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.