle. I'm of the school of thought that until the fun runs out, well, just keep having it.
Everyone is human, people!!! Sometimes the cross between White Picket Fence Land and One Bedroom Apartment.... seems more appealing than others. And sometimes it just sucks to feel left out.
Um, aside from the left out feeling, which we're all prone to once in a while, that's just one more thing we learned in Kindergarten, there is also the feeling of OH GOD THERE WON'T BE ANYONE LEFT. Yeah, yeah. I'd prefer to be single and alone than coupled and with the wrong person. Trust me, I've already made that decision, it's one I didn't take lightly and continue to be in support of. However, it's a scary thought.

Okay, so I'm like Love Potion #9. You want to settle down, pop out 2.5 and a ranch house in the suburbs? Come make out with me. I won't do any of that with you...nope, I'll be pounding the pavement, evidently. But--! Do not fear, click your heels three times and voila! All of the above will begin dropping out of the sky like meteors careening into your life. Good luck with that.

I'd also like to ad a disclaimer for any potential dates, family members or professional colleagues out there. While the above may or may not cast me in a particularly flattering light, I am in fact NOT a 25 cent whore. The list is not that long, trust me. However, I am not getting any younger, and it seems that I am sort of like that girl that turns dudes gay--except I turn them married.

Ok. Moving on. What, you might ask, got me out of my super cynical, slightly over-critical, jaded and bitter funk this fine Tuesday? A couple of things. Namely, the sun. But also, Chuck Klosterman.

I read Sex, Drugs and Cocoapuffs a few years ago, and while some of it was spot on and hilarious, I found most of it mildly amusing at best at trite at worst. I thought he sounded a lot like a David Foster Wallace wannabee (and as far as I'm concerned...the best way to be like David Foster Wallace is to stick a airpump in your arse and blow really hard until your head hangs in the trees like a parade balloon). However, I do believe either that I was mistaken or he just got way less DFW-like.

I just started reading IV, his new book. It's divided into three sections. The first is a bunch of interviews that previously ran in Esquire and Spin, though these have his commentary, and some are the un-edited versions, which is nice. So, lots of famous people so far. Brit-brit in all her bubble-headed glory, Val Kilmer, who seems to be one of those people who answers a question like "what is 4+4?" with "the sky is a nice shade of peach today, don't you think, dolly?", and Bono, who is either the worlds coolest celeb or an unbelievable narcissist.

Second, which I haven't gotten to, are essays out of his head...his opinions about, well, things. Like pirates and monogamy. (Take a minute to contemplate those two things. Okay, go.) This could be the true test, honestly. He'll either be funny, or spewing crap like all those bloggers out there. Heh.Heh.

Third, and I do believe the most risky--a section of his fiction. I firmly believe that just because you are a good writer in one genre DOES NOT make you a good writer in another, mofrair. A good novelist does not a playwright make. You can be a freakin' comedian on paper, but be a hack at writing drama. So, here we go. Can he pull off the genre shift? It remains to be seen.

But, for now, he's making me chuckle out loud and reminding me that there are bigger, less important and much funnier things to be mulled over, discussed and dissected than the question behind my apparent Love Potion #9 Status.

Um, one last non sequiter before I retire for the afternoon. Have you seen The Last Kiss? It's the movie that Zach Braff did after Garden State. It is, by the way, NOTHING like Garden State aside from the slightly annoying yet hard to resist common theme of Quarter-Life Crisis. This movie is the black to Garden State's light, the punch in the gut to Garden State's pat on the back. I watched it on Sunday, and turned off the television immediately infuriated and unsatisfied. Then, on Monday, I started thinking about it and the message and thinking it wasn't half bad, though terribly depressing. And here it is Tuesday, and I can't get the damn thing out of my head, though I have come to the conclusion that the writing and acting are fair to good, the direction is poo-poo.

So, if you have seen the movie, I'd be interested in your take. If you haven't, go rent it and let me know. That's your assignment.

Signing off...cheers. I'm going to go lift a glass or two to my freedom, for now.

Humor Amid Chaos

2007-07-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

So, I like to take those current events quizzes online on Fridays. You know the ones, the multiple choice quizzes that are really testing how much time you blow online at work on a daily basis...we all know how much time I kill at work using the world wide web. You'd think I'd do better.

Anyway, what follows is question number two from msnbc.com's quiz...please, view answer D. What's funny about this answer is that none of the other answers in the quiz are tongue in cheek.

2. A powerful 6.8 magnitude earthquake shook Japan, causing a fire, damage and leaks at the Kashiwazaki-Kariwa nuclear plant. Officials said the leaks were well within safety limits. Which of these distinctions does the plant hold?

A. It is Japan’s oldest nuclear plant
B. It is the world’s largest in terms of power output
C. It utilizes nuclear material from the Hiroshima atomic bomb
D. It is the only plant in the world to use miso soup to cool the reactor

I can't decide if this is slightly inappropriate, due to the magnitude of the crisis...or just funny. I'm going with just funny.

Stay tuned for more crap I find on the Internet as I work toward a marathon no-work day. Happy Friday.

The Email I Sent and the One I Wanted To Send

2007-07-17T15:29:00.000-07:00

Hi Jackass,

Per our conversation today, the one in which you uttered obscenities and let your voice climb several decibels, I've attached copies of the background check form in the event that you need blank copies. I realize that we did give you explicit instructions on how to fill out said form, but they must have not penetrated the nasty ‘tude you’ve ensconced yourself in, so I have re-iterated those you must not have heard below. I also realize the form asks you to fill out approximately twelve lines of information, all very basic in nature, information that every application known to man, from credit cards, to video stores requires.

Please re-complete the personal information section and sign and date the Applicant Signature/Notice and Acknowledgment line just below. As previously stated, I cannot accept verbal permission to file the background check. If you can email the form back to xxxxx@zzzzzzzz.com by tomorrow at 2pm we will be able to complete your placement on time. That is, if you want the job we are attempting to find for you. If you’d rather continue to be unemployed, that’s fine by me.

I heard you when you stated, so clearly, and at high volume, that this is a "pain in the ass." Obviously, your time is very valuable, which is why you’ve called me a second time in ten minutes to inquire as to the status of this email. I apologize for an inconvenience this may have caused. Let me know if I can do anything else for you. I am quite adept at kicking people’s aforementioned asses and would be happy to oblige if such services were required.

Have a great day,

Sarah

Rankled

2007-07-13T15:08:00.000-07:00

Three Things That Have Crawled Under My Skin And Shat Today:

1. What is up with the f-ing coffee? Aren't people in the NW supposed to love that stuff? Wouldn't that lead you to believe that they might know how to brew a pot? I poured a cup this morning that looked like colored water. Uhg. I literally poured it out and brewed a new pot. Jesus. People. Learn. One. Scoop. Per. Cup. Of. WATER!!!!!!

2. Man, I've worked at this job for four months now. It's time to learn my name. All of you. You see me EVERY SINGLE DAY. I send you all emails, often multiple times a day. It's not a complicated name. Sarah. There are thousands, millions even, out there. H. H.H.H.

3. Frankly, you can send your own mail. You have two legs and two hands with ten fingers. Why are mine more workable than yours, eh? Maybe, if you remembered my name, or the spelling of it, I'd be more inclined to put you at the top of my list. For now, DO IT YOURSELF.

What's in My Ear

2007-07-12T15:28:00.000-07:00

Not a bug.

Did I ever tell you the story about my mom's cousin's wife? She got a june bug in her ear. Yep. And had to go to the hospital to have it "removed." Gross. Did you read that story in the news a month or so ago about the kid that had spiders in his ear? Double Gross.

So, yeah. No bugs in my ear.

However, I just went shopping (well, I bought a bunch of blank CD's and took them to my friend Kasey's computer and shopped on her ITunes) and got all this brilliant new music. I've made myself a playlist on the Zune and I can't stop listening to it...it's so freakin' great. Some of it is old school, some of it's new, some just new to me:

1. Guster. Can I take a moment of silence to contemplate just how much I love this band? Okay. I'd heard a couple of their songs on alternative radio stations, but I wasn't that familiar with them. Then I went to see their show on Valentines Day, and let me tell you, I felt as though I could chalk it up that holiday for love and bitterness alike up as a success. First of all, the music was fun. It's fun, its heart felt, it grooves...I dunno. I'm not a music junky snob person, but they just groove, without being one of those irritating jam bands. Second, their drummer is phenomenal. I think they actually just call him the "percussionist." Whatever. He didn't wear a shirt, his arms were like tree trunks and he often didn't use anything but his hands to drum. Hot. Three, they are super cute, and they are funny. Really funny.

2. Dave Matthews Band. Okay, okay. Stick your nose in the air. I know, they've become this teeny-bopper, frat boy band. But that doesn't make them bad! I still love the album Crash most, and my very favorite song is...um...wait for it...uh, what the hell is it called...Say Goodbye. I think it might be on my top 20 of all time. But today I'm listening to Before These Crowded Streets, and I just have to say that just cause the dumbasses like it, doesn't mean I can't like it to. So I thumb my nose at those of you that have your noses in the air. Put a DMB album in your CD player, open the sunroof on a sunny day, and drive with the windows down and the music cranked and tell me that it isn't the perfect summer soundtrack.

3. Sky Blue Sky--new Wilco. I loved Wilco in college. That's when I fell in love with this phenomena called "Alternative Country." It was like combining the two forms of music I grew up with and coming up with this perfect mutation of music...I loved Being There, and I really loved Summerteeth. Then, somewhere along the way they did that monstrosity called Yankee Hotel Foxtrot...which I think people liked because it was different...it had lost the twang, I think, the softness. Instead, it was like a little kid went through his mom's kitchen and got out every last thing that made noise, and then started playing "music." I'm probably not making any friends here, because I know most people, critics and laymen alike, loved that album. Fine. But I like this one way, way better. They've done some experimentation, as we are all wont to do now and again, but they're back to their roots. Yay.

4. David Gray. My roommate, Marilou, loves depressing music. Well, depressing music and boy bands. Well, and Kelly Clarkson. Anyway. She recently discovered Elliott Smith, and I often was afraid she would one day just not get out of her bed. In fairness, she has this bed that if I owned, I'd never leave either....in a ginormous room with everything but a mini-fridge in it...so maybe that's not the best arguement, but my point is this...um. Well, she'd love David Gray, and I'm often afraid that David Gray will go the way of Elliott Smith, just because he's that melancholy and troubled.

5. The Appleseed Cast. Have I talked about them before? Probably. Because I have always really liked them. A friend from a past life, who has now gone on and made something of himself and his music, used to play a bit with them. I really like the album Two Conversations the best. Someone in that band had recently ended a very long and tumultuous relationship with a very special person. Yowzers, I'm telling you, it's like the five stages of denial all wrapped up into one album. But there is one song, number 9, is this really sweet recollection of seeing that person you once loved, and realizing how happy they are...minus the bitterness, minus the obsession, minus that part of you that does the drive by their apartment late at night when you think no one is watching.

Ok. I'm officially fried. My brain has turned to mush after a long day of exercising my sitting on my ass muscles. I must go feed my brain with beer to gt ready for Trivia Nite!

They Never Said They Weren't Hard Workers

2007-07-10T22:46:00.001-07:00

Quite Possibly the Most Disgusting Thing I've Read All Day

2007-07-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

UHHHHHHHHGGGGGGG.

http://www.stltoday.com/stltoday/news/stories.nsf/stlouiscitycounty/story/F110F6023EAAD3A186257314006E538B?OpenDocument

Expert: Beetles at Busch Stadium are harmless, in search of mate
By Cheryl Wittenauer
ASSOCIATED PRESS
07/10/2007
ST. LOUIS (AP) -- The shiny black beetles that have descended on Busch Stadium in recent weeks may be a nuisance, but they won't hurt anyone.
That's according to St. Louis Zoo bug expert Bob Merz, who said the sturdy, tank-like insects with the hard shell body are just passing through, perhaps in pursuit of a mate.
Merz, the zoo's manager of invertebrates, said the "ground beetles," about a half-inch to three-quarters of an inch long, take flight to find their special someone.
He said they will move on to the next destination in a week or so. Those that escape extermination, that is.
Mike Bertani, director of operations at Busch Stadium, said Tuesday the beetles are being sprayed this week while the Cardinals are away.
"We have a problem. We're spraying for them," Bertani said, declining to comment further.
Fans say they've seen the beetles hovering around the lights and bouncing around in the stands. Some are known to make a clicking sound.
In the insect's oh-so-brief life, basically a year, it transforms from an egg to larva to a pupa, the early stage of its becoming a beetle, usually in June and July.It pops out of the ground in mid-July to August for its fourth and final stage -- as an adult beetle -- when it looks for a mate to produce the next generation.Warmer temperatures may have sped up the process this year, Merz said.
The stadium's bright lights and abundant food source -- other insects -- probably attracted the beetles, he said.
When they eat, they emit a scent designed to attract a mate -- to start the life cycle all over again.
"I don't see this as an ongoing problem," Merz said. "It probably will right itself in the next few weeks."
But in the meantime, the open-air stadium creates free access from miles away.
"They're making their way toward the light, where the food is, and where things might smell right," Merz said.
People with "morbid fears" of cockroaches might be afraid of the near look-alike ground beetle, Merz said.
But even they have a bad rap.
Merz said cockroaches are harmless. It's the clutter and filth that attract them that pose health problems.

Eating My Own Arm and Itching Like a Homeless Person

2007-07-09T14:16:00.001-07:00

My friend Stacie had this habit of holding up her fingers for the number of things she needed to remember to say during our conversations. This often happened because we would talk at great length, at great speed and intensity, and often the point(s) would get lost. For whatever reason, I am having one of those days where my brain works a mile a minute and my mouth (fingers) can't quite keep up...so, two fingers in the air, I have two things to say....

It's shocking, really, that my brain is working so speedily at the moment. Why, you ask? Because I have consumed enough calories today to keep a toddler relatively content, but not enough to sustain a full grown woman for more than a couple of hours. I am dying here. I could eat my own arm, I'm so hungry.

I am not one of those calorie counters. I'm not, and if any one of you (five people) reading this blog are not one who knows me, please, let it be stated that I love to eat, I do it a lot and with great gusto. And I'm relatively nondescriminating about what I put in my body--I love good veggies almost as much as I love a cheeseburger or--love of all loves--a fatty burrito. I don't really diet. And I usually really hate it when people rattle off an annotated list of what they've consumed, particularly when in reference to their diets.

But c'mon, people, someone look at the following and tell me if that is possibly enough food for one person?

1 smoothie
1 peice of toast with cream cheese
1 granola bar
1 spinach salad with tuna, green beans, pecans and yellow peppers. oh, and onions.
2 mini snickers bars (only because I want to eat my face off right now and I'm trying to make the little flying hunger monkeys go away).

I'm not dieting, exactly, but making a super-huge effort to be more healthy. I feel like Bridget Jones. I start bootcamp tomorrow, I'm watching my meals...and yet, still seem to have no problem going out at drinking a couple really heavy micro-brews after sweating my ass off and eating rabbit food. I have probably put on about 10 pounds since moving to this great city, all of which I blame on the rain, and part of which I blame on the fact that I have the first sedentary job I've had in years. So, you know, might as well nip it in the bud, right?

My parents have always been healthy eaters, and are even more so now after my dad's heart issues. My mom did this South Beach Diet thing, or a version of it, a few years ago and dropped a ridiculous amount of weight. When I am with her sometimes I marvel at the fact that she exists on string cheese and fruit and lettuce all day long until she gets home from work and makes dinner. I don't get it. Someone tell me how this works? I mean, do I have to train myself to eat less? How long am I goign to have to deal with the hunger headache? And why, really? It's a giant catch 22. I eat less to lose a few, but then I'm so tired and drained that I can't even think about putting one foot in front of the other in the manner that it takes to burn any sort of energy, and so I go home, exhausted and frail and stuff everything possible into my mouth. There's got to be a better way, right?

Ok. Now that you've suffered through that very whiny, feminine, Glamour magazine style bitch session I'll move to point numero dos.

Sunburn. I love the sun, I love it and I think I have this inate sense that I have to get as much of it as possible while I can before it turns grey again. This is sort of new--I mean, where I'm from it's hard to differentiate the sun and the heat. I do not like the heat. I do like the sun. And, having left the land of the Heat Index, I've learned that they are not always hand in hand. I didn't even miss the sun all that much through most of the winter, but by May (as you could tell from my frequent weather updates), I was really, really, really looking forward to the prospect of going out without shirtsleeves on. So, here it is, mid-July, and after a weekend of grilling on the roof and lying on the beach, I have my first altercation with the sun of the season.

If you are one of the two people in the world that hasn't heard my sunburn story, let me fill you in on a little mishap I had south of the border a few years ago. Amy and I went to Meh-i-co (which is the only way I would pronounce it for days until she told me I sounded like a dork). Amy is one of those dark-skinned Mediterranean types, while I'm blessed with the whitest skin known to man. And here 's the irony. I don't often burn. When I do, it goes away within a day or so. I don't tan easily either, but I don't usually worry too much when I'm out in the sun. I should have.

Amy is a 7AM beach goer. She likes to stake out her spot and get the most sun possible. So every day 7AM-7PM we sat and soaked up rays. Sometimes we'd switch locations--from beach to bar to pool to pool bar. But always the sun. And on the second day, I started itching. Just around the edges of my bikini top, and I thought I was allergic to something--the detergent that they used at the resort, the sand, the salt, something I ate, who knew? But it got worse, and worse, and worse until my entire chest had broken out into some weird, awful, itchy rash. And it was miserably itchy. Can't sit still, twist around with ants in your pants, make it difficult to eat (aha, my diet answer!) itchy. We tried everything. I took lots of over the counter drugs, I tried putting all kinds of shit on it to soothe the feeling of a thousand little needles pricking my skin..

It would not be soothed.

So, after a nearly tearful afternoon, I drug Amy down to the resort doctor's office for a consult. This is one room, with a receptionist at the front and a doctor's table in the back. And a kid sitting outside yakking his guts up. Now, we're in Meh-i-co, so it stands to reason that the doc doesn't speak much English. I, also do not speak a great deal of Spanish. This made for an interesting visit. Luckily, I didn't have to explain much. He took one look at my red, bumpy, itchy chest and said "Sun poison."

"Huh?"

"Sun poison. You allergic to sun." Ah, yes. Great. Makes sense.

"Can you make it go away?"

"Turn over. Take off your pants."

At this point I hear a guffaw from the front of the office where Amy is nearly out of her skull she's giggling so much. I am, as any normal vacationer would be, only wearing my swim suit with a tank top and shorts. The idea of dropping my drawers in front of everyone sounds about as much fun as this itchy, itchy, bumpy, red rash...so I promptly drop them and bend over. Doc gives me a nice, healthy shot of cortizone in my arse, and a some perscription cream and some pills. All of which look pretty good to me. I'm nearly ecstatic. This was so easy! Why didn't I drop by ol' Doc's office yesterday when this all started?? I'm ready to go back to the beach, man!

"Three things you must do."

"Wha?"

"Three rules." Doc is holding up three fingers very gravely.

"Ok. Shoot."

"No sun." My face falls a little. "You must stay completely covered. Wear long sleeves." I look at him like he just sprouted a third arm. I didn't even bring sleeves. It's Meh-i-co for Christ's sake! "No alcohol."

That just about floored me. I felt the tears welling in my eyes and the indignance rising...

"Listen, buddy, I didn't come to Mexico to sit in the shade in jeans and a sweater sober. I can do that in St. Louis..." Amy, meanwhile, is still listening to the kid out side vomiting and thinking that his health needs are more urgent than my need for sun or booze, and she steers me out of the office.

I stayed out of the sun for a day, I was more careful with trying to stay shaded, at least a little, and I didn't drink before 2 anymore. I made some concessions for my skin's health. My point is this--yes, I did have one. I don't really get sunburnt. I get a disgusting, red, itchy rash. Only I would have some weird skin condition that causes that to happen. And, because I am a stubborn, bullheaded, sun-worshipping glutton for punishment, I continue to soak up the rays with gusto (twice in one blog, that's the word of the day). Not even because I want to be tan, though that's nice too, but because I love the way it feels.

What, I ask you, is better than going to the beach or the pool for the day and getting sweaty and salty and sandy and dirty and gritty and warm, and then going home, showering all that dirty off and finding soft, pink skin, radiating warmth. It's the most pleasent warm in the world, this feeling. It's like a fever, but the good kind. And sliding under cool sheets, radiating that warm, that might be the most sensual feeling in the world.

So I refuse to give up sun, the same way I refuse to give up a lot of the other things that aren't necessarily great for me. I will never stop drinking red wine, because of the way it puckers on the tongue. I'll never stop drinking a good hoppy beer because of that tingle in the back of your nose. I love pound cake dipped in coffee--coffee with cream, not that powdered shit. I like the exhileration I feel when I drive my car just a touch too fast around a curve. Or bread from a really good bakery, just a little warm, with cheese.

How the hell do I think I'm going to diet, are you kidding? I might be the most hedonistic person I know, I do things that feel good when they feel good, often without thinking of the consequences--or, best case scenario, thinking about it and then disregarding them entirely.

Screw this shit. I'm going to get coffee and a sweet. And then I'll run for an extra 15 minutes to make up for it. Maybe the ten pounds is worth the cake.

Actual Spam I Received Today

2007-07-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

I never really had a desire to go to Nevada, but after seeing this ad, with the Elvis impersonators riding bikes through the mountains, I'm strangely attracted....

Great marketing...

Why I Will Inevitably Get Fat

2007-07-05T16:22:00.000-07:00

I am craving Shakespeare's Pizza like a stoned pregnant woman who hasn't eaten since the turn of the century.

I realize that none of the above should ever exist in a sentance together, but I can take only the most extreme measures, the most hyperbolic language to express the deep, debilitating craving I am having right now.

If anyone wants to buy me a really, really great gift for my birthday (that is, incidentally, 35 days away), I want a Shakey's t-shirt. Not one of those fancy hoodies or baseball ringer T's. No, I want me a good old fashioned green one with white writing. Or, if you're really feeling fiesty, I might be convinced to accept a black and gold one in honor of those Tigers. But really, I like to stick to the basics. You can find them on the website in the Giftie Shop. You can also purchase a dozen of those plastic cups they serve drinks in (you know, the ones that everyone who lives in a 150 mile radius of the restaurant has in their cabinet somewhere) for like $15. And, evidently, their chairs. Don't know why, they aren't particularly memorable to me, but whatever floats your boat.

I love food, I love it more than almost anything, so it stands to reason that the foods I love would cause me almost as much heartache and homesickness as the people I love. But thinking about the fact that to put that meal in my belly today would be the most expensive dining experience of my life and probably the hardest I've ever had to work at consuming...that whole plane trip thing and all. I know you can mail order, but frankly, that is NOT the same. You've got to have the whole experience. I have written about them time and time again, but my heart, it spills over with a love I cannot contain or stifle...I'm like the John Donne of pizza writing, I just can't keep it to myself, I might expire.

The brick building, with the Clapton is God graffitti and the crazy old "parking lot attendant" who I'm pretty sure is a volunteer, not a staff person, all this accompanies that whiff of dough as you stroll up the street. It hovers just on the edge of campus, making Shakespeares one of the premier dining establishments for students, and therefore one of the most crowded places in town ALL THE TIME. You can watch them make your food from behind a glass wall, and you can order such ridiculous toppings as broccoli and artichoke hearts--which frankly, is an affront to everything that is good and holy about pizza. Meat, cheese and a few vegetables cooked long enough to detract any nutritional value at all, that's what pizza is, folks. Save your artichokes for your pasta.

The staff is priceless, I'm pretty sure the job interview to be a Shakespeare's employee might go something like this:

Q: Do you attend one of the three colleges in Columbia, MO?
A: Yes, I'm a student at Mizzou.
Q: Good answer. When do you plan to graduate?
A: Well, I've been taking a lot of time for myself lately, and I have done some real soul searching and have come to the conclusion that my estimated graduation date is 2015. I think I'm on track for that.
Q: Graduating is overrated, man.

Q: How often do you shower?
A: My roommate witholds rent if I don't shower weekly.
Q: Mmm hmmm.
A: Is that going to be a problem? Because I'm trying to get this dreadlock thing going, but the batheing, it gets in the way of my style.
Q: You know, we really encourage the do-rag--it's not a part of the uniform, but highly encouraged--and showering is optional.

Q: All this sounds really promising, man, I'm feelin' it. One last one, and there is no right answer to this...How do you feel about The Dead?
A: Aw, they're the foundation of everything that I know is beautiful and right in the world...the beginning, the middle and the end, man--
Q: That's the right answer!
A: I can do a mean noodle dance.

Yeah, you have to be a certain type of person to work at Shakes'.

That said, the atmosphere is certainly one of the biggest, most important peices of the brilliance that is Shakespeares, but ultimately, it's the $15 heaven on a plate that makes me wince with desire...cushy, whole wheat crust with gooey cheese and fresh mushrooms, and that amazing, quarter inch thick pepporoni straight from the Hill...that's it, that's all I can say. Put a frosty cold Pale Ale in a plastic Shakespeare's cup right next to it, and I promise I'll do anything for you. Anything. I will not put on the French maid's outfit, but I'll do anything else. Not that.

And here I am, 2000 miles away and this is the thing that strikes real homesickness in my heart. Perhaps it's the whole package, too. I have these memories of driving from Boonville to Columbia in the evening, the sun streaming through the back of the car, warming your ears and neck, just the slightest hint of a sweaty brow, because after all, it's summer in Missouri. There's something about the light, it's golden...the likes of which I still don't see here. It's different, Midwestern early evening light.

So, there I am, in a number of different circumstances--with the fam, probably reading a book and smelling my parent's freshly showered; jamming out to some good ol' fashioned grunge rock or perhaps the oldies station with my friends, long before cell phones, when impromptu trips were predicated by the "drive by," which was great if you were home and bored; the date, holding hands on the gearshift and thinking about nothing but the fact that you're holding hands on the gearshift. And there's the light streaming in, and the anticipation of the feast and whatever movie/troublemaking/making out will come next.

Maybe it's nostalgia, really. Maybe it's isn't a craving for pizza at all...but a craving for what seems so simple and easy. When in reality, it wasn't. I was probably arguing with my parents, pissed off at my friends and worried about the reprocussions of the making out to the point that it wasn't fun anymore.

Or maybe it was just that simple.

Check out their website, they're funny over there. http://www.shakespeares.com

And if you feel like dropping them an email, you're faith in the webmaster is reinforced by this email address: IDon'tHaveTheFoggiestIdeaWhatI'mDoing@shakespeares.com

More posts to come, including photos of the Fourth of July pics...and much discussion of how I finally have succumbed to the Great American Holiday.

Cheers!

19% Work Rate

2007-07-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

Ummm, yeah.

From the last few posts you're probably deducinig that I don't do much work at work.

You'd be correct in that assumption. Good for you. Some days I feel as though my eyes are going to roll ou tof my head I'm so bored.

What did people do before the Internet?

Anyway, I've been religiously keeping up with people's blogs (those of you who stopped writing, I'm disappointed and irritated with you...get back on the horse), and the list of those I check has grown exponentially. Here's another for those of you that are photographically inclined, and don't necessarily dig my flickr party pics.

http://silverboxphotographers.blogspot.com/

Amy and Kim are two of the best photogs I know, and have photographed at least half of the weddings I've been to in my lifetime. Seriously. But they take pics of other fun things too, and I love the way they make my homeplace look...Mid Missouri never looked so sweet and inviting.

My favorite entry (aside from my good friends, of course) is on 5/18/2007...a Tuesday in Taos. There's rain and barefeet and cuteness...anyway. I love keeping up with what these lovely ladies are taking pictures of. Wedding pictures were never this exciting before!

If anyone has any other suggestions for daytime reading material, I'm always open to suggestion.

Audience Participation Please

2007-06-29T12:21:00.000-07:00

Okay, in the spirit of the blog linked above, I'm asking for a little audience participation, please. Even those of you who are ridiculously behind the curve have probably figured out that nifty little thing called text messaging, which I pooh-poohed hardcore for a long time, I grant you that. I have since been hit on, broken up with, and had hours of meaningful written conversation via T9 on the ol' cell phone. Below is a selection of the best that are currently saved in the archives.

Add yours via comment section, please. Dont' make me look like a loser.

1. I hope you like big buns.
2. Cardinals suck whale vagina
3. Ichiro molests puppies
4. WHY WHAT DID YOU DO ( I don't even know how to do capital letters, I find this particularly impressive...I also recieved similar texts from multiple parties)
5. guys?
6. Tomorrow isn't today (philosophizing via text?)
7. Even forever's not long enough (quoting Enrique Iglesias, of course)

Pretty lame. Help me out. I'll post them for you if you send them...I know we can do better.

Oh, and by the way

2007-06-29T11:13:00.001-07:00

I really like this word. I'm going to start implementing it into my vernacular. Or parlance, if you will. Can you tell I've been having fun with the thesaurus? God, I'm a nerd.

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) - Cite This Source
cheek·y /ˈtʃiki/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[chee-kee] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–adjective, cheek·i·er, cheek·i·est.
impudent; insolent: a cheeky fellow; cheeky behavior.
[Origin: 1855–60; cheek + -y1] —Related forms
cheek·i·ly, adverb
cheek·i·ness, noun
—Synonyms saucy, audacious, bold.

I might start implementing it into my behavior as well.

As if I'm not already a pain in the ass enough.

2007-06-29T10:55:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, like you really care...but these are the things that made me happy this week....

The Adam Carolla Show. First of all, this is huge. I don't like talk radio in the morning. Mmmm, let me restate. I like the quiet, monotonous, ever so-slightly affected drone of the NPR reporters in the morning. I don't mind music in the morning. What I can't abide is that cackling, heckling, raucous chatter on most morning shows. It's like fingernails on a chalkboard. And the stupid sound effects usually make me want to yank said fingernails out with a pliers. I used to be subjected to the Howard Stern show on a regular basis in the morning...and while I could not for the life of me convince my morning show groupie betrothed that I was indeed in possession of a sense of humor, just not before 10 AM, I continue to maintain that I really have nothing against Stern. He's loud and obnoxious and opinionated and pisses people off a lot. We're actually quite similar, probably. I just couldn't take it in the morning. So, long way around saying, the fact that Adam Carolla makes me laugh in the morning versus doing bodily harm to myself or others is saying a lot. He's that guy that I would probably be really annoyed by a lot if he were my friend, he'd probably get a lot of eye-rolls, however, somehow thousands of miles and some radio waves make him much more entertaining.
International Players Anthem--featuring Outkast, Dre and cameos by Three 6 Mafia. Good song. It's officially the song of the summer. What I like even more than the song is watching TBanks groove to it...he's running a close second to Lucas in the blackest white boy I know contest.
These two websites had me in fits yesterday. I literally sat at my desk, shoulders shaking, trying desperately to stifle giggles, tears in eyes... http://queserasera.org/archives/001102.html This is my favorite entry so far. After describing it to Team Boylston over beers last night it had the entire table scrolling through old text messages for the most appropriate entry. This makes no sense to you currently, but I promise, it will be much funnier when you click...and, officially, my entry is "Cardinals suck whale vagina." You know who you are. http://www.dooce.com/archives/how_to_annoy_me/ This blog won (or maybe was second runner up) in some big who-has-the-funniest-blog contest. Blog contests make me laugh, mostly because I think it's kind of a joke. I mean, bloggers (myself included) are basically just spewing verbal diarrhea all over the web and taking up space. We like to see ourselves in print but are too lazy or unmotivated or whatever to attempt to get ourselves published on a reputable website/publication. So we start our own. And then someone decided to give awards for it. Hey, that's cool. In fact, I want one. That said, this chick started this blog, and it's really super-funny, and it has, like tentacles. I mean, a whole bunch of different pages you can check out...photos, lists (I love lists), all kinds of fun stuff. And then she started putting ads up, and now she is a full time blogger. Like, she makes a living WRITING HER BLOG. Um, hello? Sweetest gig ever, right??? This link (How to Annoy Me) is one of my faves, though, mainly because I like lists. She has one called How to Charm Me as well, and while it's sweet and cute, I think it's way funnier when people complain.
Walking. Yep. I said it. I went running Tuesday evening and somehow, despite my best efforts to run my way out of the giant bowl I live in and get to flat land, I found myself in teh unfortunate situation of running uphill both ways. And, frankly, after 20 minutes of this self flagellation, wherein I could feel the muscles in my thighs expanding at an exponential rate, I stopped. And, for the record, I'd like to take this opportunity to say a few things. One, when I moved here and started walking up and down all these blasted hills, I said, and I quote "I better have a dramatically better ass in six months thanks to all this hill bullshit." What I got was NOT a better ass, but ginormous thighs. And, while I could blame it on my new habit of eating a hotdog after drinking beer every Friday night at 2 AM, I really do think it's more muscle than fat. Maybe not much more, but it is more. When I complained about this the last time I was home, Lucas actually said "Yes, I noticed." No way, man, have you learned nothing in the 28 years you have spent on this planet? You never, ever admit to having noticed that anything on a chick's body got bigger. Dude. I'm your best friend, and if you are reading this, word to the wise...deny, deny, deny. Unless her health is seriously at stake, and then I'd consider agreeing and running. I digress. So, when I decided to walk instead of punishing myself, and when I stopped seeing purple spots and caught my breath, I found that it was nice to slow down for a bit.
Last one and I'll shut up (though you can quit reading at any point, don't blame me if you're bored). I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before, but can I just once again speak of the brilliance that is The Clash? Particularly with regards to what might be my favorite song of all time, Lost in the Supermarket? Hello...anyone out there? This line in particular..."I wasn't born, so much as I fell out, nobody seemed to notice me." Ow.

Okay, that's all of the opinions and drivel for the day. Have a good weekend, soak up some rays for me.

Who'da Thought I'd be Jonesin for Heat

2007-06-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

As I started writing this blog, it occurred to me that I might start to sound like a complainer (I DO NOT want to hear the chorus of agreement coming from those of you back East, I don't want to hear it). I don't think I'm a negative person. I work with some negative folks, people who can find something wrong with just about any person, place, or situation. I don't think I'm quite that crochety. I just think sometimes the unfortunate situations (or people or places) are the most entertaining.

So. In line with that disclaimer, I'd like to go ahead and let you know all the new great things I've discovered about Seattle.

1. It has a nickname, and I'm big on nicknames. Despite it's propensity to sound like a potty, I was a big fan of "the 'Lou." I am also a wholehearted supporter of Sea-town. I like it. Good ring to it.

2. It's a small town, that Sea-town. Evidently everyone and their brother plays for Underdog Sports Leagues, which is my pt employer. This is a great job that usually entails hanging out with folks and drinking beer. My interview there was like dropping into an apartment full of college dudes, complete with requisite dogs, fast food containers, recliners, video game machines, sporting equipment and guys lounging around in breakaway pants. I have never not seen my boss in breakaway pants. I wonder if I'd recognize him in jeans. I love a town that supports professionals in breakaway pants.

3. I love when I walk out of my apartment some mornings, or even more so when I'm running in the evenings and the smell of salt water is so strong...umm, yummy. There's nothing, I swear, nothing that smells and feels that good. I'll never get over that.

4. It stays light until almost 10PM.

5. When the sun sets, and it reflects like laser beams off the water below, up to the skyscrapers, and back like a million little mirrors. It's so sparkly...

6. I didn't even think of it, but I haven't seen an Applebees or TGI Fridays or a Ruby Tuesdays since I got here. I'm sure they exist, probably way out in the 'burbs like every other American city, but I like it that the neon isn't clouding my veiws everyday.

7. People swarm the parks. I was at the park in Greenlake earlier this week and I thought there was a festival going on, but no...just people so surprised by a warm day, they're out in droves.

8. Amy despises this, but I love the fact that I bar hopped in my gym clothes the other night, and didn't think twice about it.

9. Boats. I always have to say it, because it's true and it's silly but I freakin' love them.

10. Upper Left Corner. It's sometimes scary to me just how far away I am from everything...everything. The closest major metropolitan area (I'm not counting Portland, because it's sort of like Seattle's mini-me, but way cooler and funkier, but not on the water) is San Fran, I guess, and that's like a 16 hour drive. A midwestern girl like me is used to hopping in the car and hitting at least 5 major cities in 6 hours or less. It's weird, but it's insulating and it's thrilling and when I think of people fifty or a hundred years ago living here, when planes didn't just drop out of the sky every ten minutes to transport you "Back East," I get a little chill of excitement. It's the frontier, baby.

Okay. So, now that I've given Seattle some love, can I just say this?

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CAN I PLEASE HAVE A SUMMER DAY?????

Not a spring day. Not a just on the edge of warm day, with a refreshingly chilly breeze. Not a day where I bring a jacket with me everywhere. I want a day where the wifebeater is all I need, where closed-toed shoes make me feel clausterphobic, one in which I go inside after a day at the park and my skin is warm to the touch.

I am going to a sold-out baseball game tonight (which is almost unheard of as far as I can tell--Ken Griffey Jr.'s returning!), and I will be ensconced i fleece and socks. Maybe wool ones; I hate when my toes are cold. Most days I look at the weather.com page and see that the high in Seattle is below the low in Missouri, I grin and chuckle under my breath, but today, on a great day for baseball, all I want is to leave the hand warmers at home and not want to put down my beer because it's too cold.

On Memorial Day, when I was celebrating the beginning of summer, my coworkers said, no, no. The beginning of summer here is July 4th, and I pooh-poohed them. Looks like they might be right.

Missouri, will you share some sun with me? You can keep the humidity, though, I'm not in the market for that.

Welcome to the Cold Cruel (and dark) World

2007-06-14T15:36:00.000-07:00

Marilou asked me the other day if I liked what she was wearing that morning. I started to answer in the affirmative, but realized I really didn’t have the slightest idea of what she was wearing that morning—not a color, a shape, nothing. I could take a stab at it and say she was wearing jeans, but that’s because she wears jeans every day, not because I actually remembered.

I don’t do mornings. I’m less than functional. I’m not necessarily grumpy—those of you who have been around when I awake from slumber can attest to this. I’m just blank-eyed, empty headed—basically comatose. Never, ever ask me to do anything before I’ve been awake for an hour and preferably before 9:30AM.

This does wonders for my phone demeanor at work, I tell you.

Anyway. I usually function a lot better when clean, so showering is always the first thing on my list after I roll out of bed. It’s the best way to ease from my warm, comfy bed to the evil, evil world—a hot, steamy shower. Most of the time I soap up the hair, rinse, condition and then doze while letting the conditioner soak in for the appropriate 3-5 minutes.

Before I continue, I should make note of the fact that our bathroom is in the basement and is for sure the most interior room of our house. Great if there is a threat of a tornado, which will never happen here. Not so good if there is an earthquake or tsunami—which is much more probable. So, being entirely enclosed, there are no windows, therefore fake light.

What happens when fake lights go out? It gets really, really dark. What happens when fake lights go out while Sarah is in the shower? Slow, comforting transition into evil, evil waking world is jarred into sudden, stumbling, chaos.

Can’t be that hard to shower in the dark, you say? After all, after 27 years you should know where all your bits are and how to soap ‘em up. Well, that’s true. I don’t, however, know wehre the appropriate tools are. I was afraid I’d put shaving gel in my hair or shampoo on the loofa and God knows I was trying to stay away from the razor (good thing I’m sleeping alone tonight).

Four people share this shower. Three are girls. Adds up to lots and lots of products. I knocked over about six bottles of shit while attempting to reach for something, and then I was scared to step anywhere for fear of stepping on a bottle and squirting said product in my eye.

It was like showering really, really drunk.

I’ve only done that once and I forgot to take off my underwear and socks.

When the Dog Bites and The Bee Stings...

2007-06-14T10:49:00.001-07:00

A Few of My Favorite Things:

I rediscovered a couple of things this week that make me happy.

I would like to re-emphasize my complete and utter adoration and devotion to the comedic genius that is Judd Apatow. This guy has a long and varied list of projects that have involved the best and the brightest of the comedy genre. He was Adam Sandler’s roommate back before they hit the big time. I can only imagine what living in that place was like. He met Ben Stiller at an Elvis Costello show, befriended him, and then helped produce The Ben Stiller Show. I’m not going to lie, I am the teensiest bit jealous of this guy—he seemed to have a pretty serendipitous early career, despite two of his best projects getting canned by the networks (Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared, both never made it past season one). And, my god, he’s a fantastic writer.

I digress. I started re-watching Freaks & Geeks last week when it rained on Saturday, and it makes me laugh out loud. And, incidentally, I have converted Marilou into a fan, which makes me happy—she likes to buck the television trends at our house (you don’t like the OC? Wh-wh-what’s not to like?). This re-viewing was spurred by my trip to the movie theatre to see Knocked Up, which if you haven’t seen it (and you are not part of a pregnant household, I’d recommend waiting till after the baby in that case), you should put down what you are doing and trot your happy rear end to the nearest theatre and see it NOW. I was skeptical after seeing the trailers on TV. Buxom blonde TV dramedy actress in a romantic comedy—spells snoozefest to me. I have, however, seen the err in my ways. It’s a fantastically funny, honest movie. Apatow really has this knack for dialogue that echoes everything everyone in the audience is thinking with a perfect edge. Lot’s of screenwriters can sort of do this, but it either comes off as fake or overly wordy (verbal diarrhea).

Please, please, please go now. Go see it. And if nothing else, the scene with the guys in the Vegas hotel room, in suits, whacked out on ‘shrooms will win you over, I promise. It’s hilarious. It’s up there with the last scene from 40-Year Old Virgin where the cast does a little dance routine to the Age of Aquarius by the 5th Dimension, which makes me chortle, guffaw and cackle all at once.

I have also recently re-discovered the shuffle button. It’s been a lifesaver. Literally, I think I might have slowly scratched all the skin off my body in the last week while chained to this desk if it weren’t for that little music player I have. Some people are built for cube-land, I am not one of them. I can’t sit still in my house on a good day, what made me think that sitting at a desk all day answering the phone was going to do the trick? Argh. Anyway, I got sick of listening to the piped in music overhead (which, in its defense, isn’t terrible, it’s just the same thing over and over), so I started bringing in my own. I found the shuffle button, and it’s transformed my day from tedium to one of pleasant little surprises. All these bands, all these singers I’d forgotten about, it gives me warm fuzzies. I liken it to running into an old, old friend at the grocery store—you forgot just how much fun you used to have until you chat for 5 minutes, which turns into 20, which turns into, let’s scrap the groceries and go get a drink, already. Here’s what I’ve re-found:

Ryan Adams—specifically Love is Hell, it’s so whiny and good
Rosie Thomas
Bright Eyes—I don’t know why I didn’t listen to them more when I bought their CD, I guess I just forgot.
The Eels—I credit the OC, these guys are fantastic.
John Mayer—ok, before you judge, I really like his songs for about the first 1/3 to ½, and then they start to annoy me. But the beginning is always sort of sweet and light and charming before it starts to do that thing like candy—where it sugar coats your mouth and starts to taste icky.
Old Deathcab. Everyone says they knew Deathcab before they made it big, and I’m sure everyone that says that is totally speaking the truth. But I do remember when I started listening to The Photo Album. It was a gift from a good friend for my birthday. He, the big cutting edge music-band guy, was always tossing new stuff my way, some of which I liked, other stuff sat on the CD shelf gathering dust. Deathcab was an instant favorite, but as they’ve churned out new albums the old ones got pushed aside. Well, I’ve decided that I still like the old stuff the best. Yay for the good old days.

I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for this to happen. Northern Exposure reruns—Yippee! Channel 4, 10PM Western Time…ahh. I saw it, I did a double take. I was worried, I’ve got to tell you, that my memory might have built up the brilliance of this show in my mind, and that re-watching might disappoint me…I was so wrong. Even in the first season or two, it’s so funny and sharp and character driven. It’s back, and I might never go out again…or I might always have to be home by 10.

Those are my recommendations, take them with a grain of salt or ignore completely. Your call. But if you ignore, you will be wrong and your life will be a sad hole of darkness and emptiness.

We've Hit Rock Bottom, and the Wings Are Broken

2007-06-13T14:49:00.000-07:00

I have a real post coming soon...but first I'd like to utter one good, loud, ear-splitting wail of complaint.

I just saw the headline in the sports section; evidently amid all the NBA hype (yawn, yawn, go Cavs, eyeroll, eyeroll), this one slipped past me. I tend to think the I-70 series is a bit of a snooze-fest, after all, if it weren't for the 1985 World Series, we'd not think twice about it, really. It's like a good practice run for something later in the season.

Then those Royals, those guys who you can scarcely call a baseball team, go and pound the Cards. It's like they looked up at the scoreboard and saw that they were in the lead and got that rush of adreneline that a pre-pubescent kids gets when he is wrestling with his dad and sees that for once he's actually punched him and--surprise, surprise--it actually hurt. And they just kept hitting, and the Cards, well, apparently they just gave up.

Outstanding. Way to go. One last thing, and I'm letting it go...I have said all season that I could give a rat's ass whether or not the Cardinals win, lose, or fart on the field this season. They won the World Series, I'm going to bask in that glow for a good long time. However, this, this, 1-8 loss to the Little League team across the state?

I say no more.

My Grass is Just as Green as Anyone Else's

2007-06-10T15:31:00.000-07:00

“I was twenty seven years old and by and large you are what you are when you’re twenty seven.” So says Billy Beane, Oakland A’s GM regarding why he walked out of the dugout and into the front offices of the franchise.

I read that quote the other day and nearly choked on my coffee. My immediate knee-jerk reaction was to completely disregard this statement. No way. We’re constantly changing, right? I hate being pigeon-holed, I hate when people think they “know” me. I don’t like to think I’m easy to figure out. So the fact that I might be reaching the point in my life where changes are fewer and farther between freaked me out.

Every so often I like to go back and re-read what I’ve written. Call it reflection, call it egoism, whatever, it provides me a certain sense of satisfaction to look back over where I’ve been and what I’ve accomplished (or at least what I’ve done). I’m not one to have regrets, ever, really, but I am one to ponder on end what got me to where I am. . I am a change addict. I don’t like to stay in the same place too long—relationships, living situations, jobs, you name it—I like to mix it up. Status quo isn’t in my vocabulary, which is precisely what ended my marriage, I’d venture to guess.

I’m physically half a continent away from where I was a year ago. I have some new friends. I eat hotdogs with a regularity that is shocking. I am no longer scared of getting hit in the face with a Frisbee (well, not totally scared, I’m still working on it). Aside from that, however, I realize that life and my outlook on it is very similar to the way it was a year ago. The more things change, the more they stay the same. So there is a significant part of me that is perplexed by how little, other than my locale, has changed.

I digress. Back to Billy Beane. So, this player, who everyone has gambled on being just incredible, has the unfortunate tendency to over think things. I can sympathize. He was drafted right out of high school, a super star, coming up with Darryl Strawberry, everyone’s Golden Boy. And he never quite delivers. And suddenly, he’s twenty-seven and still not the magical player everyone imagines. And so one day he decides to become a scout. He says something like, I was twenty-seven, and I realized by and large, you are who you are when you’re twenty seven. I realize he means as a player, but it occurs to me now, that at twenty-seven, I have developed into the person that I am. To put it simply, I am who I am going to be. Not to say that I am not going to change and grow and be something better or different, but ultimately, I have found my groove, man.

Upon further reflection, after the knee jerk has calmed down, I don’t find that particularly frightening, or even disconcerting. I find it kind of comforting, like I’ve finally found my way home. And I like my life and the way I’ve chosen to live it. It isn’t like a lot of people’s lives. I like to stay up late and play outside like a little kid and stick my foot in my mouth at very inappropriate times—like job interviews, meeting my friend’s parents, and in otherwise intimate situations. I like to go, I don’t sit still for long, and I read any chance I get. At this point, I’m tinkering. I’m playing with the Rubik’s Cube, I’m close to having all the colors in line, and it’s just kinda fun to see if I can get all the way there. Ultimately, I know who I am, I am comfortable with it and now I’m just trying to find the life that fits with it.

So, in re-reading my blogs, and hearing my voice from a year ago (I haven’t ventured farther back than that quite yet), I am comforted to hear my own voice. I am comforted that I see a sense of continuity. That I’m not yearning for something that someone else has. My grass is just as green as anyone else’s.

So, yay. Thanks Billy Beane, for the kick in the ass—I like those realizations, they’re good ones.

Woods Gets More Boost Than He Bargained For

2007-06-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

This guy named Woods sued Boost, a "health drink", because he got an erection that wouldn't go away.

Someone tell me there aren't like seventeen jokes in that one little statement.

I realize that this is at the very least an uncomfortable and potentially embarassing situation, and at worst probably dangerous. But it's also really freakin' funny.

And what kind of sick coincidence is it that his name is WOOD??

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19067777/

TMI: What I don't need to know about your bladder

2007-05-18T16:38:00.001-07:00

I actually recieved this email this week:

"I regret to inform you that I will not be able to get your requested inquiry done until Wed. the 16th. I apologize for any incontinence. "

These are the things spellcheck don't catch, man. Re-read. Just once. Or your shit will get posted all over the world wide web.

Beware: Fatalistic and Ultimately Quite Depressing Blog Ahead

2007-05-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

Seriously, the above warning should be taken with not a grain of salt; it should be taken heavily in fact. What is to follow could possibly be the most cliché’s, whiny drivel that you've heard in a while, so just prepare yourselves. You might want to do a few preparatory eye rolls and head shakes. It's really nothing more than verbal diarrhea. But here it is.

My father had a health scare this week, which most of my lovely readers have heard about (all ten of you). Just as he was getting the whole I-can't-move-my-legs thing under control, thanks to the physical therapy whiz kid and lots of massages, he finds out that he has major, I mean major blockages in his arteries. All of them. They do some procedures, the install some stents, they tell him they're going to have to go back in and do more work, so take it easy.

For any of you that have met my father, taking it easy is NOT in his vocabulary. I mean, he says it all the time, but I'm not sure I've ever actually witnessed it. He has been instructed, however, not to do any heavy lifting (which for him translates to ANY lifting), no exercise, no exertion whatsoever. Including his physical therapy exercises. The doctor told him that one of the arteries that is still clogged up is called the Widowmaker in med school. It's 80% clogged.

Well, whatever those docs said to my parents, it scared the bejesus out of them. And it scared the bejesus out of me. Here's the thing: my dad is really, really healthy. I mean, aside from the fact that he works hard, he eats well, he's not overweight, he's never smoked, he eats spinach every day for Christ's sake, he's like freakin' Popeye. And he's got four clogged arteries. You only get four, you know?

They say it's genetic. Now, don't worry, I'm not going to go into all the poor me crap. But it does make me think about a couple of things: how a totally, completely healthy, relatively young man (he's only 53) can have something like this happen, and some ninety year old dude who smokes a pack a day, guzzles the hard stuff, and is 50 lbs overweight is still alive and kicking, and will die easily and quietly in his sleep. How does that work? I mean, I get that our DNA means we're predisposed to having certain diseases...how does that happen? How do I get that DNA?

We all know, indisputably, that if we stick our finger in a light socket, it will hurt. We will get shocked. Or, if you slam a hammer on your thumb, it's going to leave a mark, right? What if you knew that your DNA was structured such that you didn't hurt when that hammer came down? Or that the jolt of electricity wouldn't hurt you, because your DNA was immune? Would you do it anyway? Hell yeah, why not? I imagine it might even be fun. Well, the electricity part, I'm not partial to the hammer on my thumb, regardless of the pain.

So, what if you knew that you were one of those people that could smoke and drink and eat shit and not die? Would you do it anyway? Once again, I say, hell yes. And how unfair is it that some people can eat spinach every day and still have horrible heart disease? That sucks! My dad said it himself: no matter how much his brother runs, how much spinach he stomachs, they will always have high cholesterol, they will always be a few short steps away from a heart attack. It's depressing.

Aside from the depressing stuff, though, it's suddenly made me feel incredibly adult. In the last few days I have had so many scenarios run through my head: what if dad can't work, what will we do? What if he dies, what will happen to the house? How will we finish it/sell it or even just live there? And, the biggest question of all, how does my mom do it alone, with both of her kids living thousands of miles away?

People do it all the time, for one. And it's all a moot point, two, he's still alive and kicking, thank God. However, at a time when I think maybe I'm going to have to pay closer attention to my health because, let's face it, I ain't gettin' any younger either, despite my best efforts, I am also thinking that these things are down the road for me. Maybe not tomorrow. Dad may have another surgery and live thirty more years with a metallic-encrusted heart. Happens every day. Or he might get struck by lightening tomorrow. Or a million other things could happen.

These last few weeks and months I've seen a lot of sad--and many of them shocking--things happen. When anyone you care about passes away, it's a horribly dark cloud that looms with a bit of a silver lining--that is, despite the horrific loss and the terrifying prospect of it, you see the bullshit fall away. Perspective arises out of grief and fear. The important things become even more important (yeah, here come the clichés). All I know is, it's hard to grapple with being thousands of miles away and hear those things over the telephone, or read them via email, when really, what you want is to be just arms distance away.

I couldn't help picturing my mom sitting alone at the kitchen table, looking at the lists of instructions my father left before he went into the hospital, out in that big house in the middle of nowhere. I thought to myself today as I discussed with my sister, I hope she never has to do that alone again.

Is it the Booze? Or is it the Car?

2007-05-09T16:09:00.000-07:00

Pretty good perspective, I think, on the whole "drink responsibly" thing.

http://msn.foxsports.com/mlb/story/6793188

Sunny with a chance of Sarah in a bathingsuit

2007-05-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

I checked the weather this morning, as I always do, despite the fact that nine times out of ten, I know what it's going to say. Being a weatherman in the Northwest must be like being Britney Spear's publicist--over and over, you just look at the obvious and say "no comment." Anyway, I saw, for the first time in months, this little guy:

Sunny

They are forcasting sun. Not partly sunny, or mostly sunny. Nope, we're looking at one whole day of full sun.

Where's my bikini? I'm ready to scare some Northwesterners with my pitifully white legs.

2007-04-25T15:18:00.000-07:00

Our DHL driver is a total stoner. He's always got just the slightest chip on his shoulder, no matter how nice or sharp I am with him. He is obviously not crazy about his job, though I'm not sure what job he would be better suited for--probably one that isn't in the service industry. He has so much hair poking out from under that godawful yellow hat, I think I could do some serious dusting around this place with his head.

The UPS guy is just about as curmudgeonly, but he makes me laugh because he wears shorts all the time with the brown UPS issue socks. And he has brown hair the same color as the uniform...he looks like a kid who's been playing in the mud. He's not altogether unpleasent, just sort of surly.

The FedEx driver is the most friendly, but often my least favorite. He talks loudly, has a voice like Mr. Rodgers and always calls me by a pet name. Missy is his favorite. I usually really like being called by pet names, but this is slightly creepy.

Then there's the postman. I wish that I knew his name, for a number of reasons, but primarily so I could greet him with a big smile and a wave and a personalize salutation. He's a portly, slow moving African American man with a very greying beard and those black, ginormous wrap around sunglasses that really, really senior citzens wear. I am always just a little worried that he is going to hurt himself as he walks slowly back to his mail vehicle (what are those things? not quite a golf cart, not quite a Jeep?).

He is a replacement for the last guy, who evidently left unexpectedly. He was a piece of work as well, let me tell you. He was tall, and always wore the shorts with his socks pulled up. His attire was nothing compared to the completely silver pompadour he sculpted. He was always fairly genial, easy going, but I could never look past his hair.

Our new mail man is, as I mentioned (though it bears mentionign a second time), slow. Very slow. So slow that everyone else in the office complains about him. They don't like waiting, I can attest to that. After his second day on the job, it was requested that I call and ask if he could arrive at our office earlier on his route. Which seems a bit ludicrous to me, but I suppose I have to side with the postman, after all, he's just doing his route, right?

Well, now, after talking to him repeatedly, I am his biggest champion, defending him to the likes of the accounting department who are anxious to get their checks, the other administrators who just like to complain about everyone's inadequacies and the IT department who just seem rankled by anything. I must take everything too personally...maybe I'm too sensitive. But I really hate watching the underdog get stomped on or belittled. He is so jolly, like a USPS Santa Claus. He isn't disingenuous like the FedEx guy, and certainly not surly like those other delivery drivers. And now, I'm like a mama bear whenever anyone criticizes my new friendly mailman.

I was walking up from the back of the office today and saw his shoes under the door. Alas, I'd missed him, he'd picked up the mail, dropped off our bundle and left before I could say hello. I tried to wave through the window...but his vision was probably obstructed by his giant sunglasses. And I felt a little sad--there aren't a lot of bright spots in the monotony of answering phones and data entry that is my world currently, so when I find some bit of human interaction that is regular and interesting, not requests for paper orders or asking me to count out 350 pencils for a trade show, it's exciting.

There must be something about this weirdo, shiny, sparkly, BMW-studded suburb that I work in...because these correspondence/package delivery guys are all quite something. Too bad about missing my friend, but there's always tomorrow.

WTF: WWW is killing the Telephone: Emoticons and the demise of human communication

2007-04-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

I have some biases. They don't make any sense, really. Usually biases don't. However, the bias-holder is often not aware of how completely irrational their deeply held preconcieved notions are--which often makes for great fun for the rest of us. What is more fun that calling people out when they least expect it, right? Or, making jokes that they take as serious comments.

For example, my dad has a deep-seated prejudice against academia. Perhaps because he has spent so much time working for those academics, living as close as we do to a rather large college town. I've heard this phrase, in reference to a number of different situations, on a number of occassions "That damn professor wouldn't know his ass from a hole in the ground." I can only imagine what he must think when I talk about getting an advanced degree. However, one of the most amusing things in my world is to tease him a little--"yeah, that guy studied German for seven years, I can't believe he hasn't mastered Spanish verbs conjugation, you'd think that'd be easy for him. What a waste." He usually agrees with whatever outlandish statement I've spewed and continues on with his vitrol.

My biases are no less amusing. I have a healthy disdain for the following:
1. Exclaimation points
2. People who read classic literature in public places, such as coffee shops. It strikes me as pretentious. Don't ask me why.
3. Men who can't drive manual transmissions.
4. Chain restaurants
5. American cars
6. People who wear cartoon characters (without irony) and are over the age of 12
7. Crystal Light--gross.
8. Fake flowers
9. People who walk through the mall to "get exercise"
10. Emoticons

Let's deal with emoticons for just a moment. I use them (and that bastard of a punctuation mark, the exclaimation point) on occassion. Everyone slips, right? However, since I've been working in this office for six weeks, I've noticed my usage of emoticons has drastically increased. Yet everytime I see one, it rankles me.

It has the same effect on me that the phrase "thanks in advance" does. You can't thank me in advance, that's counter-intuitive. I haven't done anything for you yet. Essentially, what that means is "this is a really nice way of telling you to do it, or else."

Emoticons--it's the same thing. I'm going to send you a scathing email asking you to do some inane task, like make a dentist appointment for me or put a stamp on a peice of mail (I'm sorry--maybe it's that dreaded sense of entitlement I'm saddled with, but I just can't understand why you can't stamp your own mail), and then I'm going to put a cute little smiley face after the fact to indicate how friendly and easy going this exchange really is. It's so totally disingenuious, I want to throw up.

And, to add insult to injury, I've noticed that in my Outlook program and MSN messenger have actual graphics of little yellow heads with various expressions and accessories. They're labelled, too. For example, there's the "sick smile" with the little yellow guy blushing green with a thermometer in his mouth. Or the "smile with tongue out," which evidently in non-graphics, looks like this :P. Huh. You know, people have sent me those in emails and stuff, and I never knew what the hell that meant. Colon Uppercase P? Must be a typo.

Someone has too much time on their hands.

And, I'll have you all know, some dude at Microsoft is making $85k designing those little smiley faces. A team of people. This is exactly why people hate their jobs. I can't imagine going home at night and thinking "wow, I really contributed to the world today, I created a new emoticon for passive aggressive email communication."

I waffle back and forth between being concerned with the fact that we have somehow replaced so many forms of personal, face-to-face communication, or even voice-to-voice communication, with electronics. Text messaging, instant message, email, even blogging--all of which I use with reckless abandon, don't get me wrong--have somehow taken the place of a simple phone call. I'm amazed at how often I will have a conversation via email with someone who sits ten feet to my left. Is it because it's easier? Have we become such a non-confrontational, passive society that it's easier to ask someone a favor via email or instant message, and to tack on a ridiculous smiley face to communicate what you're tone and inflection might if you were speaking over the phone, or your own facial expressions or gestures would communicate in person?

Online dating--I know half a dozen people who have met their partners via the Internet. Part of me eschews this concept. How can you develop a connection with someone over email? What happened to that jolt you get when you see someone in person--the sexual attraction, the pure physicality of it, that's irreplaceable. I understand that match.com just provides a forum in which to meet people, that the jolt can come later. I still blame this partly on the fact that somehow we've replaced interpersonal communication with electronics. If we weren't stuck in our little pods communicating via wires and wavelengths, do you think we'd need to utilize the very thing that imprisons us to find a relationship?

But then there's the other part of me that shrugs and says, hey, we're evolving. So text messaging is the new postcard. Email is certianly the new letter. IM is the new, I don't know, post it note on your door saying "just stopped by to say hi!" Maybe the emoticon is just a smiley face like you'd put on a note to your best friend to indicate intimacy and comraderie. Does it really matter? Maybe in this communciation evolution we're simply finding more effective ways to get the job done so we can spend the real, personal, intimate, face to face moments with those we really care about. Maybe online dating is simply a more efficent way to screen out the wack-jobs. It doesn't really matter, right, as long as the jolt is there, the intimacy can survive a trip through the world wide web. Maybe...

I don't have a conclusive statement or paragraph. I'm not sure how I feel about any or all of it. It remains to be seen how this will affect us, right, and some academic wah-wah that my dad thumbs his nose at will likely be able to write a positon paper on just this phenomena in 100 years.

However, last thought, I saw this commercial on TV last night and it was disturbing. It was a mother and her pre-adolescent daughter arguing about the kid's cell phone bill. The crux of the commerical, the disturbing part for me, was that the daughter spoke entirely in acronyms. You know...TTYL, BFF, SNF, WTF. And mom understood...I realize it's a spoof, it's funny, cute, haha, but it's also freakin' frightening.

By the way, TTYL: talk to you later, BFF: best friends forever, SNF: so not fair, and my personal fave WTF: what the fuck?