But I wanna be a DEN-tist!

One of my favorite things about Christmas is that it allows me to go around declaring that decidedly unremarkable events are "Christmas miracles."

For instance, yesterday I was at Wal-Mart shopping for gluten free pasta shells. I became dismayed when I noticed a withered old hoarder reaching for the last box. Luckily she was in one of those motorized carts and the box was on a high shelf, so I was able to shove her out of the way and snatch it for myself. Once I had my treasure in my hot little hands and the wretched old disabled woman put her Amigo in reverse and backed her ass down the aisle and out of my face, I dropped to my knees, raised my arms to the heavens, and shouted in front of God and everyone: "It's a Christmas miracle!!"

Because lord knows it ain't Christmas without gluten free pasta shells and store-bought sauce.


Other situations/events that totally "count" as Christmas miracles:

There's a two-for-one sale on holiday-themed marshmallow peeps at Big Lots

I say "Father Christmas" five times in a row and his disembodied head appears to me in the bathroom mirror

My dad lights up a cigarette and I have a coughing fit, but he doesn't cough at all because his lungs are coated with tar!

A blind orphan regains his sight

My cat falls four stories, but when I look down he's not moving or yowling or anything, which means he died quickly and peacefully

Every hungry person in my hometown gets Christmas dinner

Nickelodeon airs a marathon of plucky 90's cartoon "Doug"


Happy holidays everyone! Here's hoping you witness a Christmas miracle or two and get your Christmas wish. This year, I'm wishing for a whole lot of money and material gain.

www.mylifeisinshambles.net

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.

Summer Lovin'

It's summer! Well...not officially, but as far as my brain is concerned--it's summer! Now is the time to enjoy the outdoors, to sip lemonade, to wear flowy dresses (or for you guys out there, flowy linen shorts) and sandals. Now is the time to buy new moon boots, to see Saturday matinees, to swim with manatees, to make a crown out of daises, to go spelunking in uncharted caves and fight off the half-man-half-bat carnivorous creatures that live there, to "accidentally" run over someone's pet marmoset. These are all things I do each and every summer--along with a few road trips to Niagra and three weeks at mime camp.

But THIS summer, I've decided to forgo all that craziness in favor of three months of...lying in my bed and watching summer programming. So without further ado, the TOP FIVE REASONS I'M EXCITED FOR THE SUMMER OF 2009:

1. Big Brother: Season 11

I know all you haters out there think Big Brother is trashy. And maybe it is, but who ever said reality TV had to be classy? I'll tell you who: nobody. Strangers locked in a house, forced to compete at life-sized Tic-Tac-Toe and eat slop? That's a recipe for entertainment, my friends. And if you're too cool for that, I pity you.

2. The Bachelorette: Jillian Harris

Wow. The Buzzhunters are really special--they kinda remind me of the characters on that PBS show "Ghostwriter." You know? Ghostwriter?? The series that features a group of New York City teenagers who solve mysteries with the help of an invisible ghost who can communicate with the kids only by manipulating whatever text and letters he can find and using them to form words and sentences?? Tell me you've seen it! Well, I guess it doesn't matter. The Buzzhunters can get the buzz on all our favorite shows even without an invisible ghost who helps them by manipulating text and letters. And this time, they got the buzz on the new Bachelorette, Jillian Harris!! Huzzah! Yes. I do watch The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. No, I won't apologize for it.

3. So You Think You Can Dance (Otherwise known as: SYTYCD)

I don't give a shit about Dancing With The Stars. Newsflash: stars aren't good at dancing. But the kids on SYTYCD are FAN-bloody-TASTIC dancers! I watched this show for the first time last season, and it consistently took my breath away. I particularly love when the contestants dance lyrical hip-hop numbers.

4. Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood

People love to hate on Tori Spelling, but I just love to love her! What can I say? Donna is my homegirl. Of all the celebrity reality shows (Dina Lohan? Puke. Denise Richards? So you've got a lot of pets--who the fuck cares?), this is the one I can stand.

5. HawthoRNe

"Jada Pinkett Smith is the latest actress to bring her talent to TNT’s arsenal of strong, complex female characters, following in the footsteps of Kyra Sedgwick on The Closer and Holly Hunter of Saving Grace. This summer, Pinkett Smith executive-produces and stars in HAWTHORNE, a character-driven drama series about a nurse who is a true everyday hero.

Pinkett Smith plays Christina Hawthorne, a compassionate and headstrong Chief Nursing Officer heading up a group of dedicated nurses at Richmond Trinity Hospital who spend long days and nights on the hospital’s front lines. Hawthorne is the kind of nurse you want on your side when you or someone you love is in the hospital. She is the kind of nurse who fights for her patients and doesn’t let them slip through the cracks. When necessary, she takes on doctors and administrators who are overworked, distracted or just unable to see the human being behind the hospital chart."

As I future nurse, I think this sounds interesting!! Who's with me? Come on, who's with me??

A Letter To My New Roommate Heather

This is a letter that I wrote when I was transferring to Columbia College Chicago, after I received that little piece of paper in the mail that gives you the names and numbers of your new roommates. At Columbia I had three roommates, not just one, as we shared a large apartment two-bedroom that was nothing like a normal dorm room at all (it had a stove, a full-sized fridge, and a dishwasher!). For some reason the name "Heather" stood out and I was compelled to write this letter:

"Dear Heather,

Hey Heath. I just wanted to write and say that I have been thinking about it, and I’m not sure that we’re going to make good roommates at all. My idea of a good roommate is someone that you can sit around in your underwear with and eat, like, raw cookie dough and mourn the loss of a boyfriend or a parent or a puppy with and watch David Letterman at the same time and tell each other dark secrets after we smoked a joint one of us had hidden in the jewelry box that one of our mothers gave us when we were ten. From the messages I have received from you over Internet email, I have deduced that you’re not the optimum match for me as roommate. I want a roommate with whom I can share deep revelations about life and mostly about sex and about my sexual relationships with men. Usually I have revelations while I look out the window and watch the rain and listen to droopy music and eat a stack of tootsie rolls that I bought at the nearest CMS gas station. I feel like you’re the type of woman who would make a comment about my rolls. You would look down your crooked and probably big and probably ugly nose at me and you would say that tootsie rolls are disgusting or undesirable because of how sticky or clunky or how unlike real chocolate they are because they’re like when a package says ‘cola flavor’ instead of actually being cola or something. And after you made that comment, and after I got sick by looking at you and had to spew a hard chunk of roll on our sure to be dingy carpet, which had we been better friends we could have made light of, but since we’re not just made me feel a lot sicker, I wouldn’t be able to share my revelation with you about the maybe mediocre sex I had with a grad student earlier that afternoon--and then I would be sad, but not like melancholy like how I always get after sex, but because we weren’t as close as I maybe could have been with another roommate, a different girl. Another thing is that I like to do my laundry and then smell the fresh newness of my t-shirts and sometimes when other people’s clothing and shoes (some people wash tennis-shoes) get in with my things, the smells get mixed together and sometimes remind me of smells that I don’t like to be reminded of. It doesn’t happen with every person, but it often happens with people who aren’t good matches with me. And somehow, when I lie awake at night, and when I crawl out my window and go downstairs and listen to my cat cough and then sneak out and ride my bike, and sometimes see another person on a different bike in the empty parking lot behind a Coney Island, and I can smell the special garbage receptacle that is just for grease and also the night air, and I think about how the person on the other bike who is singing church hymns loudly enough for me to hear and I are doing the same thing but we’re on two different life paths, I realize that you are a woman who will never understand how deeply I go. Will you? I hope I’ve been clear enough about the way that I feel, and I also hope that I can get another assignment for a roommate. See you around maybe.

Sincerely,

Lizzy"


Not my best writing, but you can see why I belonged in the Fiction department. And yes, I did send it. Actually, no, I didn't send it. But after Heather and I became friends, I read it to her and she laughed...which means maybe she WAS a good match with me after all.

A List: Things I Want To Do This Summer

In no particular order...

1. Make friends with a hobo



2. Learn to fly. No--not learn to fly a plane. I mean, learn to fly MY BODY. I just think that would be a neat thing to know how to do.

3. Go to Oscoda, Michigan for a long weekend and walk on the beach, canoe, play mini golf, ride a horse, eat at the Turkey Roost, go to the Red Barn and buy polished rocks, contemplate my life while staring at the impossibly brilliant starry sky and feeling the delicate caress of a cool breeze on my face. Lansy, you coming??

4. Immerse myself in a swimming pool filled with cooked spaghetti noodles.

5. Lose a ton of weight, because I'm sick of feeling like a disgusting giant and having almost-constant insecure thoughts. And I don't want to lose weight just because it's going to be shorts season soon! As if I would ever wear shorts. I wouldn't. Even if I had a better body, I wouldn't. You pretty much have to have a perfect body to look good in shorts...and even then I think shorts look tacky. You wear shorts, you live in a trailer park, or you're a hooch who wants to show off the Hello Kitty tattoo you have on your upper thigh, or you're an old woman who likes to garden and has stopped caring about covering up her unsightly varicose veins. I just want to set myself free from my always-gets-in-my-way-makes-me-second-guess-myself-constantly-and-keeps-me-from-being-the-person-I-really-want-to-be body. Also: I'm getting kind of sick of Cheeseburger Mondays, Donut-Ham-Hamburger Tuesdays, Marshmallow Peeps Wednesdays, Liter-a-Cola Thursdays, Fried Fish Fridays, Souvlaki Saturdays, and Chinese Pork Rib Sundays.

6. Go to some Tigers games.

7. Go to Chicago a number of times to see Kate. Go to Taste of Chicago (see list item #5). See Sean and Catie. Finally go to Rainbow Cone (see list item #5). Finally go to Medieval Times. Go see something in 3D at the Imax on Navy Pier, then ride the Speed Dog boat. Of COURSE, visit Novelty Golf and Games and maybe, hopefully, if all my wishes and dreams come true...find a way to ride the Tomb of Doom again.

8. Go to the Detroit Zoo, perhaps weekly.

9. Walk the edge of a live volcano.



10. Go shark diving in South Africa.

11. Go shark diving in South Africa. What? I already said that??? Well, I REALLY want to do it.



12. Do one of those work outs where you get to swing around on a trapeze.

13. Win a GIANT plush toy at Lapeer Days. And I'd like to win it without having to spend any money. This may mean giving out sexual favors to carnies...but I'm ok with that. You don't know how much I love giant plush toys. Also, when you "do stuff" with carnies, they give you VIP ride tickets and corn-dogs (see list item #5). Totally worth it. True story.

14. Go to Naaaawlins. Kate, you're planning this. Thank you for being my travel bitch.

15. Lie on a lawn of freshly cut grass while rose petals fall gently from the sky and land atop my naked shoulders.

16. Stumble upon a duffel bag full of money. And by "stumble upon," I mean watch from behind a tree as a criminal buries it in the woods, then come back later and dig it up, then skip town and start a new life in Bratislava, Slovakia.



17. Find Narnia...because even though he's half-man-half-fawn...and a tiny bit creepy...I'm pretty sure Mr. Tumnus is my other half.



18. Spend an inordinate amount of time inside a darkened, air-conditioned, movie theater watching every summer blockbuster, every horror movie, every indie film, every action movie, every thriller, every rom-com, every everything!! Fuck, I love movies.

19. Go on an ill-fated summer-school sailing trip.



20. Marry this man (because he reminds me of summer):

Bea Arthur Is Dead...And So Are My Insides.

She lived a charmed life. In a career spanning seven decades, Beatrice "Bea" Arthur achieved success as the title character, Maude Findlay, on the 1970s sitcom Maude, and as the lovable, the dry-witted, the imposing, the wry Dorothy Zbornak on the 1980s sitcom The Golden Girls.

I was out at a birthday celebration with a big group of friends when I learned of Bea's passing (The actress died peacefully in her Los Angeles home, surrounded by family, at the age of 86. The cause was cancer.). And, even though I was in a crowded bar, all the noise fell away and my world went dark when I read these sad words via a twitter text from my dear friend Kate Bauer (a rabid Golden Girls fan and also my own personal pal and confidante): "Oh no, Bea Arthur died. :( I'm honestly a little upset. R.I.P Bea!"

I cried, "No!" People looked up. I threw my drink on the ground. I took one of my shoes off and threw it at the window. At first, my friends were appalled, but when they found out why I was so upset, they totally got it.

I jest, of course. But I do love Bea Arthur and a little piece of me did die with her. Please enjoy these videos, which feature Bea in all her glory and pay a fitting tribute to her:



That made me cry.

Now for a "Bea" movie that's a little more upbeat:



And...as a bonus, a hilarious parody (starring Bea Arthur, of course) that Kate turned me onto:



We will miss you, Bea.

The Amazing Adventures of Invisible-and-Afraid Girl

Tomorrow is my second ever ambulance ride along. I am nervous. I don't want to go. But I do. I want to quit EMT class. But I don't. Why me, God?

I promise that this time I will let you know what happens. I am done with my finals now, so I will have time to really write it out. By the way, my Microbiology teacher was ONE HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE to our final!! Then, after 100 mind-boggling questions about E. coli, I got to go wait for an hour in the sell-back-your-books line, just to be told that they'd already met their quota for my Micro book and would I mind slipping my value-less book into the donation box in the hall? Fuck you, girl at the bookstore. Girl with all the power.

Don't worry, I didn't cuss at her out loud. I'm too nice for that. Plus, I used to work at a textbook store, and I know firsthand that customers can be mean as geese. That's how I lost my pinky finger. What? You never noticed I don't have a pinky finger? No one SEES me.

A Lesson In Self Love

Why are Canadian teen dramas so magical? I think that's a question we've all asked ourselves at least once or twice. Also: I think the fact that I watched this show when I was little is one of the main reasons I am so dorky and awkward today:



This show taught me to believe in myself!

Boy, Amanda sure learned her lesson didn't she? Don't pretend to be someone you're not or else "Cam," the otherwise-silent boy you have a crush on will accuse you of being un-original, re-neg on his promise to take you to your best friend's brother's wedding, eat all your cheese swirls, and stalk self-righteously out of your life.

More life-lessons from Ready or Not to come, I promise.

P.S. Yes, that IS a baby Ryan Gosling! I was as shocked as you are. Talk about acting chops!

Retro Dance Party

I have sickness, so...I thought I would post some clips and trailers from retro movies and shows that totally rocked my world. Please enjoy.

Um...I don't think there ever was a movie as good as "Caravan of Courage: The Ewok Adventure." Their version of a car? A camel with a tent-hut on its back! If you ask me, that's way better.

As my friend Jay once said (when we were watching "Tremors" and Kevin Bacon's character used a remote-control car to trick the graboids into going after it instead of him (after all, they are sensitive to motion)): "More evidence to prove my theory that Kevin Bacon is the smartest man alive."

They just don't make kids' movies like this anymore. The drama! The manipulation of rainbows! God DAMN it I want a horse with a rainbow mane.

This happens to be a very sad episode of "David the Gnome," in which he and his wife Lisa die, leaving behind David's beloved friend (and makeshift transit system) Swift the fox. But before David died, he did a lot of good as a vet to woodland creatures. I hope that when I die, it's pretty much JUST like this.

This may just be the best music video/song/movie ever! I showed this clip to my hairstylist so she would do my hair just like the singer's hair. Man, that is some good hair! Also...I was absolutely floored by the graphics.

To Be Continued

Hello again. I'm back. I'm back from the sludge. Picture me emerging from a pit of tar, a pool of hot lava, a lake of black seaweed and dead anemones. Because that's where I've been for the past almost-week.

I've been, if you will, drowning in a sea of panic and stress-induced pimples. It's a stinky sea--smells like pickle juice and ointment. On Friday, I had my first ambulance ride-along, which as you can imagine made me a walking, breathing, poo-ing, bundle of nerves on Thursday night. I cried about my nervousness to my Dad while sitting in Dagwood's (the deli my family owns) after closing. There's a table that he always sits at, a little two-seater just inside the back door, across from the deli case (the hulking, gorgeous refrigerator that houses the meats and cheeses), next to some shelves where the phone and my Dad's extra packs of cigarettes sit.

He tapped his stubby fingers on the worn plastic plaid tablecloth and said: "You're making yourself cry right now aren't you? You're just working yourself up! You're having a fit!"

I gave him a mean look, then got up and gathered my things. I headed toward the door. I didn't need this right now. I just wanted to weep.

He said: "You're just afraid you're not going to fit in, that you're going to embarrass yourself? Think of it this way: it's 12 hours out of your life! That's nothing in the grand scheme of things!"

Glumly, I said: "Yeah Dad...yeah..." And I pushed the door open, stepping into the cold, wet evening...and I wept.

I'm sure you're wondering how the ride-along went, aren't you? You're dying to know, aren't you?

Well...you're just going to have to wait because finals are coming and I don't have time to do the story justice. But it will come, oh yes. It will. Til then I suggest curling into the fetal position and cursing God. That's what I always do when things don't go my way.

That's what I did last Thursday night before my ride along, the soft murmur of "Survivor: Tocantins" buzzing in the background. I clutched my sheets and groaned, anguished, as nightmarish images of me accidentally allowing a gurney (with a patient on it) to roll across the parking lot into oncoming parking-lot traffic raced through my brain.

Adventureland

I just wanted to say: I went to the movies alone again this past Saturday. As you've probably guessed by now, going to the movies alone is one of my favorite things to do. (I also really like eating big stacks of buttered toast).

I like going to the movies with other people too--don't get me wrong. But I also like going alone. Although...I once read this thing online about how if you're going to the movies alone, you should wear a white baseball cap to signify that you're there alone. Then if you see someone else wearing a white baseball cap, you should sit next to them. This terrifies me. Also, warning: don't wear a white baseball cap to the movies if you're going by yourself, unless you want a desperate weirdo with dandruff and 99-cent cologne to sit next to you and repeatedly ask you what your favorite flavor of popcorn-salt is.

That's all. I'm done saying things now. Oh, one more thing: the movie I saw, "Adventureland," was amazing. Written and directed by Greg Mottola (director of Superbad), this coming-of-age film about 20-somethings whiling away a summer as amusement park employees captured the 80s without making the decade seem like a ridiculous caricature of itself, as so many other post-80s 80s movies do. It was moody and funny and a tiny bit heartbreaking, with an amazing soundtrack. It actually made me like Kristen Stewart which is a testament to the writing and the direction, as her blaze (blah-zay) attitude and sneering mug usually turn me right off.

Who's Afraid of Renting a Video Cassette?

You know how people used to have to leave their houses to do things like grocery shop and rent video cassettes? Well, it turns out that hassle is behind us!

I've been waiting for the day when I could live a full life from my bed, and it looks like I'm one step closer. Blockbuster might be closing its doors!

Maybe I should feel sad about the death of the face-to-face video rental, but I'm not. What has Blockbuster ever done for me, aside from supplying me with soft-core porn, that is, and making me feel guilty for renting Ice Castles and Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken? And honestly, Blockbuster has been dead to me for some time now:

It was a blustery day in the Spring of 2007--a gray, chilly day--the kind of day that turns your cheeks ruddy and makes you feel like a kid on a playground again, the kind of day that makes you want to kick over a metal bucket full of rocks, that makes you want to throw a stick at someone's car. I was living in Chicago at the time, so I walked everywhere. I left my house without a coat. Even though it was only 50 degrees outside, there was no snow on the ground and I was hungry for Spring--and videos. That's why I was headed to Blockbuster.

On the way, I stopped at 7-11 to purchase 9 dollars worth of junk food. I can't walk to Blockbuster without eating a whole lot of Hostess Sno-balls on the way. This is something I learned about myself through taking the Facebook quiz "What Is Your Walking-To-Blockbuster Style?" It's a popular quiz. All I know is, when a Facebook quiz tells me to do something, I do it. I am one superstitious bitch.

I was eating my Hostess Sno-Balls rather carelessly, shoving them into my mouth whole and then trying to sing "Tomorrow" from the musical "Annie" with a mouth full of pink sugary deliciousness. I was also littering, and not the semi-acceptable I-can't-find-a-garbage-can-even-though-I-looked-really-hard-so-I'm-going-to-throw-this-trash-on-the-ground kind of littering--I was walking up to garbage cans and then dropping my trash on the ground right next to the receptacles, because that's just the kind of dangerous that I am.

I arrived at Blockbuster, and as I stepped up to the building, the feeling that rushed over me was, I imagine, akin to how religious people feel when they go on a pilgrimage and finally arrive at their shrine--the church or holy land or hut or patch of grass that is, to them, the worldly embodiment of truth and light. The warm, yellowy florescent essence of Blockbuster shone out at me through the plate-glass windows and encircled me like a much-needed bear hug as I stood there on the pavement marveling at the glory that is a store that houses and rents out DVDs and tapes. I stepped gingerly inside and pushed through the turnstile (they have turnstiles at some of the city Blockbusters...just to make it a little harder for people to steal videos and giant tubs of un-popped (but still buttery-smelling) "movie-theater" popcorn).

I looked around, and it was like taking in the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel: DVDs! Tapes! Candy! InTouch magazine! A bum slumped over in the corner with a copy of "BASEketball" in his hand! Also: colorful posters made the too-good-to-be-true proclamation: "No Late Fees!" I was in heaven.

And that's when somebody stabbed me. This is going to sound made-up, but it's true: I didn't even feel it! I just looked down and I saw blood pouring out of my abdomen. I made a gurgling sound and fell to my knees. My life flashed before my eyes. It went something like this: my beautiful mother's face, green grass blowing in a soft breeze, a bicycle, chili mac, my high-school locker, chili mac, dentures, a lone gray bush, gathering storm clouds, my sister's gentle voice murmuring "Pretty baby, pretty baby," glitter, a bowl of chili mac.

Then everything went black. All I felt was the warm pool of sticky blood spreading out around me, and in that moment, I made myself a promise: "Self," I said to myself in my head, "When I get home I will get Netflix."

And I did get Netflix. And honestly, I've been very happy with it. My DVDs come in the mail like clockwork!

So, will I miss Blockbuster when it goes under? No--no I won't. I may miss the feeling of complete and utter joy that I once got at standing in front of the store, poised at the precipice of its entryway, overcome by the feelings of hope and possibility that flooded my heart and soul...but I will not miss the stark terror that I felt the moment I got stabbed in front of a Twizzlers display.

Is That Mall There Is?

Yesterday morning I awoke to the light tap-tapping of drizzly rain on my skylight. Now don't go thinking I'm all fancy because I have a skylight. It's the only window in my room and it doesn't have a shade, so whenever dawn happens, that's when I wake up. Also: I can't open it, so I never breathe fresh air unless I leave the house...which I try never to do.

But, alas, I had to leave the house yesterday--and not to go do something fun like eat nachos at the roller rink or go hang-gliding or watch Under The Sea 3D at the IMAX in Grand Blanc. No...I had to go shopping for "professional clothing" for my nursing interview.

So it was gray and cold and "misting," which is the perfect weather for trying on clothes at Target in a shoddily-constructed dressing room, beneath florescent lights, amidst the chatter of employees bemoaning their shitty lives and elementary school children crying and screaming at their frazzled mothers demanding a box of popcorn from the concession stand or a Hannah Montana Tote Bag with Wig and Assorted Accessories. I'm convinced that all the clothes they sell at Target are for 'Juniors'--even the maternity clothes. And why does every shirt have a cartoon owl on it? I mean, I love owls a LOT, but come on Target. Would it kill you to make one owl-less shirt? Or one shirt without a peace sign on it?

Nothing fit me. Well, a few things fit, but they all made me look like the greasy-haired, pot-bellied, missing-a-tooth, line cook that is my inner self but that still hasn't completely taken over my outside appearance. I wadded everything up and left it in a sad little pile in the corner of the dressing room, then walked out with my head held high. After chilling out in the DVD-book-candle-mascara-CD-lotion-computer game section for a good forty-five minutes (I am MUCH more at home in this section, by the way) and fretfully thinking things like: Why can't I find The Neverending Story on DVD? and I see seasons 8 and 9 of ER here, but what about seasons 1-7? I decided to bite the bullet and go to the epicenter of the universe: Genesee Valley Mall.

It was still early when I arrived at the mall. After all, there were still decent parking spots to be had (I don't rely on clocks to tell me what time it is. I measure time in parking spot availability). I parked ALMOST RIGHT NEXT TO the J.C. Penny entrance and then, after much back-and-forth in my head over whether or not to wear my coat inside (my coat being a disgusting fleece circa 1996 that makes me look like Aileen Wuornos), I opened the door and walked into the dark, blissful cavern that is J.C. Penny--coatless. Once inside, I felt simultaneously buoyed by hope and filled with an intense panic. So many clothes! So many possibilities! Then again: so many clothes, so many possibilities.

I walked around, touching a random shirt or pair of pants here and there, avoiding salespeople like the plague, listening to unobtrusive soft rock, and trying to find my bearings. Ok, I thought, where do they keep the fat-people clothes? I would've asked the salesgirl that was standing near me--the one with the severe black eyeliner, skinny jeans, and technicolor bangle bracelets--but I was afraid she would say something like: "Uh huh, the Women's section? Yeah, um, you're gonna walk through the 'Pretty Young Things' section and the 'Getting Laid on a Regular Basis' section, oh and the 'See This Body? This Is What Self-Control Looks Like' section and that'll land you right where you need to be--the 'You Should Be Ashamed Of Yourself' section." So I didn't ask. I just wandered and broke into a light sweat at the thought of having to try on pants.

I knew immediately when I finally stumbled upon my section of the store because all the clothes stopped being cute and fashionable. Now everything was paisley, paisley, paisley! And polka-dots, polka-dots, horizontal stripes! The soft silkiness of the materials in the skinny-girl sections disappeared and was replaced by a rough, double-ply, stretchiness. I'm pretty sure the people who make fat-girl clothes think that every time we sit down we're in danger of ripping something. And, well, that IS a fear of mine.

I got to the dressing rooms, my arms loaded with heaps of pants and shirts. I like the J.C. Penny dressing rooms because there are no snooty employees telling you how many items you can bring in, no one you have to shyly walk up to and quietly ask if they'll unlock the door, and no one pacing around outside your cramped little cubicle-of-doom shouting at you, asking if they can measure your bust or fetch you another size or horror of all horrors if you'll come out and show them how it looks (I mean, come on people, it's bad enough when my mom makes me show her the ridiculousness that is me in plaid clam-diggers and a puffy-sleeved polo shirt).

Why, why, why does clothing always look bigger on the hanger? At least for me it does. I'll pick up a pair of pants and hold them against my bottom half and they look like they'll fit, but then when I get into the dressing room I can't even get them up past my knees. I guess my holding-the-clothing-item-up-against-my-body system is flawed, but hey, it would work if I was a paper doll. Oh why oh why am I NOT a paper doll?

I spent a good 40 minutes in that dressing room, attempting to squeeze my rolls and rolls of unsightly fat into silk-ish tops and short-zippered (read: "low rise") dress pants, all the while thinking of the promised land outside the department store--you know, the rest of the mall, the safe part of the mall: the corridors that spread like spokes of a wheel from the mall's epicenter (the food court), corridors peppered with kiosks selling everything from cell phones to scented oils to candied nuts to fake hair to my personal favorite--soft pretzel nuggets with warm chocolate dipping sauce. Oh how I wished I could be cradled by the warm bosom that is the 'We-Sell-Wind Chimes' kiosk.

But alas, stuck inside that stuffy coffin of a J.C. Penny dressing room, I was. Don't worry. I found something eventually. It took about four hours of walking the mall, twelve or so self-affirmations in the dressing room mirror, opiates, and a tearful call to my sister, but I finally found an outfit that didn't make me look like a Nascar-loving dumpster diver.

As I walked out of the mall, I noticed that the skies had cleared and the sun was shining. An overwhelming feeling of pride at having made it through the ordeal rushed over me like a ray of self-love. Inside that dressing room, standing there completely vulnerable in my bra and underwear, afraid to look down at my puffy body and afraid to look across at the unforgiving mirror, I'd felt a swell of anger and frustration at myself for having treated my 'temple' so poorly. Right then and there I had made a promise to myself: "Self," I'd said aloud, "I will never again eat junk food." And as I strode across the parking lot toward my sporty little blue car, I made another promise to myself: "Self," I said with confidence and joy, "I will stop at A&W on the way home for a foot-long hot dog." ...And it was good.

Life on Mars

If you're a regular reader of my blog, then you know--it's been well-documented: I'm a chubby girl whose favorite thing to do is watch TV and go to the movies...oh, and eat food.

But that makes me sound like someone who has little-to-no appreciation for real life, someone who never lives because she's always tucked safely into bed--eating her feelings and relating only to people who live inside the TV. The TV people. And that's not quite true. It's like...half true.

Really, I think, the reason I like TV so much is that it has the ability to sweep me away--to remind me that there is magic in life, or at least the potential for magic. Every now and then I'll come across a show that speaks to me in a sort of intimate way. Maybe it's the music, the acting, the writing, the direction--in the best shows it's a combination of all these things--that gets to me, but when the show is over I get the same feeling I do whenever I finish a great book, the kind of book that claims a little piece of your heart. The feeling: it's a feeling of accomplishment and of satisfaction. It's the feeling you get when you've cried for an hour and then, all of a sudden, you're done crying. And you feel better.

Just today I finished watching a series called "Life On Mars," based on a series of the same name that was produced in the UK. It was new this fall, produced by the same folks who brought us "October Road," an underrated little ABC drama about small town life and blue collar guys in the vein of the movie "Beautiful Girls." Now the American version of "Life on Mars" wasn't by any stretch of the imagination the best show I've ever seen. It probably wouldn't even make my top-ten list. But I did stick with it despite sagging ratings and an announcement midway through the season that the show would not be back next fall.

Still, there was something moving about it. And I think a lot of the credit should go to Jason O'Mara, who played the lead role of Sam Tyler with a wonderful vulnerability.

So, if you're ever in the mood for a good 70s cop show, with more than a touch of heart (and if you dig 70s music as much as I do) check it out.

Panic Tastes Kind of Like Donuts

I just signed up for two clinicals! My first ride-along is next Friday! I am so nervous I think I may just slip into a coma. That happens to nervous people. They faint, then they slip into a coma. I know because I'm studying to become an EMT. That's why a lot of parents don't want their kids to do junior-high talent shows--because there's always that ONE parent who says: "Yeah I thought talent shows were harmless too. Julianne was such a fantastic hula-hooper, I thought, what harm could it do? Little did I know she'd get so nervous that she would faint and slip into a coma. Now I spend every night sleeping on a cot next to her hospital bed."

It's a bad problem.

Provided I DON'T slip into a coma, I am sure that I will make a fool of myself and have plenty of embarrassing moments to relay to you all. Stay tuned.

Worrying Makes Me Cry

It's been kind of a sad day so far. My dog tried to comfort me, but I pushed him away and then he went and cowered in the corner.

I went to an informational meeting for my nursing program. I was all worried that I would be the only one there. That's an irrational fear I have about EVERY PLACE I GO. Before I started going to kickboxing class, one of the reasons I gave myself for not going was: "If I'm the only one there, that will be SO embarrassing!" I must be crazy, or just in some weird sort of denial, because there are ALWAYS tons of other people everywhere I go. I bet if I went to the Fortress of Solitude, there would be scads of other people there.

So, there were lots and lots of people at this nursing information session. So many people, in fact, that I couldn't get a seat. Until that is, one girl who came with her parents told them to get up and go wait in the hall. Then I took one of their seats. But that made me feel all sad and alone. This girl has her parents with her! I thought. Then I thought: I'm going to die alone. Then the woman sitting on the other side of me asked to borrow my pen and as I handed it over to her I thought: I could really go for a parfait right now.

It turned out the meeting was so big, they decided to move it to another room four floors down. So we all traipsed down the stairs in a line. Someone made a joke about being dizzy (from having to turn a whole FOUR times while we made our way down to the first floor). Someone said "moooo!" because that's a funny thing to say whenever you're in a crowd and you're all moving collectively toward one area. The girl who borrowed my pen made a point of coming over to me and profusely promising to find me after the meeting and return it to me. I thought: It's a pen, not my baby. But I gave her a stern look that said: If you don't return that pen to me, you will never again have a peaceful night's rest because I will make sure that from this day forward your life is a living hell. Out loud I said: "Ok, cool."

The part of the day that made me sad was the meeting itself. Well, the meeting didn't make me sad...it was what was said at the meeting. And it didn't really make me sad--it made me nervous. And when I get nervous I cry. I'm just really afraid that I won't get into my accelerated nursing program. I know I have a good chance of getting in. I mean, I've got a 4.0 GPA. But then today, the leader of the meeting said something along the lines of: "We've accepted students with a 3.0 GPA and we've denied students with a 4.0 GPA." I know she probably said that because she doesn't want people to be discouraged and thinking that if they don't get a super-high GPA they have no chance of making it into the program. But I was thinking: what the heck did that 4.0 student do at their interview that made them get denied? Commit murder?

And then I just started to question everything. The leader of the meeting said that the goal statement I submitted with my application is SUPER important. She said they check it for grammatical errors, for content, and for evidence that the candidate has a passion for nursing. I have a DEGREE in writing! What if I get denied based on a comma error? Anyway...I know I should just relax and eat a donut. Or, really, I should just relax and eat an apple because at some point I'm going to have to get a physical and I can just hear the doctor now: "Liz, we got the results of your urine test back and it turns out you're a Fat Piece Of Shit. Unfortunately, there is nothing we can prescribe. I know it's a hassle, but you're going to have to diet and exercise." But apples aren't relaxing. Maybe I shouldn't eat anything and I should just go lie in a hammock. It's hard to be stressed out when you're in a hammock. Or maybe I should take a ride on a magic carpet. God damn it! Those aren't real!

I just know that if I make it into the program, I will thrive. I know I can handle the crazy full-time-classes-and-full-time-clinicals schedule. And moreover, I know I will make a great nurse. I'm well-rounded. I'm artistic and creative, but I'm also analytical and methodical. Plus, people like me! I'm just worried that when I go in for my interview, I won't be able to convey my real personality. I'll just sit there all nervous and fidgety and stinking up the room with my sweaty armpits.

As I sat in the informational meeting I was, as I've stated, filled with anxiety, but I was also filled with excitement. The accelerated nursing program sounds intense, but I love a challenge. And deep down, past all my layers and layers of insecurity, I have a feeling I'm going to get in.

That girl never did give my pen back.

The Great Beyond

Hello dear readers, and happy Sunday night. As if a happy Sunday night is a possibility. For me, at least, Sunday nights usually consist of curling into the fetal position, listening to Joni Mitchell, and crying into my pillow about any number of injustices in the world--my computer's lack of hard-drive space, my makes-me-look-like-a-McDonald's-employee EMT uniform, the floods in Fargo, the fact that I don't look good in lace... And then I usually eat some steak and watch The Amazing Race.

Sundays are also the day I usually examine my life and reflect on all the mistakes I've made and will continue to make forevermore. Earlier today, I watched an episode of Six Feet Under in which Brenda says to Nate: "The future is just a fucking concept that we use to avoid living today." I felt pretty guilty when she said that, because she's right. And I do that. I'm constantly thinking about what my life will be like three or four years from now, and how if I can just get there, everything's going to be amazing. I'm not saying my life isn't amazing now--it is. I mean, I have fantastic friends. I go out. I do stuff. And, Cadbury Creme Eggs exist. I'm a happy woman. But sometimes I feel like I should be doing more LIVING! You know? Like, I should get a motorcycle. People on TV are always doing things like that. They feel bored with life, so they go out THAT DAY and buy a motorcycle. And since they live in California, they take it out for a spin THAT DAY on a blissfully empty highway up in the mountains. They ride like the wind, a peaceful expression on their face as they gaze out over the Pacific ocean.

But in real life, you feel bored, you think: Hey, I'd like to get a motorcycle. Then you research motorcycles online for six months. Then you try to work up the courage to go into a motorcycle dealership. You try on leather jackets and pants. You think about what color helmet you'd like and if you're a decal or a non-decal sort of a person. And all the while you're slaving away at your telemarketing job, putting maybe $20 a week into your motorcycle fund, trying to live on lentils and tuna out of a can, and looking at a sad little photo of a motorcycle that you ripped out of a trade magazine and push-pinned to your cubicle wall, thinking: Someday. Someday.

I don't know that I should buy a motorcycle. I mean, I can barely walk. And I don't have a cubicle to put photos up in, but I do have a picture in my head of what the future will look like...or should look like: There are doves. And flowy white curtains. And a Jamaican man wearing a silk purple shirt and cargo shorts strumming a mandolin and singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' while another man, this man:



feeds me grapes.

I know I'll get there. I just need time. Three or four years. Until then, if you need me on a Sunday night, I'll be in my room--hugging my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth and hitting myself in the face, murmuring "No, no, no. Stupid, ugly, stupid." Don't mind me, I get a little nuts without my steak and Amazing Race.

Welcome to my Head

You know how when you're filling out an application for a reality TV show, you'll get a question like, "If you could change one thing about yourself, what would you change?"

What? You don't fill out applications for reality TV shows? Don't judge me.

Well, anyway, I have an answer to that question. I would, 100%, change about myself the fact that I am afraid of EVERYTHING. Seriously. I have had so many sleepless nights worrying about things that turned out not to matter AT ALL.

Among the things I've been worrying about lately:

1. I have to start clinicals for EMT class soon, and I'm incredibly nervous--to the point where I get the shakes, my heart stops working, and I have to go on a bypass machine. I'm not even worried that I'll make a mistake with a patient, because I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to do much (since I'm not yet a licensed EMT), and if I am allowed, I'll be well-supervised. I'm nervous about all the down time, all the times when we're not going out on calls. I'm usually pretty good at small talk, but what if I just sit there in awkward silence for 9 hours? What then?

2. I have an interview for my 2nd degree nursing program in a few weeks. For the past year and a half, I have focused on almost nothing else but getting into this program! What if I mess up the interview? What if they ask me why I want to be a nurse, and I go blank? What if I'm driving to the interview and my car breaks down and I have to hitchhike with a smelly trucker who makes me try chew just to make it there half an hour late? What if I do everything right and I still don't get in?

3. Before I can even start my EMT clinicals, I have to get a Hepatitis B vaccination. The shot is administered IM (Intra-muscularly), which means a large needle will be jammed into my upper arm, and apparently, according to my classmates, it really hurts. My EMT instructor (a seasoned paramedic) will be administering the shot to me...but...what if I cry in front of him like a little baby? What if he shouts at me in a you-can't-handle-the-truth sort of manner? Also: I've been doing research online (probably not a good idea given that there is so much controversy surrounding vaccines, it's nearly impossible to get unbiased information) and apparently some people believe that the Hepatitis B vaccine leads to Multiple Sclerosis! I definitely don't want that. I saw an episode of A&E's Intervention where the messed-up kid's mom had MS, and she could barely walk around! She kept talking about the pain! The pain! Then again, I'm pretty sure the Hepatitis B vaccine doesn't cause MS. I could sign a waiver saying I don't want the vaccine, but then what if I get the disease? Hepatitis B can lead to liver cancer!

4. I have a microbiology test that I should be studying for. What if I fail? What if I fail?

5. I have heard rumblings that the world is going to end on December 21, 2012. Umm...what's that all about?

So, yeah, those are my main worries. Also: I'm a little concerned that a favorite childhood movie of mine may never get released onto DVD. Check out this scene and tell me you wouldn't want to own this gem.

I know! Now you want to watch it! But you can't. Because it's not on DVD. And I probably won't be able to sleep tonight because of it.