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I've recently begun the magical adventure that is online dating. For a long time now, I've thought of online dating as my "spare tire"--no, not my spare tire as in the unsightly band of fat around my midsection, but spare tire as in my back-up plan, my get-out-of-jail-free card. And when I say 'jail,' I mean the self-made prison of loneliness and self-doubt that has been my reality for the past few years.

Let me catch you up. A few years ago, I broke up with the guy I thought I was going to marry. I was in love with him, but I left him anyway, mostly because he got into the habit of saying things like, "I never want to marry you," and "The idea of having kids with you or anyone makes me sick. Fuck kids! Fuck this world!" He was very dramatic, but not in the good way (you know, the charming, full-of-life kind of dramatic). He was depressed-dramatic, he was I-can't-fathom-why-anyone-would-ever-get-excited-about-anything-as-POINTLESS-as-a-birthday-or-a-trip-to-the-ice-skating-rink-and-who-cares-about-Christmas-lights-we're-all-going-to-die-someday-anyway-probably-someday-soon dramatic.

I'm still in love with him, even though I honestly believe he doesn't care about me at all. I'm not trying to get you to pity me (although, that would be nice)--I'm just stating facts. But even though I love him so much that sometimes it feels like my intestines are on fire, I believe that he is dead inside, so it's time to move on.

In that spirit, and because I thought it would be "good, clean fun," I joined a few free online dating sites. It turns out, though, that online dating is even more of a punch in the gut than real-life dating, if that's even possible. I think the problem is that it's too easy to sit back in the comfort of your ergonomic computer chair, surrounded by the wreckage that is your life (plus actual trash if you're a hoarder like I am), and poke fun at how desperate and just plain idiotic (not to mention creepy!) your potential "dates" are. For example, one of my "matches" attempted to lure me into his web of sex, lies, and videotape by emailing me a list of every WWE movie he owns. For those of you not in the know, WWE stands for World Wrestling Entertainment. Oh! What a lucky girl am I! Did I say I liked wrestling, fuckwit?! Get your head out of your ass.

Another keeper wrote this in his profile: "The most private thing I’m willing to admit here: My penis size--6 inches long, and 3 inches wide. I know every sexual position. I like to masturbate about 3 times a week. I do shave down there all the time so I have no pubic hair. And I do shower every day."

I'm so glad I know how often he masturbates and that his dick looks like one of those hairless baby hamsters. Romance is alive and well, folks!

The sad part is...it's all fun and games when I'm the one doing the judging. I sit here in my judging chair, surrounded by broken dreams and grease-saturated fast food hamburger wrappers, and I make a mockery of the hopeful profile of some pitiful wimpus or pervert who could maybe be my new boyfriend--if only I would give him the chance. But when it's someone else's turn to do the criticizing...well, that doesn't sit so well with me.

For example, I have the "privilege" of being able to see pictures of all the different guys who have viewed my profile and I get to know when they viewed it. As in, I get a little notification that says: SlappyClown27 viewed your profile at 7:12 pm!. That's nice. Thanks SlappyClown27. Thanks for viewing my profile and then deciding NOT to message me. I would understand not getting a message if when I clicked over to his profile SlappyClown27 turned out to be some super slick frat-boy type whose idea of a good time is popping his collar, watching team sports and playing beer pong--otherwise known as Mr. Definitely Not Into Chubby Funny Girls. But no, SlappyClown27 (and he's not real, folks, just a symbol of what almost ALL these guys are like) usually turns out to be some unemployed Nascar-loving 40-something super-creep whose skin is as pasty as raw dough because he lives in his brother-in-law's dank basement and hasn't left the house in over a month.

But he, SlappyClown27, an aging virgin whose proudest moment is the time he shoved six hot dogs into his mouth at once, looks at my profile and thinks to himself: Eh, I could do better. This is why online dating requires a thick skin.

But don't worry, I haven't lost hope. I know I'll meet Mr. Right eventually. I'm just starting to think we may meet while we're say, shopping for nets, instead of surfing the Net.

What, you don't do a lot of net shopping?

Hello, Dexter Morgan

Dexter is an amazing show. I applaud the writers for giving us consistently top-notch story lines, and of course, the acting by Michael C. Hall and all the actors on the show is AMAZING. Dexter, I could listen to your ominous, sexy, sly, witty voice-overs all day long.

For Dexter fans (and if you're reading this blog, you BETTER be a Dexter fan...seriously: I will hunt you down, wrap you in plastic, slice up your cheek, and kill you if you're not a Dexter fan), check out this interview with one of the show's executive producers, Clyde Phillips. It's a whole hour of Dexter chat!!

**DON'T WATCH THIS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN ALL OF THE MOST RECENT DEXTER EPISODES**



I can't wait for next week's season finale!! And I can't wait EVEN MORE for season 5.

The Truth Is That I Miss You

I don't know how to begin writing this. One of my best friends in the whole world is gone, and I have never felt more empty.

Eric was an avid reader of this blog, which goes to show the kind of person he was-- warm-hearted and thoughtful, the kind of guy who would always surprise you by remembering the little things. It touched me that he read my blog, because to me, it's a high compliment when anyone is willing to read entry after entry about things like how I really like Cadbury Creme Eggs. But Eric got my sense of humor, and he was always right there laughing along with me, and supporting me, always asking me about the things I was doing, like becoming an EMT and going to nursing school.

My friendship with him began years and years ago, when we were both first graders at Maple Grove Elementary school. Eric was a memorable presence even back then. He had this great face--big, dark eyes and a wide, infectious grin. Back then, he wore thick glasses, which (don't hate me, Eric!) I always thought made him look a little bit like Stephen King. That's a compliment, if you ask me.

As years passed, Eric and I stayed friends. Of course, in a smallish town like Lapeer, everyone pretty much knows everyone. Eric and I went to the same junior high and high school. In junior high, I don't remember talking much to Eric, but we were still in each others' universes. You know, those were the awkward years. At least for me they were. If there were some girls who were talking to boys and dating and learning how to be pretty and mysterious, that certainly wasn't me. And Eric wasn't one for flirting, either, as I recall. He was studious, but not nerdy. In those tumultuous years, I would see Eric in the halls or the cafeteria or the blacktop where all the kids gathered during breaks, and be comforted. He was a familiar face, someone who made me feel safe in a time when I rarely felt anything other than terrified.

In high school, we had some great times. One of my favorite memories of Eric from those days--and something I teased him about for years after it happened--was when we got into a car accident on the night of our Junior Prom. I always used to say that Eric simultaneously risked my life and saved my life in the same night. So: Eric and I were each others' prom dates Junior year. Eric had borrowed his parents' nice new car for the evening--a big, beautiful SUV. And I had gone and gotten fake nails. Now, if you know me, you know that I am not someone who ever wears fake nails. But my friend Lisa convinced me to get them. Of course, her fake nails turned out all pretty and dainty, whereas I had a hard time speaking up to the woman who was doing my nails (I should've told her to make them shorter, damn it all!), so I ended up with loooooong burgundy talons. Eric was nice enough not to mention how ridiculous I looked.

So we went to prom, we danced, we ate, we laughed. Well, Eric didn't dance a whole lot. He never liked dancing much. But nevertheless, we had a great time. 11 o' clock rolled around and it was time to leave. We got into Eric's parents' car, and I couldn't get my seat-belt buckled--because those ridiculously long fake nails had made me lose all use of my hands. I tried a few times and couldn't get it, so I just gave up. Eric saw me and wasn't having it. He reached over and buckled my seat-belt himself. Little did I know what was about to happen...

We pulled up to the very first stoplight outside of where our prom had been held that year. It was a flashing red light, and we were making a left. Eric waited for oncoming traffic to clear, and then he went for it and made the turn. What he didn't realize--what neither of us realized--was that we had a flashing red, but cars driving on the road we were turning onto had a flashing yellow. So we ended up getting T-boned by this woman in a van. In the split second that we saw her car in our path, we both knew we were going to get hit. And then we were spinning. My door flew open. My purse flew out, along with some CDs that were on the dashboard. But I stayed right where I was, thanks to my trusty seat-belt and the friend who made me wear it (the same friend who also got me into the accident, but hey, I'm not keeping score:)).

When the car stopped spinning after what seemed like forever, Eric looked over at me, panicked. I asked, "Are you alright?" and he didn't even answer me or say anything, just got his seat-belt off and was out the door, running over to the lady in the van. I stepped out of the car, and I must've been a sight to see, standing there in the midst of all the broken glass and chaos in my high-heels, my overdone hair, my long prom dress, and of course--my even longer fake nails. I could hear sirens in the distance, and by now all of our friends (who had been in a caravan behind us as we all filed out of the prom parking lot) had pulled over to make sure we were alright. Even our principal and assistant principal stopped!

Eric had to call his parents and tell them what happened. The car was totaled and his dad had to come pick him up. Later, Eric got sued by the woman who hit us, and lost. Not the ideal prom night--but a good story for sure.

To be fair, I should tell you what Eric would say about this story. And I know exactly what he would say because we had countless conversations about it in the years after it happened. Every time he'd drive me somewhere, I would make jokes about how us in a car together was bad luck. So, Eric would say that the accident on prom night was not his fault. He would say that it was my fault, because I was distracting him by fussing around with the CD player. I don't know, maybe it was my fault. Ultimately, it doesn't really matter. We both survived and it bonded us together. So I'm thankful for it, especially now. Every memory I have of Eric is a good memory.


**I should note that this is not a picture of Eric and I from that night. This is a picture of us from when we went to Homecoming that same year. But, you get the idea:)

Eric and I went our separate ways for college. He went off to Michigan State, and I went to Western Michigan. Then I transferred to Eastern Michigan. Then I transferred again , finally ending up in Chicago. And even though Eric and I weren't always near each other during our college years, I always thought of him as a member of my inner circle. He was a constant in my life. I would see him over Christmas, when I (along with a lot of our other close friends from high school) would trek out to his house for pond hockey. Or I'd see him when I went to MSU to visit.

And then, about two years ago, I moved back home from Chicago. I started living with my parents and going to school yet again. At first, I felt lonely being back here in Lapeer. I felt a little loser-y too, because my only friends in the area were my parents. But then, Eric and I reconnected. He was in law school, at Cooley in East Lansing, which isn't that far from Lapeer, and he was around a lot because he worked in Grand Blanc, which is only a half an hour away from Lapeer. We started hanging out more, going to movies together, or just aimlessly walking around Wal-Mart laughing about absolutely everything.

And our circle of friends started to grow. Eric sort of "introduced" me to one of my closest friends, Alana. Eric, Alana, and I all went to high school together, but I didn't really know her in high school and Eric and she stayed close throughout college and after. So one night, around Christmas last year, Eric brought Alana out to the bar, and I realized how much we have in common. Plus, our friends Matt and Emily moved back to Lapeer around that time and we all started hanging out more often, doing things like celebrating someone's birthday, watching a friend's band play, or having game night. Suddenly, my whole world started to feel a lot fuller and I started to feel truly happy.











All I know is, Eric made my life better. Whether we were getting in a car accident together or walking aimlessly around Wal-Mart or chatting on the phone about what groceries to buy or talking about how much we both love the show "Dexter," we always had a good time together.

And the truth is, I miss him.

Siren Song: Part II

The room that Ivan leads me into is big, but cozy, and has a dilapidated, "lived-in" feel--brown berber carpeting, mismatched furniture, and a musty, stale odor. The room reminds me of my grandma's basement--the one I was often told to go play in when I was younger, the one where grandma kept her old dresses and wigs in a scary, dusty trunk. In other words, the room is comforting...in a sinister sort of way.

I, of course, feel ridiculously out of place (not to mention HUGELY FAT, given the horrible, disgusting uniform I've been forced to wear). I take a seat on the edge of one of the three reclining chairs that are lined up in a row, all facing a decrepit TV, which is held in a shoddy-looking entertainment unit. The TV is on, tuned to the local news. I sit there for awhile, before realizing that no one cares what I do, and so I finally get up and look around, taking in the details of Base Station 1. Off of the main living area (which, along with the three reclining chairs and entertainment unit, holds a large "leather" couch and a dining table and full kitchen), there are two "bedrooms"--just bare-bones rooms with single beds and night tables, in which on-duty EMTs are allowed to sleep until they are called to duty.

Aside from the main living space and the bedrooms, there are two bathrooms and a large supply room, which holds back-ups of everything an ambulance crew might need (aside from drugs and IV fluids, which must be obtained at the hospital)--extra nonrebreather masks and nasal cannulas, extra sheet sets, pillows, lancets, suction catheters and tubing, needles, boxes of latex gloves, etc. One wall of the supply room holds the time clock (where all the regular employees punch in and out), the charging stations for each EMT and medic's handheld radio, and a large map that shows the geographical area that this particular ambulance company covers.

Also, there is a little den, which holds a small couch and a desk with a computer (with Internet access!), a telephone, and various official-looking papers, forms, and envelopes.

And of course, there is a huge garage attached to the Base, which holds anywhere from one to three ambulances at a time. There's not much else kept in the garage, except for the Oxygen tanks, which a crew can grab when they've used theirs up (all ambulances are required to have 2 portable oxygen tanks on board--one that is actively "in use" (it has to have a certain amount of O2 in it. Once it dips below the required level, it must be replaced) and a backup O2 tank).

Exploring the whole Base station takes all of 10 minutes, and so I walk shamefully back to the main living area and take a seat in one of the reclining chairs. Wendy looks at me. She is a thick, solid-looking woman, with bottle-blond hair and a tired-of-it-all air about her.

"Ivan's gonna wanna go get somethin' to eat," she says, like she needs my permission or something.

"Ok," I say meekly, hating the sound of my own voice.

"After we do rig check," she says. Fear strikes my heart. Well, more fear than was already there, that is. This is the first real opportunity for me to fail at being a "good" EMT student.

Ivan enters the room, and he's clutching a leather briefcase-style laptop-carrier. I know what this means. Rig check. Ivan is the medic on the rig I'm riding on, which means he keeps the computer on which he writes all his run-reports with him at all times. During rig check, he'll need to enter information onto the lap-top, such as the serial number on our "drug box" and the expiration date, etc. Wendy labors up off of the reclining chair she was sitting in and follows him, and I do the same.

We walk out the door, and I am delighted to see that it is light out now. Morning has broken, birds are singing, cars are whizzing by on the busy street next to the Base, and people are awake! I think I even hear a lawnmower! This all means that I am that much closer to being home, in my own bed, and I am flooded with premature relief.

But then I see the ambulance. And I know I'm supposed to get on it, and poke around, and say things about what supplies are missing and whether or not the O2 tank is filled up enough...except I don't know anything! And, to make matters worse, a new crew has just pulled up to Base, for seemingly no other reason than to make my embarrassment that much more poignant.

I stand awkwardly next to the ambulance, while Wendy and Ivan lumber aboard. I guess I'm thinking that not doing anything at all is better than pretending to know what I'm doing. Deep down, I know that I should be asking Ivan or Wendy what to do. But Wendy seems perturbed already and Ivan is gruff. So I just stand there. That's when one of the "new" EMTs who just arrived at Base, walks over to me. He's a slim, nice-looking 30-something man, who grins broadly at me and shakes my hand, telling me his name is Adam**. He is wearing bad-ass combat boots that come mid-way up his calves and his pants are tucked into them, soldier-style. I like him immediately, simply because he smiled and acknowledged my existence.

Adam lights a cigarette and whispers to me, "If you go check the outside compartments and tell Ivan how much O2 is in the main, he'll be impressed." If only I knew what those words meant! Adam inhales deeply and chuckles. "Here, follow me," he says. He takes me around the outside of the ambulance, opening all the outer compartments (storage areas and drawers, built into the outside of the ambulance). One compartment holds all the long backboards and the C-collars (neck braces). One compartment holds the stair chair (used to carry a stable patient up and down stairs). One compartment holds road flares and special orange vests we're supposed to wear on the scene of a car accident. And one compartment holds "the main"--the big oxygen tank that the ambulance draws it's main O2 from. Adam instructs me to look at how much O2 is in the main and go report it to Ivan. He's even kind enough to tell me exactly how to say it. He says, "Go tell Ivan 'We've got 1600 in the main.'"

I am, at this moment, more grateful to Adam than I have ever been to anyone in my entire life. I run and tell Ivan exactly what Adam told me to tell him, and he looks at me, puzzled, like he's surprised I would know to say such a thing (he should be surprised!), and says, "Uh..ok..thanks." Then I go on, telling him we're good on long boards and C-collars and we've got a stair chair and road flares.

Before I know it, rig check is done, and I haven't been screamed at yet. Ivan and Wendy climb out of the ambulance, light up cigarettes of their own, and stand around bullshitting with Adam and his partner Darcy**. I am too pleased with myself to feel resentful at not being included in their cliquey chat-fest.

But there is still a dull panic coursing through my veins. Because the first call of the day has yet to come.

Siren Song: Part I

I fucking love ambulances. Not really, but I got your attention didn't I? Alright, I actually DO love ambulances--because they are specially-equipped vehicles that help paramedics and EMTs save lives. And also because I feel like a total bad-ass when I ride in one.

As those who read this blog regularly undoubtedly know, I'm currently enrolled in a class preparing me to become a licensed and certified EMT. As such, I am required to complete 112 clinical hours. What that means is: I had to ride-along in an ambulance (and work a few shifts in the ER) for 112 hours. I had a little blue booklet that I was required to bring along with me on every ride. In this blue booklet I wrote down all my experiences with patients, plus I was required to have the paramedics and EMTs that I rode with sign the booklet to verify that I had completed a shift.

As a third-party rider in the ambulance, I always sat in the back of the ambulance--in the "jump seat," as they call it, which is the seat at the head of the patient. I was allowed and expected to help with patient care. I would do things like set-up the IV (get the tubing in place, "spike" the bag, hang the bag, etc.) and take vital signs (blood pressure, pulse, breathing rate, oxygen saturation, and blood sugar level). I also helped with loading the patient onto and off of the cot, lifting the patient, and getting the patient's medical history. Plus I helped with all the mundane tasks that needed to be done, like changing out the O2 tanks, emptying the "sharps" container, and "rig check," which is where we would go through the ambulance to ensure that we had the right amount of all the proper supplies: backboards, straps, cervical collars, duct tape, head blocks, traction splint, board splints, KED board (short backboard, usually used for removing a stable patient from a car), oxygen tanks, flares, nasal cannulas, bag-valve masks, nonrebreather masks, needles of all different sizes (18 gauge, 20 gauge, 14 gauge, etc.), 4x4s (gauze), portable suction, suction tubing, IV fluids and tubing, blood sugar lancets (small needles used for getting blood sugar readings), alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, trauma shears (for cutting clothes off of a patient), drug box (a locked and sealed box full of medications to be administered only by the paramedic and usually only in the event of a real emergency), IV box (extra IV stuff, should we run out or get called to a mass-casualty incident), towels, teddy bears (for scared kids), blankets, and sheet sets (for the cot).

I've been promising (threatening?) to write a blog about my ride-alongs for a while now, and I'm finally ready to deliver. Here's how this will work: I've decided to consolidate my most interesting ride-along experiences into one action-packed story, to be written out in a saga-like series of entries. So, if you like Part I, you'll have to stay tuned for Part II (and perhaps Parts III and IV!). Ready to get started? Here goes:

It's dawn. The sky is slowly brightening and light is beginning to creep into my bedroom. Lying flat on my back and still as a corpse, I open my eyes and look out my skylight. A gray-pink sky and the chirping of eager young birds greet me. It is spring, but I feel no joy. Even though it is just now dawn, I've been awake since two AM, because I was too nervous and filled with dread to sleep. Every time I tried to close my eyes last night I saw images of bloody disembodied limbs, HIV-infected needles, and angry drunks wielding chainsaws. But it is dawn now. I have to get up. And so I do.

I shower and put on my uniform. My uniform pants make me gag a little. They are men's navy slacks, and they are huge. I could fit a small neighborhood inside of them. I ordered them a few sizes bigger than what I needed because I was so worried that they would come in the mail and be too small. I didn't get to try them on before placing an order. Nonetheless, I suck it up and slide on my uniform pants. They make me feel obese. The tone is set for the day. My uniform shirt is a light blue short-sleeved button-up heavy-duty cotton weave with the word "Genesys" embroidered above the pocket. I have no beef with the shirt. Beneath my uniform shirt, I wear a men's ribbed gray tank top and a sports bra. My uniform is complete when I slide on a black leather belt, my ID badge, and black leather steel-toed boots. I hastily eat breakfast (Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal) while watching the news (as if I wasn't already depressed enough). It is now 5:40 AM. I need to get my stuff together and go. I'm a nervous wreck. My eyes well up. But I dutifully pack my messenger bag. Into the bag I place: my EMT workbook (fill-in-the-blank style homework that I figure I can work on when we're not "running" (doing a call)), a novel (in case I get sick of homework), my cell phone (turned to vibrate), money, and my blue booklet (remember, the one that needs to be signed to verify my ride-time?).

The base station is so close to my house that I can walk there. And so I start walking. The birds are chirping loudly. For some reason--maybe it's the stillness of the air around me or the desolate street or the screaming birds in the still-leafless trees that are silhouetted black against the pink dawn sky--I am reminded of horror movies. I think I see a zombie, but then I realize it is just my own reflection in a plate-glass window (in case you didn't already know this: I live in a downtown area that's filled with stores. In fact, I live above a bar! It's not as cool as it sounds.). I look weathered and pale, and my gait is graceless.

When I arrive at the base station--a small, unassuming brick building with a large garage, few windows, and a blue EMS flag flying on the flag pole--my heart is pounding in my chest. I can hear and feel the blood rushing through my veins. The base station is dark, save for one beacon of yellow light that calls out to me through the small window on the heavy white door that leads inside. I reach the door and peek through the window. I see no one--just an empty, dimly-lit hallway. I knock on the door. No one comes. I try the handle. It's locked. I knock again, louder this time, hoping upon hope that someone will come to open the door (while simultaneously wishing that no one would ever come).

A man opens the door. He is a short, round man--not obese, but stocky. His head is shaved and he is tan with a circular face and big, somewhat bulldogish features. I guess him to be in his mid-50s, at the very least. He is wearing an EMS uniform--slightly different (and better) than mine. He wears navy blue cargo pants (the pockets are filled with goodies, like neon-green-handled rescue shears!), a tight-fitting navy short-sleeved polyester uniform shirt, complete with cargo pockets and decorative pins that spell out things like "EMS", "Paramedic", and "CPR certified" in posh silver letters. I think to myself: I wish I had pins! But alas, all I have are my disgusting uniform pants and an ugly ID badge that identifies me as an EMS student.

"Hi," I say in a meek little voice that fills me with shame as soon as I hear it escape my lips, "I'm here to do a ride-along." Commence: terror. This is the moment I've been dreading ever since I began EMT class months ago.

"Ok," the man says, humorlessly. "You'll be riding with my partner and I. I'm Ivan** and my partner is Wendy**." He doesn't smile at me. He just steps aside so I can come in, then turns and walks briskly down the dimly lit hallway. As the door slams shut behind me, I can't help but be reminded of the sickening echo a cell door makes as it slams shut, locking it's prisoner in a tiny, cold, windowless room for all eternity. I don't know what else to do, so I follow him.

To Be Continued...


The view from the "Jump Seat"

**Names have been changed

Liz's Movie Review Corner

Today was my mom's birthday. So we saw a fun-filled family movie called "Drag Me To Hell." Let me just say this: I love you, Sam Raimi. The movie was what all horror movies should be: suspenseful, dramatic, eerie, a bit gross, and at times both heart-wrenching and hilarious. From the retro opening titles and the jarring eastern European violin score and the stellar cast (including a favorite of mine--Justin Long of "Jeepers Creepers" fame) to the tidy, almost folkloric plot, "Drag Me To Hell" is storytelling at it's best--and a total delight for a longtime horror fan like me. It hearkens back to some of the very best episodes of shows like "The Twilight Zone" and "Outer Limits," building tension and raising the stakes in each and every scene without even one wasted line of dialogue or unplanned dutch angle or rapid dolly zoom. Sam Raimi's film idol is Alfred Hitchcock, and while his influences certainly shine through in "Drag Me To Hell," Raimi is a writer-director with a voice all his own--a voice I look forward to hearing from again soon.

Flesh Prison

Sometimes, when I've been lying around in my room for three or four hours straight, I start to get a little restless. So usually, I'll get up and come over to my computer...you know, for a change of "scenery." Instead of looking at the TV screen, I look at a computer monitor. Instead of clicking the buttons on the remote, I click the keys on the keyboard. And sometimes, like today, it doesn't really work to cure my restlessness.

It just got worse. I opened iTunes and started playing music that makes me feel melancholy. I'm now listening to Anecdote by Ambulance Ltd. This song makes me feel melancholy because it reminds me of when I lived in the dorms at Columbia College Chicago--or, as my friend Kate and I refer to our dwelling back then: "Apartment 215" or simply "215." Those were two of the best years of my life.

Not that my life isn't good now. It is--very good. It's just, on days like today, I get all restless and I start wishing for things that I may or may not ever get. Like, I hate to beat a dead horse (actually, that might be kinda fun!), but I always imagine that I'll have a better body in the future. But I've been doing that since I was like 10 years old, and I still haven't achieved that goal. When I close my eyes and picture my distant future, I sometimes imagine myself sailing on a boat, or standing atop a rocky cliff overlooking the sea, or riding a dolphin, or playing the violin on a darkened stage in an empty auditorium, or driving the PCH in a cherry-red convertible, or leading an archeological dig (and then a man flies in on a helicopter and offers to fully fund my dig for another 3 years if I agree to come see his "theme park")--but no matter where I am, I always have rock hard abs.

Will it ever happen? My dad is worried that it won't. In fact, he thinks I need professional help. I feel like a pregnant teenager in the 1960s.* He wants to send me away. We had a big fight about my "weight issues" this past Thursday. Me wanting a bite of cannoli was the catalyst. If I write it out, blow by blow, it will just make you think my dad's a jerk. He's not. He loves me. But sometimes it feels like the only thing he notices about me is that I'm fat. And he's the living embodiment of all the things I already tell myself in my head: "Fat girls don't get to ride dolphins, Liz."

I'm not ready to throw in the towel on weight-loss just yet. So I think I'll go kayaking right now. If I'm not back in a week, assume I've been shipped off to a fat farm. Don't come looking for me. We are all on our own journey.

*In this movie, Cheryl gets pregnant and is shipped off to a "home for girls." It's a good movie.