The Humane Egoist

NLYSYITM

2012-02-02T23:15:00.000-05:00

Gina,

I don't know if you've noticed this about me, but I can be a little dramatic. So when I found out a few weeks ago that you were moving to New York, I immediately broke down crying. I knew there was a strong possibility you would be moving there, but to find out that you were leaving for sure and that you'd be going in just one short month, I felt like my heart was being ripped out. And I guess it kind of was, because you are my heart.

I feel incredibly lucky that we have the relationship we have, because being sisters doesn't necessarily mean you have to like each other or even know each other very well. Some sisters could be standing in the same room together and yet be further apart than you and I would be if we lived on different continents. Also, some sisters kill each other. It's called sororicide and it happens more often than you'd think.

From the very start, we were a special pair, like two sides of a coin. You, the gorgeous, cute one and me, the smart, interesting one. No, but seriously--we go together like cake and frosting. And it always has been that way. I remember the day it all started. I had just been born, and mom put me down for a nap in my crib. She thought you were quietly playing with your dolls, so she went out to smoke on the porch. Little did she know what a scamp you were! You snuck into my room to peek at me, your new living doll, while I slept. But you couldn't leave it at that. You just had to hold me. So you climbed into my crib, picked me up, and began singing to me. When mom walked in and saw little three-year-old you standing in my crib, holding me and singing, she let out one of her trademark shocked gasps, which scared you so much that you dropped me. Wham!! I fell onto the crib mattress like a sack of potatoes. Soon, everyone was crying and the day was ruined.

Of course, I know you meant well. You just wanted to cuddle with your new baby sister. Still, this was not the last time you caused me bodily harm. There was the time you insisted on giving me a piggy-back ride down the stairs. You couldn't hold me up and I ended up crashing off your shoulders, falling down the stairs, and slamming into our fancy glass umbrella stand. Another time, you chased me out into the DeArmond's front yard, threw me to the ground, sat on top of me, and began pelting me with weak little punches. I can't remember what I had done to make you so mad, but I do remember being beaten to within an inch of my life. In those early years, you used to taunt me with kitchen knifes, slap me, spit on me, and hug me so tightly I could barely breathe. You'd pull me into one of your vise-grip hugs and say, "You're my teddy bay-o, you're my teddy bay-o!" until I begged for mercy.

You also used to wait until I went to sleep, then creep into my room, crouch down by the side of my bed, and then pop up and scare me. I developed crippling anxiety because of this and couldn't sleep through the night until I was 16. But still, I knew you did it all as a way of showing how much you loved me. It also helped us bond. I became just as much of a prankster as you were. Remember the time I called mom and asked her to ask you to get her peach-colored coat out of the hall closet and then I hid in there for over an hour, waiting for you to come and get it so I could jump out and scare you? This is how we love each other.

It wasn't all violence and pranks between us. I remember you reading me bedtime stories. Specifically, I think you read me the story "Jonathan Cleaned Up--Then He Heard A Sound" hundreds and hundreds of times. And that's not a short story. We would cuddle up together in your bed in our house on Forest Drive and you would read me that story. It was my favorite, and I guess it was yours too, or you just wanted to make me happy. We also always shared a love of music. Remember the hours we spent singing in the back of mom's van on trips up north? We came up with harmonies, singing show-tunes and songs we learned in music class, like "The Eagle Song" ('Born for a western sky, sweeping a circle as he flies. He was free-ee-ee when they let him be...'). We would also spend at least a half an hour saying goodnight to each other every single night. Our bedrooms shared a wall and we would talk to each other through it.We came up with a whole series of little phrases we would HAVE to say each night, otherwise we were both convinced that "something bad" would happen. To save time and energy, we eventually shortened our goodnight ritual so that in order to avoid the untimely death of one of us, all we have to say to each other is "Night, love you, see you in the morning." We still say this to each other every time we say goodbye or goodnight. Well...sometimes you say it and then I wait a REALLY long time to say it back just because I know that you, being as superstitious as you are, won't go to sleep or hang up the phone until I say it. I love this power I have over you...but I always do end up saying it.

As we grew up, we didn't always understand each other. You were a wild child, and I was determined to be the exact opposite. That's why you ended up in trouble with the law and I ended up in AP English. Hey now, I'm just teasing. We have always been different, though--in some interesting ways. For one thing, we don't look alike. Remember how we used to say, "Hey, let's do that thing where we look in the mirror and see how much we don't look alike?" And we would. We would stand, side by side, and stare silently into the mirror for a few minutes. Finally one of us would say, "Wow. We really DON'T look alike!" It blew our minds. You have also always been a little more free spirited than I am, more of a social butterfly. I always had friends, but I was just as content to sit in my room for hours reading and listening to Nat King Cole as I was to spend time with them. You were into make-up, clothes, and hair. I was into not wearing make-up and only buying clothes from thrift stores. What a nerd I was (an ugly nerd!). Our differences stuck with us, but I think we also influenced one another as we grew into the relationship we have now. You taught me how to do make-up, showed me how to loosen up a little, and I made fun of you for being afraid to return a video to the video store by yourself. No, but seriously--you have made me a more interesting and fun person, and I hope I have done the same for you.

Honestly, I think the things we have in common have defined our relationship more than our differences have. We're both funny and creative. We both do pretty amazing British and Jersey girl accents. We're both devious pranksters. We both love horror movies, fly off the handle when we're hungry, overreact, cry at the drop of a hat, hate flying, love roller coasters, fear death, and embrace life. We may not look alike (it really is remarkable how much we do NOT look alike!), but our personalities, our collective off-the-wallness, the shorthand we have with one another that only exists between people who connect on the deepest of levels, proves we're sisters. I'm still probably gonna order a DNA test, just to be certain...you understand.

There is so much more I could say about you and me. But instead, I'm going to leave you with some confessions: One of my all-time favorite days is the day we spent filming Killer Doll. Looking at pictures of you when you were a little kid fill me with joy--I love your little chin dimples and your ridiculously large glasses. I love that you are a crazy hypochondriac. A memory that always makes me laugh is the night you were writhing around on your bed in our house on Calhoun Street, looking like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, screaming "My ears! My EARS!" I like that you never get annoyed when I call you a "frail little woman" or compare you to a garden gnome. I admire you more than you probably know--you are a dreamer, you are passionate, and you aren't afraid to go for what you want. I wish I could be that fearless. Lastly, I will miss you so much--our sisters nights in Royal Oak, our limp hugs, our vegan cupcake feasts.

I know this is not an ending. This is the beginning of a crazy new adventure. In a way, even though you are going, I am keeping you here. Because like I said, you are my heart. And in a way, even though I am staying, I am going with you. Because you are my heart.

I love you, and I'm proud of you.

NLYSYITM,

Liz

"There's a special kind of freedom sisters enjoy. Freedom to share innermost thoughts, to ask a favor, to show their true feelings. The freedom to simply be themselves." –Author Unknown

New Year's Revolution

2012-01-03T22:28:00.002-05:00

It's 2012. I like the way that sounds. Twenty-twelve. It's alliterative. And there's nothing I like more than alliteration. If someone were to ask me, "Hey, which do you like better--ice cream or alliteration?" I would have no choice but to say alliteration. I mean, ice cream is amazing, but alliteration has gotten me through some pretty tough times.

It's traditional at the start of a new year to slaughter a small animal in sacrifice atop a stone altar. Also, sometimes people make these ridiculous little promises to themselves called New Year's resolutions. Every year, on January 1st, I get naked, stand in front of the mirror, and circle my "problem areas" with a black magic marker. Usually, I am pretty marked up by the end of it, which is to say I have A LOT of problem areas. And then, after I've stopped hyperventilating (I hyperventilate when I cry hysterically), I resolve to lose a shit-ton of poundage in the coming year. Then I usually put on a sweatsuit and buy some stuff on Amazon.

As much fun as that is, this year I thought I might try to tackle some of my less tactile problems, i.e. my extreme selfishness, my crippling fear of death, and my burgeoning addiction to popsicles. To be honest, I'm not sure there's all that much I can do about the popsicle thing. The selfishness thing, well...I think that will be easy enough to overcome, as long as I always get what I want. It's uncomfortable for me not to get the attention and material items that I need and desire, so as long as I'm taken care of in that way, I should be able to fit a little selflessness into my day. As for my crippling fear of death, I sort of had an epiphany about that the other day--I probably won't die as long as I never leave my bedroom. So instead of resolving not to fear death, I just have to resolve not to leave my bedroom. That kinda goes hand in hand with my other resolution--watch so much TV that I literally have no room in my brain for non-TV-related thoughts.

I just feel like this year has so much promise, especially now that I've made the commitment to overcome some of my biggest emotional demons. 2012 is the year of possibility! As long as I always get what I want, I never have to leave my room, and I have access to an endless supply of popsicles, 2012 is lining up to be the year I change from a sick, fat, slimy, disgusting, ugly caterpillar into a gorgeous, free-spirited, beautiful, pretty, delicate, good-looking butterfly.

A Fact About Me

2011-12-28T14:21:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when I can't sleep
I turn on a fan
And uncover my legs
Close my eyes
And imagine I'm on a sun porch at dusk
Somewhere tropical
Windows open, wind coming up off the water, salt in the air and on my tongue
And I can hear calypso music
From a far off beach party
And I am not me
And I am not here

I Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On

2011-12-20T00:03:00.000-05:00

The holidays are upon us. It's snowing! And this is when snow is still fun because it's "Christmasy." After Christmas, snow will be the thing that makes me want to punch babies. But for now, it's festive. It's neat! And it's not just snow--all the Dove Chocolates are shaped like snowmen and bells and the Hershey's Kisses have little bits of peppermint in them. You can even buy packing tape that's green and has reindeer on it. What is it about decorative packing tape that makes me want it so much?! And of course, there is my love affair with claymation Rudolph. The quickest way to make me write you off as a human being is to utter the words, "I don't like claymation Rudolph." How could anyone not worship him? He's the goddamn cutest little guy ever.

I do like the atmosphere of the holidays--the music, the snacks, the shroud of secrecy surrounding gift-giving, the adultery (Mistletoe? Come on...), the hustle and bustle...but there is something that always ruins it for me--the realization that I am completely and utterly alone in this life. I mean, is there anything more depressing than going to the mall alone during the holiday season? Maybe it's only depressing if you know that when you go home, you're also going to be alone. Ok, ok, I know I'm not completely alone. I have my mom and dad, my sister, her husband, and some friends. But I feel alone. My alone-ness surrounds me like one of those hug machines, except it's not comforting.

Today I walked across the glossy wood floors of the mall and listened to the Christmas music, smelled the tacos, ran my hand across racks of brand new leather coats--all the while feeling like an observer, like a foreigner visiting a strange new land, a land where people speak a language I've never heard of--the language of love and togetherness. Am I being too dramatic? It's just, sometimes I do feel like an outsider. I see older women in their stretch pants and their sweatshirts with sparkly snowflakes, with their butch haircuts and their brightly colored shopping bags, and I wonder--why not me? Because I know that even though those women are tragic in a way that is completely different from the way that I am tragic, at least they have each other. They're probably going to drive home together in a mini-van strewn with Tim Hortons coffee cups and water-logged paperbacks--evidence that life has been lived inside that van--and they're going to roll the windows down and light the cigarettes their husbands don't know they smoke while gossiping about their clueless sister-in-law who is annoyingly perky all the time, has a flawless glossy black bob and perfectly manicured nails, and who never rolls through stop signs or takes a long nap in the afternoon and forgets to pick up the kids.

Like I said, I have friends--great friends. And my family loves me. But sometimes I feel a little bit like I'm in the way, like I'm an inconvenience. Maybe it's that my mom and dad force me to live in a dank basement room and they keep me chained to my bed at night. Nah...I think it's more that I just need to figure my life out, or to get a life in the first place. For now, I remain a sad, lonely loner who carries an emptiness inside her the likes of which only the truly lonely know.

Merry Christmas!

Fear n' Cheeseburgers

2011-10-18T17:45:00.001-04:00

One of the things I found appealing about becoming a nurse was the idea that I'd have an atypical work schedule. You see, a full-time nurse usually only works 3 days a week, which leaves 4 days to play around with. I thought, Oh HELL YES! I will learn to ski. I will learn to cook soup. I will climb K2. I will marry a man, have a baby, and teach it to read with flashcards. But yeah, I haven't done any of that. I have mostly gone to the movies by myself on random week days, spent hours upon hours watching myself cry in the mirror because my life is in shambles, taken my dog for walks, and driven around aimlessly in my car listening to Dr. Laura, wondering every minute that I'm listening to her why I'm not turning it off.

There is a lot wrong with my life right now. First of all, I spend way too much time at Wal-Mart. But it's my third place to go!! See, I read once that everyone needs a third place to go. You know--work, home, and...a third place. For some people, that third place is the gym. For other people, the third place is Starbucks. For me, the third place is Wal-Mart. I go there and walk around aimlessly, looking at picture frames and vacuums, bedspreads and Nutella. I convince myself that I really, really need a new tape dispenser. I talk myself into buying the clothes they sell there, low cut jeans and sparkly tank tops with words like 'Princess' and 'All That' written on them, that make me look like an aging hood rat. I have a closet full of acid wash and a jewelry box full of hoop earrings that won't come in handy unless I join a street gang.

Another thing that's wrong with my life...chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers have far too much power over me. Hey, did you know that nuggets and burgers actually have chemicals in them that, like, train you to want more and more? Well, I didn't. I didn't know that because I don't have time to read magazine articles and books. I'm too busy eating my weight in nuggets, then waiting an hour, then eating more nuggets, then waiting an hour, then eating two cheeseburgers, then going to Wal-Mart. All that eating and shopping doesn't leave a whole lot of time for expanding my mind. And it doesn't leave a whole lot of time for starting a Precious Moments collection, which is something I have always longed to do. I am in a prison, and my prison bars are made of meat n' cheese. If only I could eat my way out...but I can't because I keep buying more prison bars because apparently nuggets and burgers are as addictive as black tar heroin.

I like being a nurse, but all this time off and all this MONEY is killing me. A few weeks ago, my friend Angie told me that a motivational speaker came in to her work, and he talked all about "toxic knots"--the things in your life that keep you from being happy, basically. You have to learn how to untie the knots in order to self-actualize (achieve your full potential). "Can't I just cut the knots off and then use a glue-gun to put my rope back together?" I asked her, as we sat in a crowded bar on a busy Friday night. She took a sip of her drink and rolled her eyes at me. "No, you asshole!" she said. "You have to untie the knots yourself. You learn about yourself in the process of untying the knots." I could tell she had really drunk the Kool-Aid this time. I asked her what her toxic knots were, but I don't remember what she said because as she was talking, the whole room faded into a blur as I began to think about myself and what my toxic knots are. I couldn't even hear Angie talking anymore because I was so lost in thought about me and my problems.

I'll tell you what the mother of all my toxic knots is--Fear. Fear controls me more than cheeseburgers do, which is to say--I am Fear's bitch. If Fear asked me to do her laundry or be her wedding photographer, I'd have to do it, because Fear is my master. Is it just me or is 'Fear' starting to sound like a really cute name for a baby girl?

The list of things I am afraid of is endless--death, flying, public speaking, roller coasters, mold, really big grasshoppers, white sheets on clotheslines, Karl Malden. I am even afraid to swim in the pool at my gym--mostly because I don't want the lifeguard to judge me. So how the hell am I going to untie my biggest, toughest toxic knot? Well, I've come up with a strict set of rules...because I believe that any successful life change begins and ends with an incredibly rigid set of rules.

Rule 1: Only eat fruits and vegetables from now on! I'm pretty sure I totally have the self control to pull this off.

Rule 2: Write for two hours a day, and read for one hour a day. (I'll confess that I actually came up with these rules a few weeks ago and this is the first writing I have done... Shame! Shame spiral!)

Rule 3: Do not go to Wal-Mart. (I have literally been to Wal-Mart every day since I made up these rules)

Rule 4: Try to fit as many viewings of Air Bud: Golden Receiver as possible into each week. That movie completes me.

Oh damn it, who am I kidding? These rules are for the birds. All I know is, I am at a crossroads. In the immortal words of Tony from West Side Story, something's coming. I just hope it's not more stubborn belly fat. I'll keep you posted on my endeavors to become a better person. Please wish me luck...and if you get a second, would ya swing by McDonald's and pick me up a sack of burgers?? Thanks, that'd be great.

Melancholy Soup

2011-09-23T15:29:00.004-04:00

I used to write free-form poems a lot
I called them poems, but they were really just short sentences
They didn't rhyme or anything
Not that poems have to rhyme
They don't
Have to rhyme
Don't you just love poetry?
Does it make you think of lying in bed with a lover while he traces the small of your back with his fingertips?
Does it make you think of a simpler time?
Like a time when people listened to records and made their own clothes?
I took a poetry class once
At Eastern Michigan University
In a windowless room
There was a girl who always, always drank limeade
Limeade is just a little bit cooler than lemonade
Limeade is just a little bit more dangerous than lemonade
She had a blunt, severe haircut, with bangs that went straight across her forehead
She had a patchwork backpack
She never cried while reading her poems
Like a lot of the other kids did
But she would fight with the teacher
He hated her
And she hated him
I don't think she liked poetry
Me, I liked poetry
I still do
I have Dylan Thomas' Selected Poems 1934-1952 on my nightstand
That proves I like poetry
So fuck you if you think I'm lying about that
Right now I am listening to 4 + 20 by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young on repeat
This song makes me want to sit by a bonfire
Not with a huge group of people, but alone
Or maybe me and one other person
My lover
Same guy who traces the small of my back with his fingertips while reading me Pablo Neruda
I want to go back to when I was nine
I remember the smell of burning leaves and the chill of the fall air on my little nose
I remember the feeling of being cold, but sweaty from riding bikes in the cold, and happy
So happy for no reason
If I rode my bike today, it wouldn't be for the joy of it
It would be for exercise
My mom used to make me a Banquet chicken pot pie for dinner almost every single night
I had chicken, my sister had beef
We lived in a little neighborhood
The kind of place you could let your dogs run without a leash and without supervision
Although, one of our dogs was mauled to death one night
I remember our kitchen phone
It was attached to the wall, like all phones were back then
So you had to sit in one spot to use it
I could look out the window and see my best friend's house
It was just down the hill from our house
I could see into her kitchen
It would be all lit up with warm yellow light
Sometimes when I dream, I am inside of her house
Sometimes when I read a book, I see her house as the character's house
Sometimes it's one of the houses I have lived in, but sometimes it's her house
She doesn't live there anymore
Neither do her parents
I don't live in my house anymore, either
And neither do my parents
That's because things change

8 Days a Week

2011-09-14T03:08:00.000-04:00

Ugh, I'm super mad at myself. I accidentally deleted this post when I was re-reading old posts. I'm obsessed with myself, by the way. So, now I'm re-posting it, because in the future, I want to be able to go back and re-read every post I've ever written, kind of like re-reading my diary.

I originally posted this on 5/3/09:

I can't believe I've been away from my blog for so long! Well, alright, I can believe it. I haven't had time to blog lately because I've been super busy wallowing in self-pity. I've also been organizing my desk drawers. Like I said--super busy. But for serious, because I know you're all curious, I'll go through every last thing that I did this week. Here goes:

Sunday:

That's right! The week technically starts on Sunday! You forgot, didn't you? Actually, the fact that the week technically starts on Sunday really pisses me off...kind of the way that the hour of midnight technically marking the start of a new day pisses me off. Midnight doesn't feel like a new day, any more than Sunday feels like the start of the week. That shit is fucked up. When the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve, there will always be some asshole in the room willing to say, "Hey you guys! It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" But I guarantee you that that asshole will be met with nothing more than a chorus of not Christmas carols, but eye-rolls.

I digress. Sunday. I went to a bridal shower for my lovely friend Em Caskey. It was a lovely shower with lovely people. It was pretty. The food was good. The bride was gracious and charming. After the shower, I drove home beneath somewhat cloudy skies with the windows partially rolled down. I drove the back way, on a winding road past farms and sheep and donkeys and dead woodchucks and trailer parks, listening to the non-fiction book "Columbine" by Dave Cullen. It was uplifting listening for a Sunday.

When I got home, my dad knocked on my bedroom door. I said, "Entre!" Yes--I said "Entre," because it sounds kind of like the word "Enter" but it's more exotic and reminds me of food. So my dad came in, a gleeful and somewhat mischievous look on his face. He said: "I want to go see 'Obsessed.'" I said: "I'd go see that!!" He said: "Really? Mom said you'd never go because you're studying." I said: "I don't care! Let's go!" He said: "We have to get mom something from Taco Bell afterward." I said: "Great!" As we drove over to the Lapeer Cinema 6, I hugged myself and thought happily that when you don't expect good things to happen to you, that's when they do. I didn't expect my dad to want to go to a seven o'clock movie, as we almost never do that on Sundays (we ALWAYS go to matinees on Sundays). And I certainly didn't expect a Taco Bell dinner. The lord works in mysterious ways indeed.

Monday:

Remember that test I didn't study for on Sunday night, in favor of watching Beyonce beat up Ali Larter? Well, I had that test on Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp. It was a test for EMT class--120 questions covering 10 chapters. I got to the Genesys parking lot about 10 minutes early, as is customary for me. I took a few minutes to go over my notes, annoyed because the kid in the car next to me had his bass thumping so fast and hard it made me feel like I was going to have a small stroke or go into a-fib. The kid with the thumping bass was, of course, one of my classmates. He's the kind of guy that clearly thinks he's awesome, though I don't know who gave him that idea. He's all skinny and tan and greasy and he goes on "smoke-breaks" and sneers at people and never holds the door open for anyone. I don't know about you, but to me that spells awesome. Um...no it doesn't.

Inside the tiny, antiseptic-scented, florescent-lit EMT classroom, I sat down at my rickety table and was greeted by my 60-year-old table-mate, who proceeded to talk ceaselessly until the test began about the inevitability of all of our deaths by Swine Flu, in a shameless display of fear-mongering. I somehow ended up telling her that I "didn't care" about all the Mexicans who died of Swine Flu, when what I really meant to say was "Shut the fuck up about the goddamn Swine Flu before I make you eat your hand!"

I got a 97% on my test. Thank you very much. It turns out I can have it all.

Tuesday:

Since I'm finally done with the semester at Oakland University, I didn't have anything at all to do all day Tuesday, so I (what else?) went to the movies. I decided to see "earth"--you know, that DisneyNature movie about our planet?? I used to love watching nature shows when I was little. I remember many an elementary-school Friday night spent watching National Geographic movies with my mom. Alright, fine--I spent many a high-school Friday night watching Nat-Geo movies with my mom too! Fuck you for judging me. Is it such a crime to love Wombats?

But anyway, aside from voraciously watching Shark Week every July (Shark Week ALWAYS coincides with my birthday week--true story), I've started to feel like I'm losing touch with the natural world. So, in order to solve this problem, I raced to the NCG Trillium Cinema in Grand Blanc, bought a bucket of popcorn (and soaked it butter-substance from the self serve butter pump) and a box of Milk Duds and settled in for a lazy afternoon of movie-watching and face-stuffing. I enjoyed "earth" the movie almost as much as I enjoy Earth, the real thing. The mountains! The fields! The majesty! The baby caribou! Plus the fact that I didn't actually have to be outside to experience it was a giant plus.

The only thing that frustrated me about the movie was narrator James Earl Jones' constant reminders that "our planet is sloooowly dying." We'd see two rambunctiously adorable polar bear cubs frolicking on the powdery snow of the arctic and we (the audience) would be filled with warmth and glee and then James Earl Jones would say something like..."Unfortunately, due to the fact that Americans are FUCKING UP THE PLANET FOR EVERYONE, at least one of these polar bear cubs is likely to die a painful death and never see adulthood...and even if one of these cubs DOES survive, it will probably starve as an adult." Ok...he may not have put it exactly like that, but his rampant insinuations were very thinly veiled, and I didn't pay $9.50 (plus another $17 for popcorn and Duds!) to be reminded that the polar ice caps are melting and the ozone layer is being eaten away and baby polar bears are doomed. Fuck you, James Earl Jones.

Wednesday:

I walk into EMT class and what does my 60-year old table-mate say straight away? Literally, the FIRST thing she said when I sat down was: "So a baby in Texas died of the Swine Flu." You should have seen the excitement in her eyes--the kind of excitement that is ignited by danger...like the look a tornado chaser gets in his eye when it's storm season in Kansas (you've seen "Twister"). People that get all "happy" over disasters and imminent human death are a MAJOR pet peeve of mine. So I said: "I don't care." Then I realized that I sounded pretty cold. I mean, I obviously DO care about babies dying. But I don't care about getting all panic-y about the goddamn Swine Flu. So then I said, "I mean, if I get it, I get it." And I shrugged and spread this goofy, maniacal grin across my face that probably looked super creepy. But that's the face I make when I want to punch someone and I can't.

I spent the rest of the day in bed watching trashy reality shows, eating junk food, and pitying myself.

Thursday:

It was a rainy, piece-of-shit day, and on top of it all I had to work. Fuck work! Ahhhhh! Work makes me want to scream! I have small bald spots on my head because every time I have to work, I rip a chunk of hair out. It's the only thing that can calm me down. That, and plunging my naked body into a tub filled with freezing cold water and ice cubes. Pulling out my hair is a lot less work, though. It takes a long time to make enough ice cubes to fill a tub. My freezer can't hold that many ice cubes. That stresses me out. And when I get stressed out I want to plunge my naked body into a tub filled with ice! But I can't! Because my freezer won't HOLD that much ice! Goddamn it, everything sucks! Why, God, why? Why?

Work was ok. We weren't that busy. Since school at Oakland is out, I'm working at Blondie's now on Tuesdays and Thursdays (and maybe some Saturdays and Monday evenings and the occasional Wednesday and Friday and Sunday). Blondie's is the candy/ice cream/fudge/gift basket shop that my mom owns and runs. So, on Thursday My mom made me make fudge packets. I've made fudge packets A LOT in my life, but my mom still felt the need to make about FOUR fudge packets in front of me before she let me fly solo. When she finally went upstairs to her office, I made fudge packets, sipped a diet soda, chatted with my friend (and fellow blogger) Emily Caswell, bagged caramel corn, read People magazine, ate a turkey sandwich with too much mayo, read Breaking Dawn (the last book in the Twilight series), swept, emptied the garbage, cleaned out the popcorn machine, made polite conversation with customers, and locked the door at the end of the day. I made 50 smackeroos in one day! Next time you see me, give me a high-five, will ya?

Friday:

Cringety, cringety, cringe cringe. Friday was the day I did my third ambulance ride-along. I was so nervous that my spoon shook as I tried to shovel Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal into my mouth that morning at 5:40 a.m. That's right. I have to get up super-ass early on ride-along days. And I have this theory that "bad things happen in the morning." Um...it's pretty much a rock-solid theory. I think it kind of has something to do with the fact that everything is scarier in the early morning. You know, that hour when the sun is just rising and the birds are chirping deafeningly, like a chorus of vengeful wizards, warlocks, hobgoblins, and trolls? It's a positively ghoulish time of day and NOT the optimal time for me to be on my way to an ambulance base station, gearing up for hours of extreme awkwardness punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Plus my uniform pants are ridiculously big and they make me feel like a walking egg. They make me look like I have a front-butt!

So--the ride-along. Let me just say, ride-alongs are interesting, for sure. The patients are usually sweet and their afflictions aren't as scary as you're probably imagining. I mean, so far we've only had one patient who lost all the fingers on his right hand in a freak dish-disposal accident. But while I'm on a ride-along, I always feel like SUCH an outcast. EMS people are an extremely tight-knit group, probably because they work 24 hour shifts, so they literally LIVE together a few days out of the week. It's hard to feel at home when you're surrounded by people who've known each other for years and pretty much view you as an annoyance--some dumb kid that needs to be taught everything. That's why it's amazing when you meet up with an EMT or Paramedic who is truly kind and will go out of his or her way to show you the ropes. I've been lucky enough to meet a few of these. And I've had some rides with people who literally ACT LIKE I'M NOT EVEN THERE.

I promise a more in-depth account of what a ride-along is like when I've finished all my rides. I'll do a week-long series! I'll do it up right! But for now, you've gotten a taste. A preview. An aperitif. I hope you're happy with that. But if you're not, I'll buy you an orange push-up pop. In my experience, orange push-up pops pretty much solve everything.

Saturday:

Because my ride-along stressed me out so much, I gave myself permission to sleep in on Saturday. So I slept. And I slept. And I slept. Then when I woke up, I ate a big bowl of Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal and enjoyed a cup of pulpless orange juice. Then I decided to catch up on old episodes of ER. You see, I never watched ER when it originally aired, so due to the magic of Netflix I'm working my way through all 15 seasons of it. I appreciate them so much more now than I would have if I'd watched them when they were originally airing, because NOW my brain is all full of medical knowledge.

I watched three episodes of Season 6 of ER, with my cat Jack nestled close to my side the whole time. Jack does a good job of pretending to love me, but I know that he's just using his feline wiles to get me to feed him Fancy Feast's Beef Feast in Gravy cat food. Manipulative bastard.

After watching ER with Jack, I decided to...go to the movies in Grand Blanc again! God DAMN it, I'm a creature of habit. After the movie, I drove home, got some dinner from Abruzzo's (the bar we own) with my mom, and cried to her about how I don't want to do any more ride-alongs and about how stressed out I am that Oakland University STILL hasn't posted our final grades! Then I went upstairs, talked on the phone to Lansy for a while, and watched 6 more hours of television.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty productive day.

The End:

Now you've gotten a real window into my life. I hope you still like me. But if you don't, I understand. I am not cool. I look in the mirror, and do you know what I see staring back at me? A Garbage Pail Kid.

I joined a gym, and I went there

2011-09-14T00:16:00.000-04:00

So the other day my dad I were out in the park playing tennis. We play about two or three times a week, sometimes more, usually around 3 pm when my dad has a break from work. After we play two sets, we take a break so that I can drink some water and my dad can smoke. You may be thinking that it's kind of gross to take a smoke break while playing tennis, because tennis is so physical and such a healthy, good thing to do for your body and smoking is a disgusting, dirty, bad habit that can contribute to yellow teeth and wrinkles, but god, why do you have to be so uptight all the time? My dad likes smoking, mmmkay? And he works hard. He deserves to smoke. Plus, I mean, it's cool, because sometimes my dad skips smoking. One time, there was this guy on one of the other courts and my dad knew him. The guy was a priest, so my dad didn't smoke that day because of the shame factor. Plus, he can quit any time he wants to. So just lay off.

Usually, I like to use our break time as a free therapy session. I store up all the pain and anguish that is inside me, and I unleash it on my dad during break time. And let me tell you, there is a lot of pain and anguish inside me. Sometimes, when I'm driving to work, even when the sun is setting and the sky is pink and beautiful and the trees and fields are lush and green with life, I feel this sense of heaviness, this emptiness, this pervasive blackness inside of me. I try to dig deep within myself to bring up some joy, a happy memory, or a shred of hope, but all I find is loneliness and despair. But let's not get off topic--so, we were taking a our usual break after the second set, and we starting chatting like always.

Dad said, "Hey, you know what I was thinking about today?"

Me: "What?"

Dad: "How come, when you're at a funeral, you never see the person laid out in the casket with a full-tooth smile?"

I laughed, "Um...probably because that would be super creepy and unnatural looking. I'll make sure, though, that we give you a full-tooth smile when we bury you."

Dad: "That'd be good."

Next, my dad started talking about how earlier in the day when he was at work, he was outside taking a smoke break and a random guy was staring at him for no apparent reason.

Dad: "I mean, he just stood there for a really long time. I started to think he was probably a hit man. I positioned myself next to this chair and I was planning on smashing it over his head if he came at me."

Me: "He probably wasn't even looking at you. He was probably looking past you. Why do you always go to such a dark place?"

Dad: "I think of it as being prepared. If you're gonna attack, I'm gonna pull out my switchblade and I'm gonna shove it down your throat. I don't panic. I do not panic. Because that's when people die. In the split second that you take to start screa--"

Me: "But I feel like I'm getting a lot better at tennis, don't you think?"

Dad: "No, you're not getting better. You've peaked. You're as good as you are ever going to be."

He stared at me, dead serious. I looked away, shattered. I was sitting Indian-style on the hot concrete, surrounded by dead caterpillars and dried up leaves.

I chuckled, "Come on..."

He cracked a smile, "No, you haven't peaked. But I think you've given up."

Me: "What? No I haven't!"

Dad: "On the whole weight loss thing, I mean."

Me: "No I have not!"

You see, pretty much my whole life has been defined (in a negative way) by my weight. I have always, always struggled with being a fat slop hog. It makes me hate myself. Truly. And I have always oscillated between being on a weight loss kick--running every day, eating Greek yogurt and almonds, and pretending to be horrified by processed foods like Doritos and Twinkies--and being completely and utterly consumed by my food addiction--sneaking pints of vanilla swiss almond ice cream and bags of Tostitos Hint of Lime into my room and shamelessly eating them in bed while watching one of the Real Housewives installments. Recently, I've been on a weight loss kick, mostly because my fear of dying alone has finally taken a firm hold on my soul and is starting to edge out my fear of living a life free of untethered overindulgence.

Dad: "Well you're not losing 5 pounds a week anymore like you were."

Me: "I was never losing 5 pounds a week. Anyway, it's good to lose weight slowly. I have a better chance of keeping it off that way."

He gave me a long look, and I could see, from behind a cloud of smoke, how tired he was--tired of my excuses.

Me: "I don't know what you want from me. I joined a gym and I went there. What else can I do? I joined a gym and I went there."

Dad: "Yeah..."

It's true. I did join a gym, and I did go there. Mostly, I joined the gym because it had indoor tennis courts and I didn't want to have to give up tennis this winter. But there was a part of me, a tiny sliver of my heart, that joined the gym because I was trying to give myself some chance at a better life. I'm not too proud to tell you that my thought process when I was deciding whether or not to join a gym went something like this: If I join a gym I'll have to pay money, but I'll have somewhere to go on the days that are so soul-shatteringly boring and depressing that even a Parks and Rec marathon won't help, and I'd have access to a hot tub, but I might have to make hot-tub small talk with strangers, and if I joined a gym and paid money I'd feel obligated to go there, and that might make me thinner, and if I was thinner I might be worthy of love and I might not die alone. So yeah, I joined a gym.

My dad snuffed out his cigarette on the court, which made a high-pitched squeaky sound that made me want to chew my own finger to the bone. He was quiet for a while, and I knew it was because he was choosing his words carefully. He thinks I hate him for even mentioning my weight to me, but I don't hate him that much. I only hate him as much as you hate a mirror for highlighting how fat you look in your bathing suit. Ok, ok. I don't hate him at all. I pretty much love him more than anyone. After all, he is my tennis partner. And I know he just wants me to be healthy for the same reasons I want myself to be healthy--so I can land a rich husband.

Me: "I'm not giving up."

Dad: "I know. You joined a gym and you went there."

Me: "And don't you forget it."

Love

2011-09-08T15:35:00.001-04:00

I would never have categorized myself as a sports lover. Cheese lover? Sure. Movie lover? Definitely. Diabolical space cop? Yes! But not a sports lover. No, to me, the best thing about sports has always been the snacks. Nachos, hot dogs, popcorn, pizza--that's the stuff. Give me processed cheese out of a pump or give me death. I guess some people also enjoy the camaraderie that is created among spectators while watching a live sporting event--everyone huddled together under a fleece blanket on a cold October night, cheeks and noses rosy from the cold, waiting to see if Johnny Quicksly will get a touchdown, win the game, and bring pride back to the town... But who needs camaraderie when you've got a frozen chocolate covered banana?

It wasn't until I read Andre Agassi's autobiography "Open" that I fell in love with the non-food aspects of a sport. There's something magical about the combination of speed, strength, power, and mental and physical agility a player must possess in order to be truly great at tennis. Plus, sometimes the players get really mad and throw their racquets. That's always pretty satisfying to see because extreme, soul-shattering frustration is something we've all dealt with in life. I mean, once when I was in 8th grade I got so mad that I knocked over my bookshelf. I can't remember what I was so mad about, but I do remember the feeling I had right after I knocked over my bookshelf. It was a God DAMN IT, now I've gotta clean up all my books kind of a feeling. It made me wish I had another bookshelf to knock over.

But really, you've gotta hand it to tennis players. They're all alone out there on the court--no teammates to blame if they double fault or hit the ball out of bounds at match point. It's just the sun, the wind, the court, and the opponent--beautiful in its simplicity, like modern-day gladiator combat, but with less blood and tigers. Watching tennis, on TV or live, my heart pounds, the blood rushes through my veins, and I feel like I'm sure the spectators of gladiatorial games felt back in the day--intensely interested, rooting for the good guy, and waiting for changeover so I can go get one of those delicious frozen lemonades.

Tennis is one of the most emotional and personal sports, if you ask me. I mean, in basketball, if you miss a free throw, it's sad and all, but there's not a word for it--like oh, "he free fell" or something. In tennis, if a player is serving and his opponent wins that game, they say the opponent "broke serve" or "broke" the player. You hear it all the time, John McEnroe as commentator saying, "Oh man, he just broke him again! He is not having an easy time of it out there today." I mean, 'he broke him'? That's harsh. Plus, sometimes the players taunt one another. They do little celebrations when they win an important point--they do a fist pump, they scream, they jump, they smirk. Sometimes they point at each other! Taunting is probably one of my favorite things in life, so I'm glad it's a big part of tennis. But it just goes to show how mentally bad-ass tennis players are--they're stealthy, they're smart, and they're out for blood. They think through every point, they draw their opponent up to the net only to slam the ball back to baseline and out of reach. They're like assassins, waiting for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and make their move.

Tennis is like love--sometimes it's exhilarating, sometimes it's crushing, and sometimes you're just wading through, trying to make it to match point. But even when you lose, you keep going back for more. I know I'm in it for the long haul, and this time the processed cheese is just gravy.

Birthdaypocalypse

2011-07-29T12:22:00.002-04:00

I now know what it feels like to live through a hellish ordeal like the one experienced by Aron Ralston in May 2003 when he had to amputate his own arm in order to survive a freak rock climbing accident. My power went out last night. ON MY BIRTHDAY. I was this close to drinking my own urine.

You probably think I'm overreacting, but first of all: fuck you. Second of all, I'm not overreacting. I missed Big Brother. Mmmmmkay??! I MISSED BIG BROTHER. I had to actually TALK to my parents instead of engaging in my usual nightly routine of shutting myself in my room and watching hours of reality television while stuffing my face with corn chips and bemoaning my lot in life.

There was a split second right after the power went out (just after I blew out the candles) when I thought, it's just gonna come right back on. Now. NOW. NOW. NOW. And then, still nothing. My heart sank as the sickening realization hit me--we were possibly going to be without power for the ENTIRE episode of Big Brother. My mom pretty much immediately piped up with "Well, I just don't understand this. I just DON'T understand it. I'll tell you what, I don't get it." And then my dad, not one to resist an opportunity to play on my fears, chimed in with, "You know, sometimes people are without power for WEEKS. It happens. Yes. Yes, in a big storm! Weeks, sometimes."

Me: "I have NEVER heard of people being out of power for weeks."

My dad: "Oh yes, it happens. You hear on the news--100,000 without power. And then the next week you hear--50,000 STILL without power."

Me: "You DON'T watch the news."

My dad: "Yes! I have it on in the background."

Me: "No, Dad."

My dad: "Yes."

My mom: "Well, I'll tell you what, I just don't understand what's going on here. I just don't get this. I don't get it."

We live above a bar that we own and our living room windows look down on the outdoor patio area, where on warm summer nights people congregate to drink and carouse. On a night when our TV is on (every night), the chatter of the customers below us fades easily into the background, like the buzzing of a fly or the impatient grunts of a hungry warthog. Unless there's a brutal knife fight happening, but that's rare. On a night when NONE of our gadgets are working due to an inexplicable power outage ON MY BIRTHDAY, the chatter of the customers below us rises like the suffocating heat that we can no longer combat with air conditioning and we begin to hear things we'd rather not, like how so-and-so's power has been out since 2 pm and how someone-or-other heard from a COP that the power might be out for SEVERAL DAYS.

And thus began the screaming of the lambs in my head. My dad went downstairs to do damage control. My birthday Chinese food was rotting in the fridge, and that was tragic enough, but a loss of power for long enough could mean thousands of dollars in spoiled food for our business, and that's whack. My mom was already asleep on the couch, having accepted her fate.

When I went downstairs to check on my dad about an hour later, I found him standing near the entrance to the bar, in the eerie pitch blackness, smoking a cigarette and holding a very large butcher knife.

"I've got a big butcher knife," he said.

I laughed. "Why??!"

"Because of the looters!" He exclaimed.

"Looters, what looters?!"

"When there are no lights and the alarm systems are off, the looters come out. Who's to stop them?!"

I shined my flashlight into the empty black night.

"Stop that!" he said. "They'll see us!"

"Who, the mole people?"

"Whoever! All I know is, when I was inside the bar, I put my face up against the front window and that's when I realized there was someone RIGHT THERE on the other side staring back at me."

"So you grabbed a huge knife?"

"Would you prefer I be weaponless?"

Just then a cop car drove by and stopped across the street and down a ways from where we were standing, illuminating a large group of shirtless townie weirdos.

My dad turned to me, "Wouldn't it be crazy if they all started attacking and eating that cop?"

I said, "Wouldn't it be creepy if this was happening on Halloween or Devil's night?"

My mom, having awakened, had walked to the window and was listening in on our conversation from our apartment above. She called down to us, "I'll tell you what, I just don't get it! I don't understand this."

Neither do I, mom. Neither do I.

The Incomparable Miss Morosky

2011-06-26T20:24:00.010-04:00

Lansy,

The first I knew of you was in high school. I thought of you as a beautiful, popular girl who I would probably never be friends with—not because I didn’t like you, not because I didn’t think I would like you, but because you were a somebody and I was me. You were the thin, pretty, popular girl with all the thin, pretty, popular friends. I was the chubby girl who wore polyester pants to school. Seriously, if someone—some all powerful, all knowing being—had told me in high school that Alana Morosky would later become my best friend, my soul mate, I would have spat blood. Because that’s what you do when you’re really surprised about something—you spit blood.

If only I had known then what I know now, that yes, you are beautiful and popular, but also artistic, adventurous, free-spirited, passionate, foul-mouthed, feisty, and fiercely loyal, with an exceedingly quick and dark wit, I would’ve plunked my polyester-wearing self down at your cafeteria table and started telling you about the crazy movie I saw that weekend, or how I fell in math and chipped a tooth, because I know you would’ve gotten it—you would’ve gotten me.

As it would happen, we got through high school without ever having a conversation. And for years, it remained that we were two people who simply shared a high school and happened to grow up in the same small town. We lived, we loved, we lost—all without knowing each other. I can’t really begin to tell you how lucky I feel to have ended up back home 8 years after high school, because if I had never come back I may have missed out on meeting the best friend I have ever known.

We got through the first awkward stages of friendship, where you’re not sure if you should call someone or ask them to do something because “it might be weird.” That was mostly thanks to you—showing up at pretty much every single one of Gina’s Thursday night shows at the bar. I got more comfortable with you, and you got more comfortable with me. We started taking a million pictures a night. I told you about Tyra Banks and America’s Next Top Model and smizing, and together we invented “voltage!”—where you take a picture while trying to look model-y after yelling out “voltage!”

I remember deciding that I was going to make it a point to get to know you really well. I wanted to know how you take your coffee. I now know that in the winter you drink a venti peppermint mocha, nonfat, no whip, and in the summer you drop the peppermint and add ice. I know that you hate fruits and vegetables with a passion. I know that you love bacon and sushi almost as much as you hate fruits and vegetables, as evidenced by the poor man’s BLT—bacon bits, mayonnaise, no lettuce, no tomato, on toast. I know that you are fascinated by serial killers, much the same as I am fascinated by school shootings. You love art, nature, and history. You love exploring the world around you, taking back roads, taking the scenic route. You love saying, “it coulda been different, mista walka.” You love movies and TV as much as I do—neither of us thinks it’s ridiculous to drive an hour and a half to go see a movie that would never be playing around here, or to sit up half the night dissecting the season finale of Dexter or playing the Seinfeld trivia game. You are an animal lover. You take beautiful care of your goats, your horses, your cats, and of course, Zoey and Micah. I can’t count how many trips to we took to PetSmart to buy toys for Zoey—because it was her birthday or Christmas, or just because. You are an incredibly gifted artist and photographer, but you also have a few hidden talents—your horse neigh, your Pee-wee Herman impression, and your ability to perfectly recite the second verse of Eminem’s “My Dad’s Gone Crazy.” These are just a few of the amazing things that I have learned about you since our friendship began three years ago. Really, I’m just scratching the surface here.

I don’t think I have ever laughed as much with anyone as I have with you. Your dark, politically incorrect sense of humor fits perfectly with my dark, politically incorrect sense of humor. I have also become more adventurous because of you. If not for you, I never would’ve seen the glory that is Port Agony. I would never have run for my life through the trails surrounding the Petroglyphs. I would never have met George, the kindly keeper of the Octagon Barn, or seen the withered hull of the Chesaning Showboat. I would definitely never have allowed myself to be flung 420 feet into the air on the Top Thrill Dragster. I would never have experienced the crazy, weird, magical beauty of the wind turbines in Pigeon, Michigan. And still, I am just scratching the surface of things I never would have done or thought to do if I had never met you.

I want to thank you—for putting up with me, for letting me show you endless pictures of cute animals in books at Barnes and Noble, for being my shoulder to cry on when baby ducks get murdered or when I’m scared or depressed or grief stricken. Thank you for inspiring me, for sticking up for me with that bitch at Travelodge, for letting me be myself and never making me feel silly or inconsequential. Thank you most of all for letting me in your life, for being a friend I feel I can truly be myself around. In life, you meet lots of people. You have lots of friendships, and everyone always says how much they love their friends. But the truth is, it is an exceedingly rare thing to find a friend you love unconditionally and who loves you unconditionally back. I know I have found this kind of friendship, this kind of connection, with you. And while I am devastated that you are leaving me, it is because of the strength of our friendship, because of the uniqueness of us, that I know we will survive this. No matter where we are, whether we are in the same room or across the country from one another, we are best friends, and nothing can change that. This is just the beginning of the next chapter.

Love you forever and ever,

Lizzy

“i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart).” – E.E. Cummings

Things That Totally Fucked Up My Life in 2010

2011-01-12T19:36:00.000-05:00

Welcome to my first post of 2011. In this post, instead of looking ahead to all the wonderful things that might happen this year, I have decided to look back on all the terrible things that happened last year. I have composed a list of the top ten WORST things that happened to me in 2010, otherwise known as things that totally fucked up my life.

In order from least-worst to knockwurst (most-worst), here goes:

10. I was still fat...ALL YEAR. Being fat is the pits. Every morning I woke up with new determination to eat right and exercise, and every single day I failed. It doesn't feel good to fail miserably at the one thing you know would improve your life and your health 100%, but you know what else doesn't feel good? NOT eating a fistful of Cadbury Creme Eggs. The bottom line is, I DO WHAT I WANT.

9. I Looked For AND FOUND Disturbing Images of Grown-Up Devon Sawa. That's right, you heard me. The cherubic boy who starred in 'Casper' and 'Now and Then' has morphed into a crag-faced husk of his former self. He now calls the CW home, as he has a recurring role on the 2010 series Nikita. I don't know, it's just so sad to watch his life spin out of control.

8. I Saw a Seal Swimming Next To a Rusted-Out Grocery Cart at the Bottom of the Ocean. You always think it's going to be a good time watching those Disney Nature movies. I really like oceans, so I went to see Disney Nature's 'Oceans.' I thought I'd see a beautiful baby dolphin bonding with it's mother in the warm waters off of Maui. But no. What did I see? Besides a shit-ton of boring-ass crab footage, I saw baby turtles get eaten by sea birds and a seal swimming next to a rusted-out grocery cart. Plus, Pierce Brosnan wasted NO opportunity to remind me about the rivers of pollution currently flowing into our oceans. Apparently Pierce Brosnan is Disney Nature's new ambassador of fear. He won't let me rest until I face the harsh reality that the waters that sustain life on Earth are dying. Oh yeah, and the polar ice caps are melting. There is no hope.**

7. Nursing School Gave Me the Trots. Nursing school was exciting, but nerve-racking! It's kind of like when you're really nervous to go on a giant roller coaster because there's a chance you could die, but you still want to go on it because how great will it feel if you don't die? Unfortunately, bravery often comes at a physical cost. I had the trots for most of 2010.

6. My Favorite Dumpster Kitten, Little Gray, was Killed in a Hit and Run. I know what you're thinking: What the FUCK are dumpster kittens? Well, even though it's ridiculously obvious, I'll tell you. They are kittens that live in, on, beneath, and/or in the vicinity of a dumpster. My parents have a couple of dumpsters and this year we got kittens! Kittens!! So much joy. There were four beautiful kittens, three that looked like the cat from Stephen King's 'Cat's Eye,' and one that looked like Nermal from Garfield. I named the one that looked like Nermal "Little Gray" because he was little and gray. It's not rocket science. He was the pudgiest and the friendliest of the kittens. I started feeding them and he was the only one that would almost let me pet him. Not quite, but almost. I could tell he wanted to let me pet him, but he was probably afraid that if he let me pet him, I would go one step further and grab him, take him home, give him a bath, then put him on my bed and cover him with a heavy blanket and watch him try to squirm his way out. He's right, that's what I would've done. Anyway, one day I came home from one of my nursing school clinicals (a long 12+ hour day of patient care) and my mom, who was standing over the stove, cooking a frittata (I'll get into why that only made things worse later), said, "I have some bad news." I immediately thought that my cat that actually lives with me and sleeps in my bed, Jack, was dead. Or that Kevin Spacey had died. But then she said, "Little Gray died. Your dad found his lifeless body by the side of the road." So much anguish.

5. I Sat Through A Lot of Awful, Awful Movies--Without Popcorn! My dad and I go see a lot of movies together, which is great because it's nice to have some father-daughter bonding time. Plus, he pays. But he doesn't like to get popcorn (because it bloats him and gets stuck in his teeth) and he's willing to see crap movies that I don't have the heart to say no to. I guess I'd rather see a shitty movie than sit home by myself thinking about how pathetic I am and slowly consuming a mini-mountain of Chili Cheese Fritos, but still... One of the dumbest things about going to the movies with my dad is that he almost always falls asleep immediately. Sometimes I wake him up to complain about loud kids in the theater. Here's how that conversation goes--Me: "GrrrrrrrRRRR." My dad: "What?" Me: "Why are they LAUGHING so loud and repeating the most mundane dialogue?" My dad: "I don't even hear anything." Me: "How do you NOT hear that? It's like they're watching this in their own basement. It's like we snuck into someone's birthday party!" By that time, my dad has usually fallen back asleep. But I digress. Here is a list of just five (believe me, there are more) of the worst movies I sat through WITHOUT POPCORN in 2010: Edge of Darkness, Faster (Starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson), Grown Ups, Skyline, and My Soul to Take. You're welcome, Box Office.

4. I Didn't Travel...Not Even in my Dreams. It's nice that I still have enough hope to purchase books like this one when I'm browsing around Barnes and Noble: The Rough Guide to the USA (Rough Guides). I think to myself, maybe I'll go to Yosemite National Park or Mt. Rushmore, or HEY--maybe I'll go to Anderson, Indiana (home of Teen Mom star (and train wreck) Amber Portwood. But, let's face it. I'm basically a shut-in. I might as well start collecting garbage and tie myself to my bed. I mean, how pathetic is it that I couldn't even manage to take 9 days off to travel to Anderson, Indiana, search around the local pizza huts, jails, roller rinks, and bad neighborhoods for Amber Portwood, then follow her to her house and stake it out hoping to witness her throwing a TV down the stairs or drinking a big gulp while wearing short-shorts and setting fire to a mattress??

3. Centipede Bugs Defied Extinction. I love animals and (some) bugs. But I hate centipede bugs with every fiber of my being, and when I see one, I stalk it with intent to kill and I don't rest until I've flushed it's lifeless body down the toilet. 2010 was not without centipede bugs, which totally fucked up my life. One morning, I was up at 4 am, getting ready to go to clinicals for nursing school. I was sleepy, and I was brushing my teeth. I had my eyes closed and I was leaning over the sink, and what did I see crawling out of the drain when I opened my eyes? A giant centipede bug!! I proceeded to drown it, and when I was sure it was dead, I vomited into my hand and then went about the rest of my day.

2. I Almost Dropped My Wallet Into a Carp and Turtle Pond. Even though I didn't travel out of state in 2010, my friend Lansy and I did explore Michigan. One of the places we went was the Wilderness Trails Zoo, near Frankenmuth (a.k.a. Michigan's little Bavaria). The Wilderness Trails Zoo is kind of unique because you can get up close to a lot of big animals. They don't have any of those pesky big ravines between you and the animals like other zoos do. They just have a couple of chain-link fences between you and a lion, or between you and a grizzly bear. So what if it's a little less safe? It makes for a lot of great photo ops! So what if the closer you get the easier it is to tell how sad the animals are? Photo ops! But I digress. One of the main attractions at Wilderness Trails Zoo is that you can actually feed many of the animals!! For example, to feed a bear, you pay a quarter and get a sourball, then you put the sourball in a long plastic tube that runs through the two chain link fences that separate you from the bear, then the sourball lands in the bear enclosure and the bear runs over and eats it!! Huzzah! They also have a carp and turtle pond, where you can pay a quarter and get a handful of food pellets, which you can then throw to the fish and turtles and watch them gobble it up. There are so many carp/catfish-looking fish and turtles (and some bad-ass swans) that it's actually kind of disgusting to watch them eat. I kept waiting for one of them to spit out a human eyeball. It was my last handful of food pellets and we were going to leave the zoo as soon as we were done feeding the fish and turtles, so I was trying to make this last throw very dramatic. I forgot that I had my wallet sitting on the railing of the little platform we were standing on. When I (very forcefully) threw my last handful of food pellets into the fish and turtle pond, I knocked my wallet off the railing!!! Luckily, it landed at my feet and not in the water. You may be thinking, her wallet didn't fall in the water, so why is this on the list of things that totally fucked up her life in 2010? Well, you're right. My wallet didn't fall in the water--it almost did. And I have to live with that.

1. I Watched a Baby Duck Die. It was a warm, bright summer day, and my friend Lansy and I decided to drive about an hour away to the idyllic town of Owosso. It was her dream to visit one of Owosso's main attractions--Curwood Castle. As a major castle connoisseur myself, I was delighted to accompany her. But alas, when we found the castle (we had to ask directions from speed walkers, but that's a whole other story), there was a sad little note posted on the door that said the castle didn't open until 1 pm. It was noon, so I said, "God Lansy, it's gorgeous out and there's a very beautiful arched bridge over there! Let's walk around picturesque downtown Owosso and wait for Curwood Castle to open so that we can go in." And she said, "What a great idea! I would like that very much." We took off down the sidewalk. We spent a pleasing hour exploring Owosso. We went into a fancy antique shop that sold old clocks and toy pianos and original artwork. We thought about stopping for ice cream at one of those places where you walk up to the window to order and the menu has a bunch of little pictures of ice cream treats on it, but decided against it. On our way back to Curwood Castle, we decided to walk along the beautiful banks of the Shiawassee River. Little did we know that in mere minutes it would be the scene of a faces-of-death style duck massacre. We stopped to watch a gorgeous family of ducks swimming along the river's edge. There was a mama duck and three beautiful baby ducks. They were splashing and quacking and putting their little heads under water, then popping back up. It was glorious! Both Lansy and I were amazed at their beauty and grace. They were so perfect! Especially this one baby duck, whom we affectionately named Hobart. Both Lansy and I had a feeling that Hobart was special. Then, all of a sudden, out of NOWHERE, the mama duck started violently flapping her wings and quacking, communicating severe distress! At first, I thought that Lansy and I had ventured too close to the duck family and the mama duck was protecting her babies from us. Then, both Lansy and I realized that the mama duck was attempting to protect her babies from something much more sinister. It registered with both Lansy and I at the same time--Hobart had gone under the water and NOT come back up! We could see his adorable little duck butt and duck feet sticking up, but his head was submerged! I shouted, "I think he's stuck in the weeds! He's drowning! Mother of God, he's drowning!" I wanted to go in after little Hobart, but because of the weeds in the water and the rocks along the river's edge, there was no way of knowing how treacherous it would be once I got in the water or if I would even be able to get to little Hobart if I attempted it. I screamed to Lansy, "Get a STICK!" She promptly returned with a stick, but alas, it was too short to reach Hobart. There were two guys fishing nearby and we thought about getting them to come help us, but we didn't because neither of us wanted to approach them. By the time I was finally ready to hike up my pants and go into the Shiawassee after Hobart, it was too late. Hobart had perished. And, as I cried, Lansy consoled me by saying that he was probably not stuck in the weeds, but that he was probably eaten by a water snake or a snapping turtle, and that if I had gone in after him, I might've lost a toe! That did make me feel better, but still, I can't UNSEE Hobart's death. I will carry the painful memory of that day with me forever.

In Closing, I'd just like to remind you all that each new year brings with it new promise and the hope of new beginnings and new achievements, but still...it's very unlikely you'll be able to go an entire year without being traumatized in one way or another. So try to keep your positive attitude in check, ok?

**I actually do have hope for our oceans. If you do too, get involved!! Please support Ocean Conservancy.

Candy-pocalypse

2010-12-29T23:25:00.013-05:00

Today, you're in luck, because I've come up with some random musings that I think you'll find entertaining. Buckle up, 'cause mama just found her keys and we're a goin' drivin'.

Random Musings

1. It's fun adding the word 'pocalypse' to the end of other words. For example, one day, around Halloween, when I was doing my nursing preceptorship (which is like an apprenticeship where you work one on one with a nurse and she teaches you and you learn and eventually you teach her and she says, "Look who's the teacher now!" and you say, "Ahh geez, Phyllis, you're makin' me embarrassed!" and she says, "No but seriously Diane, you are a top notch nursing student!" and you say, "It's not Diane, it's Dion" and she says how ashamed she is), this ER tech came to work and said, "I went to CVS and there was literally NO CANDY THERE!" And then I said, "Oh no! It's a candy-pocalypse!" She didn't get it. She didn't giggle or even crack a smile, but I was quite pleased with myself. Another example would be when you run out of toilet paper, you could say, "It's a toilet paper-pocalypse!" Or if you were going through a dry spell sexually, you could say, "It's NOT raining men!"

2. I have decided that pictures of puppies asleep are adorable, especially when they are dressed up in wizard costumes. Puppies asleep in a wicker chair? Also fucking adorable. Equally adorable is a picture of someone rolling a puppy down a mountain. It's also cute when someone takes a picture of a puppy asleep on a computer keyboard or asleep on a desk covered in papers--because it totally looks like the puppy fell asleep while he was doing his taxes!

You know what's NOT adorable though? A creepy picture of a baby asleep in a cloth hammock that's held up by a hook that looks like it belongs to the killer from "I Know What You Did Last Summer" (as well as sequels "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer" and "I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer"). Moral of the story: sleeping puppies in quirky outfits and silly settings--great, sleeping babies in baskets, boxes, with wings, wearing jail outfits, held up by hooks, etc.--bone shatteringly frightening.

3. What's UP with the baggers at the grocery store? Why do they always ask you if you want a bag for the bulkiest and most awkward-to-carry items? I walk up to the counter with 6 packs of AA batteries and a medium-size bag of cat food and all the bagger girl can say is, "Um...do you, like, want a bag for this cat food?" Well, actually, the BATTERIES could fit in my purse, but the cat food is fucking annoying as SHIT to carry, so yeah, I'd like a bag. And also: fuck you. Just assume that unless I say I don't want a bag, I WANT A BAG. It's not like they don't have a bag big enough to fit a medium bag of cat food or a couple of two liters of pop. Do you know how annoying it is to try to free-hand 2 two-liters of pop up 20 stairs in the god JAM dead of Winter? I've had it. I have absolutely had it.

Ok. That's enough random musings for now. If you're wondering about the picture of the basket of white kittens at the beginning of this post, that's just my favorite picture that came up when I typed "pocalypse" into an image search.

New Normal

2010-12-27T19:09:00.004-05:00

I am now a graduate nurse. I can give you a TB shot. I can insert a Foley catheter into you. I am a medical professional. And it feels weird.

Maybe it feels weird because I have so much time off. I'm used to having to study constantly. I'm used to the constant threat of failure, and I'm used to having to face my fears on a daily basis. I'm used to crying because I contaminated my sterile field (I have gotten the hang of that now, but it's still intimidating). But now, I don't have to worry about that stuff anymore (at least not until I get a job). I could still fail the NCLEX, though, so there is that.

I haven't started studying for it. I have been spending my days watching TV (today I watched 'A Killer Among Friends' starring Patty Duke and Tiffany Amber Theissen) and applying for jobs and thinking about the future and the kind of person I would like to someday be. It's almost 2011, so now is a good time for re-invention I guess.

Next year, I want to lose the 100 pounds or so of unsightly fat that have taken up residence all over my body (totally my fault, by the way). I want to get a nursing job that I like at a good hospital and grow professionally. I want to travel more (I'm definitely going to check out Portland, Oregon, and I want to go back to New York City, too, and see a taping of SNL).

Nursing school was a great experience because it made me push myself in ways that I never would have otherwise. I had to do things that made me nervous. I want to keep going down that path. I also want to figure out how the heck those centipede bugs keep getting into my house.

Sorry this is not a super fun post. But I'm kind of depressed. Damn you Winter! Damn you change! This is totally JUST like the end of Cast Away, where Chuck Noland is standing in the middle of that dusty crossroads and he has to decide which way to go. Should he follow the hot angel wings lady? I mean, he can't go home because his fiancée totally married another guy and had a baby with him while Chuck was stuck on that island with Wilson. This is so typical. My life always mirrors Tom Hanks movies. First I meet that strange guy, fall in love with him, and then find out he's a mer-man, and now this!

I will probably do what Tom did in Big. I will go to a carnival, find a Zoltar machine and make a wish for my most pressing desire. I will not wish to be 'big' like Tom did, because I am already 100 pounds bigger than I'd like (and I can already ride whatever rides I want at the fair). I will probably not wish to be rich, because that's a lost cause. I will not wish to meet the man of my dreams, because I already met him (he was a mer-man and had to go back to living in the Atlantic off Cape Cod. I would've gone with him, but eh...). No, I will not wish for any of those things. Instead, I will wish to be brave--brave enough to go after what I want and seize it when I find it.

Weary Traveler

2010-08-24T19:54:00.020-04:00

Dear readers,

I'm sorry I haven't written in so long. It's just...well...if you want to know the whole long drawn-out story, I'll tell you: I went to Europe for six months to wrestle for my college. I'm sure you're thinking, what the fuck, she wrestles? Since when? Well, hey, if you ever listened to me you'd know how much I love wrestling...how much wrestling is, in fact, my whole world. I'm sorry for the outburst...it's just...sometimes I feel like I'm invisible! Even though I have this blog where I often divulge my deepest, darkest secrets (like how much I love Lifetime movies featuring out of control teens), I still feel so alone--and so misunderstood.

But back to my story: about six months ago, I was commissioned by my school to go on this wrestling fellowship (I'm sure you're thinking, wrestling fellowship? Is that even a thing? Yes. It is. It is a thing. Stop questioning me!!). I was incredibly excited to go because I've never traveled and I love to wrestle. And I'm really, really good at wrestling. I get a lot of accolades for it--a lot of pats on the butt and free pasta dinners. So it's cool. Plus, I found out I was going to one of the most beautiful countries in all of Europe: Slovakia.

The people in Slovakia are so kindly!! They're always offering you meat on a stick and a mug of brew or something else great. Any longtime reader of this blog knows how much I love meat on a stick (or meat on a plate, in a bowl, or even in a glove compartment for that matter (Hey! Meat is meat. As long as it's mostly cooked, I'm game)). Because the people of Slovakia are so wonderful, I didn't think twice when a haggard old greasy-bearded Slovak wearing dirty overalls and carrying a rusty bone saw offered me a ride in his beat-up van when I missed my train to Poland.

He held out his hand for me to shake and said loudly, "Thems calls me Ctibor." When I grasped his hand in mine, I could feel the jagged bones beneath his paper-thin skin. His bones made me think of cemeteries and crows and garbage-can fires, so I was immediately put at ease. Plus, it was adorable how he was attempting to speak English! Having already spent a few months in Slovakia, I answered him in Slovak (the official language of Slovakia): "Mám ťa rád, Ctibor! Hovoria mi Liz. To je ale krásny zimný deň. Milujem túto krajinu. Je to tak pustá!" Loosely translated, this means: "I like you, Ctibor! They call me Liz. What a beautiful winter day. I love this country. It's so desolate!"

Ctibor nodded and grinned while digging around in the large front pocket of his overalls for what I assumed to be some sort of treasure. He produced a hand-rolled cigarette and I knew I was right--treasure. He lit the cigarette and leaned past me to look down the train tracks (We were on a wooden train platform. I was there because I had been trying to catch that train to Poland. I never asked Ctibor why he was there). He took a long slow drag and then said, an evil gleam in his eye, "Train to Poland no come. Dark come soon and you are like lost sheep's baby."

Darkness was beginning to fall, and there was a pervasive silence that hung in the air--an eerie wintry silence. I was getting so cold, all I could think of was curling up beside a crackling fire in Ctibor's cottage, if he would be so kind as to invite me. I had already worn out my welcome at the village inn (but that's a whole other story).

"Ja som vydesený a chladená až na kosť! Potrebujem miesto na pobyt, a nevadilo by mi jedlo malých knedle zo zemiakového cesta s bryndzou a slaninou preliate miešanými," I said. This means: "I am terrified and chilled to the bone! I need a place to stay, and I would not mind a meal of small dumplings made of potato dough with sheep cheese and topped with scrambled bacon." It might sound like I was asking a lot of Ctibor, but believe me, Slovaks love to cook and entertain overnight guests.

Ctibor finished his cigarette and threw it onto the train platform, mashing it into the wood with the toe of his work boot for a few long seconds. I watched the embers glow and die and waited anxiously for him to speak. When he finally looked at me and grinned, I noticed he was missing quite a few teeth, which I found charming. "I love help lost American girl."

"Ctibor, jsi bomba!" I said, which in English means: "Ctibor, you're the bomb!" I followed him off the train platform and climbed into his old van. He let me sit in the very back on the floor, and I enjoyed the bouncy ride. Ctibor played the music of his favorite band, the Gypsy Devils, at top volume and chain smoked the whole way to his cottage. Being in that smoky, loud environment reminded me of my nights of debauchery with my college friends in the States and I felt a pang of homesickness. I thought of asking Ctibor to drop me off on the side of the road, but I really wanted those potato dumplings.

The last thing I remember before waking up on a Slovak hospital gurney four months later was the long dark dirt driveway that led to Ctibor's cottage. It was lined with black barren trees which bent and shook with the howling wind, branches scraping like fingernails against the car windows. Weird, right?!

So anyway, that's where I've been. I hardly even got to wrestle because of my "lost months" (that's what I've taken to calling the time I spent at Ctibor's). But don't worry, I'll be back on the mat in no time. Until then, I think I'll get back to blogging. After all, I've missed you guys.

Love,

Liz

Spittin' Tired

2010-01-05T21:26:00.002-05:00

Ok, so day one is over.

Things I learned today: bras with under-wire are evil, and I should've brought a lunch.

I can already feel an ulcer coming on. I'm trying to remain calm, though, and I'm actually doing pretty well so far! I only cried once today and it was just because I was watching the last five minutes of Ghost.

There was one moment today when I wasn't completely filled with dread...and I actually felt slightly cool (a very strange and new feeling for me!). We were all getting a tour of the facilities where we'll be having class and doing labs; we were being led around by a TA, and she had a clip-board and was yelling over the crowd things like, "There are the vending machines!" and "There's the study rooms...you'll pretty much live in there!" We were all wearing our lab coats and looking bewildered. It was just like Grey's Anatomy (Season 1).

Ahhh, if only my life could be more like a TV show or movie (in which my boyfriend dies and then comes back as an apparition to save me from his evil best-friend's murderous heart and scandalous money laundering plot) and less like my actual life (which now only involves reading medical texts, driving, and worrying).

And so it begins

2010-01-04T16:45:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow is the first day of my Accelerated 2nd Degree BSN program.

50 students.
A two-hour long commute.
Ridiculously difficult-to-decode directions on what to wear,
what to buy,
where to go,
what time to be there.

These are some of the things with which I am currently dealing.

I am filled with dread. And hope.

Part of me wants to curl up and die. Another part of me knows I'm going to kick nursing school's ass! Another part of me just wants to eat ham and drink water.

This year I'll be keeping you posted on my nursing school misadventures, and also on my continued efforts to shed the pounds and pounds of unsightly fat that currently adorn my body.

Wish me luck!

But I wanna be a DEN-tist!

2009-12-17T19:34:00.009-05:00

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

2009-12-09T18:25:00.011-05:00

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

2009-12-07T19:00:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-11T16:23:00.020-04:00

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

2009-06-17T18:30:00.010-04:00

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

2009-06-04T18:01:00.021-04:00

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

2009-05-31T19:50:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-20T17:59:00.003-04:00

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'

2009-05-17T11:57:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-12T07:50:00.004-04:00

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

2009-05-06T20:00:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-04-27T20:08:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-23T16:55:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-22T19:10:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-18T09:13:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-14T20:37:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-08T19:56:00.005-04:00

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.

Here's a clip:

Who's Afraid of Renting a Video Cassette?

2009-04-07T18:29:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-04-04T14:47:00.007-04:00

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.

P.S. A shopping-themed Seinfeld clip for your enjoyment:

Life on Mars

2009-04-02T16:34:00.004-04:00

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.

Here are clips from both the American and UK versions of the show:

Panic Tastes Kind of Like Donuts

2009-04-01T21:41:00.003-04:00

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.

Until then, enjoy this educational video (and feel free not to watch the whole thing):

This makes being an EMT seem sexy, doesn't it?

Worrying Makes Me Cry

2009-03-31T15:28:00.006-04:00

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

2009-03-29T17:28:00.006-04:00

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

2009-03-23T13:43:00.006-04:00

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.

Tour de E.D.

2009-03-19T15:21:00.004-04:00

This week began with me having to drive to Grand Blanc to go to Genesys Health Park Hospital and a take a tour of the emergency department there--an EMT class requirement. What's worse, I was told to "dress professionally." Me being the fat piece of shit that I am, when I hear the words "dress professionally" I break out into a cold sweat and frantically start making deals with God (i.e., "I promise, God, if I can just look good for this one day, I'll never eat another donut ham hamburger."). It's times like these I wish maternity clothes weren't just for pregnant people.

So, I put on my old standby: some gray "officey" pants with a hidden elastic waistband, a "drapey" black cardigan thingy, a $5 Wal-Mart necklace, and ballet flats (though I'm the farthest thing from a ballet dancer you'll probably ever see).

When I arrived at Health Park, I stressed for a good 10 minutes about whether to leave my coat and purse in the car or take them with me. The FPOS (Fat Piece Of Shit) in me wanted to wear my coat inside (Fat logic: coats cover up my fat!) and bring my purse (Fat logic: if, all of a sudden, I feel ashamed of myself, I can pretend to be digging around for something in my purse while I discreetly wipe the tears from my eyes!) But alas, I decided to be brave and go coat-less and purse-less. I clipped my hospital ID badge to my sweater and walked in with my head held high (or, as high as I can hold my head, because my body has started storing a good amount of fat there and I'm starting to get neck-aches).

We were to meet in the Atrium--a cross between a swank hotel lobby and that smelly fake-jungle warehouse where they keep all the exotic birds at the zoo. There was a lady selling flowers. There was a piano that played by itself. There were real, live trees! And of course, there were my EMT classmates, all gathered in a huddle, making crude jokes and poking each other--just like 7th graders at a school dance. I didn't see my one and only friend from class (an outspoken (some might say loudmouth) older woman who is pretty much hated by the rest of the class, but who I feel sorry for), so I sort of edged my way up to the group and just stood there. I looked around to see what everyone else was wearing, comforted by the fact that if I had to dress up they did too. What did I see? Jeans. Jeans. Jeans. Ripped jeans. And: Tennis shoes. Dirty work-boots. T-shirts. Thong sandals! Oh. My. God. I could have fainted. But I knew that in this crowd, that would only please people--because they'd get to show off how much they know about medicine and shout things like, "Give me some room here! I need some room here people!"

So, I didn't faint. I decided to shove my annoyed-ness waaaay down into the pit of my stomach and probably take it out on the dog later. Finally, mercifully, the tour began. We were taken downstairs to the emergency department and shown all around--the ambulance bay, the triage room, the "B" side (where they take the less injured patients), etc.

I know I shouldn't compare things to TV. After all, life is nothing like TV, relationships are nothing like they are on TV...I mean, for crying out loud--TV makes Long John Silver's look like a good place to eat! But, I continually expect TV magic in my real life, or maybe I just hope for it. But no...the Emergency Department at Genesys Health Park was nothing like the Emergency Department at the fictitious County General on NBC's E.R. And, I wish it was. I just kept looking around thinking, this is the rest of your life, Liz. This is the life you have chosen for yourself. Gurneys. Metal carts with needles on them. Antiseptic. Heart-breakingly cheerful cartoon scrubs. A strange, poopy stench in the air. It can all seem pretty depressing at nine in the morning, especially if you're surrounded by a group of classmates who pretty much shun you and most especially if you've been tricked into wearing fancy pants and trouser socks.

The paramedic showing us around assured us that the Emergency Department gets a lot busier later in the day, and as I listened to him talk with passion about why he loves his job so much, I snapped out of my bad mood and remembered why I decided to become a nurse (and an EMT) in the first place--medicine is damn exciting. And, it's an honor to be the one who gets to help people, who gets to be there for them in their time of need.

I may not fit in in EMT class, but I fit in in the world of medicine. And guess what? Scrubs are damn comfy.

Sometimes The World Is An Ugly Place

2009-03-17T18:58:00.005-04:00

I just spilled cottage cheese in my purse. Yes, cottage cheese. Damn you, huge 700-page 'Breaking Dawn' book! You squooshed my cup of cottage cheese so hard that the lid popped off. Let me tell you, it ain't easy cleaning cottage cheese out of a purse. AND, now I have no cottage cheese to eat! God damn it, I hate everything. I will ease my troubles by looking at pictures of celebrities I have crushes on:

Ah...man meat. Always makes everything better.

How to Spend a Day

2009-03-15T18:10:00.005-04:00

Pretty much my favorite thing ever to do is go to the movies...on like, a Thursday afternoon or morning, when the theater is mostly empty and feels even darker and more like a big, perfect cave than usual--when I will be surrounded by rows and rows of empty seats, when I can put my feet up or lie across the seats (you know how you can make a couch by lifting up the armrests? I do that.), when I can gorge myself with popcorn and Cherry Coke and not be judged, when I can watch a sex scene without my mom or dad sitting next to me, when I can cry so much my T-shirt gets soaked and not feel like people are watching me, thinking, Does she know this isn't real?

That's my favorite thing. So on Thursday I decided to skip school and do just that. I drove the 30+ miles to Michigan's mall-extravaganza, Great Lakes Crossing. Great Lakes Crossing is a huge outlet mall. The stores are arranged in a big circle, which according to mall literature is a mile all the way around, and like a Las Vegas casino there are very few clocks at Great Lakes Crossing. But there are a lot of places to purchase soft pretzels and Orange Juliuses, and who needs clocks when you've got a belly full of chewy pretzel dough and creamsicly goodness? Also at Great Lakes Crossing: the mall speed-walkers...you know, those people who race-walk the mall instead of getting a gym membership? They deftly weave in and out of foot-traffic, knocking iced coffees out of ladies' hands and babies out of their strollers without even noticing.

Of course, Great Lakes Crossing also has a Cinema--an AMC sandwiched between a Rainforest Cafe and a Johnny Rockets. After getting my ticket, I purchased my requisite huge bag of popcorn and bucket of soda, drenched my popcorn with butter for about 20 minutes (they have a self-serve butter pump!), and then went in to see The Reader. Now, when you go to the movies at an odd time like Thursday morning, there's always the chance you may get the whole theater to yourself. This has happened to me. But it didn't happen to me with The Reader. When I walked in, there was one man in there already--an elderly fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and Marlboro-man skin, wearing a tan windbreaker. I felt bad for ruining his chances at getting the theater all to himself and simultaneously hoped that more people would show up, because while getting the theater all to yourself is awesome, sharing it with just one other person is super awkward.

The movie started and I was immediately captivated. Maybe it was the delicious scent of popped corn drifting up my nares, maybe it was the delightful largeness and darkness and coolness of the theater, or maybe it was the tremor of rebellious glee I got from skipping school--but I think it was The Reader. For those of you who may not be familiar with the film: it's about an affair between an impressionable and passionate young boy and a mysterious older woman. That's all I'm going to say. Oh--and that it's the sort of movie that...well, to quote Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets, "makes me want to be a better man." It's dark, it's sad, it's passionate, it's beautiful, it makes you ache inside, it makes you feel. And as an added bonus, you get to look at this handsome fellow a lot:

I swear I'm not a pedophile. He's 19. I looked it up.

All in all, I'd say: an afternoon well spent.

Bloody Good Fun

2009-03-13T21:55:00.003-04:00

I've been reading the Twilight series...you know--with the vampires and the werewolves? You know--about desperate Romeo-and-Juliet-style teen love between the mortal Bella Swan and teen vampire Edward Cullen? And no, I'm not reading the series because I'm a teen girl whose favorite color is hot pink and whose favorite singer is J.T., but because I didn't want to miss out on another Harry-Potter-esque fantasy series craze. You see, I never read the Potter books. And I never read Lord of the Rings or Eragon or any of those. I know it's never too late. I could go back and read them now, but the party's over. There are no more midnight Barnes and Noble Harry Potter extravaganzas with booksellers dressed up as Dumbledorf...and without that, well, what's the point?

So, when my sister told me that she read Twilight and loved it, I thought, what the hey? I actually listened to the first book of the series, Twilight, on my iPod, because I don't have a ton of time to sit and read for pleasure, what with my annoying studies and all. I liked it...and I did fall a little bit in love with Edward Cullen. It's kinda hard not to. The kid is pretty much perfect...except for the fact that he won't give it up, much to Bella's chagrin. Edward swears his physical standoffish-ness is merely an effort to protect her. After all, he's a vampire and hence, very strong. He's more "man" than she can handle...if ya get my drift. But I think Edward's unwillingness to deflower Bella has more to do with author Stephanie Meyer's religious background than anything--she's a graduate of Brigham Young University and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Also: the Twilight series is for young adults, and peddling sex to minors is kinda taboo.

While I enjoy the characters in the Twilight series (Well...I really just like Edward. Bella can be very annoying--stubborn, selfish, and at times, the ultimate anti-feminist), the writing is a little thin. I find myself skimming to get to the good parts. The plots are predictable, and there's a whole lot less imagination than there could be--especially in a world inhabited by a family of vampires who've been alive for over 100 years and a pack of werewolves who are just learning about their new-found powers.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who feels this way. Leave it to the master of imagination--Stephen King--to speak the truth. Haters may say ole' Stevie is just jealous, but I ain't buyin' it. Stephen King knows what's up, and in an interview with USA Weekend he said what I've been thinking ever since I started reading the Twilight series. Check it out:

Stephen King Rubbishes Twilight Author

Ahem...but...ahem...despite King's declarations, I am going to finish the Twilight series. I just have to know--will Bella and Edward end up together or...um...is he single?

I Did It!

2009-03-12T10:11:00.002-04:00

As proven by the blurry picture above (I swear that card has my name on it!), I am now CPR and AED certified!

Game Over

2009-03-10T20:33:00.005-04:00

Why is it always the good shows that get kicked off the air? Oh yeah, it's because most people in America are ignorant assholes who can think of nothing better to do with their Monday night than sit, unshowered, on their frayed couches in their dank basements watching "Deal or No Deal" while slowly eating through a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and a bag of Funyuns. I don't have a problem with spending your night watching TV, and I certainly don't have a problem with stuffing your face with greasy meat--it's the "Deal or No Deal" part that gets me.

Scaredy-cat studio executives want to save cash by creating more primetime gameshows and pushing scripted shows to 9 and 10 o'clock (EST). That's why, over the past year, we've seen shows like "The Price is Right: Primetime Special" and "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" cropping up. By the way: most Americans appear not to be smarter than a fifth grader, but they still know a lot of shit from third grade. Most Americans are willing to eat up this new serving of primetime gameshows with a spoon. Or maybe a spork with dog hair stuck to it that they found in their car. But not me!! NO!

Sure, I am a whore for reality TV. But reality TV has more grit--more blood, sweat, and tears--than your average gameshow. Take "Survivor," for example. "Survivor" is technically an elaborate gameshow, but we the viewers get a chance to fall in love with or despise, gradually, all the contestants. And therein lies the hook. We want to tune in every week to see our favorites rise to the top or to see the ones we hate get what's coming to them (in reality speak, this would be said person: getting "thrown under the bus," being "blind-sided," or having to "pack their knives and go").

I wouldn't have as much of a problem with one of my new favorite scripted shows, "Life on Mars" getting edged out in favor of a high-quality reality show, like "Top Chef" or "Amazing Race." But I do have a problem with it getting edged out in favor of a primetime gameshow! What is TV coming to? If I wanted to watch "Million Dollar Password," I'd stay home from work and watch it at three in the afternoon, when it was meant to be watched.

I Killed a Mannequin Today

2009-03-09T18:44:00.003-04:00

Hello, dear devoted readers. I'm sorry I haven't written in a few days. It's very bad manners, I know. But what can I say? I've been busy. In EMT class, we've been preparing for our BLS certification test. BLS, for those of you totally not in the know, stands for Basic Life Support and includes things like: CPR, Automated External Defibrillator use, and assisting someone who is choking.

What happens is: we have to go into a room that is set up with 8 stations. Imagine sad-faced proctors sitting behind empty cafeteria tables piled high with CPR dummies. Station 1 might be: two-rescuer child CPR with AED (Automated External Defibrillator--the thing that shocks your heart, that is, if you don't have a can of Red Bull handy). So, you have to go over there and kneel down next to the mannequin. Then the proctor says something like, "You're at the movie theater and you see this kid collapse. Go!" So, I shake the kid (mannequin), and I say, "Hey! Hey! Are you all right?"

The proctor says: "He's not responding."

So I say, "I would send someone to activate the emergency response system and get an AED." Then I start CPR by opening the airway. Then I would say, as I put my head down close to the kid's (mannequin's) mouth, "I'm looking, listening, and feeling for breath."

Proctor: "He's not breathing."

Me: "I'm checking the carotid pulse."

Proctor: "There is no pulse."

Me: "I'm starting compressions." Then I would do 30 compressions, counting out loud, "One! Two! Three!" as I go (I would count all the numbers--not just one, two, and three). Then after 30 compressions, I would give two rescue breaths, and then begin compressions again until my partner arrived with the AED.

Sounds easy, right? Well, let me tell ya--you can know all the steps cold and then when you get in front of the proctor--and your classmates--you go completely blank, or forget to activate the emergency response system or something simple like that.

Today we had a practice session and I messed up a ton. First, I couldn't get a good seal on my BVM (Bag Valve Mask--the thing you always see the nurse or doc squeezing to deliver oxygen to patients on Grey's Anatomy or ER, while they're racing through the corridors of their busy hospital, attempting to save lives and juggle their tumultuous personal lives all at the same time). So basically, I wasn't getting any air into my mannequin's lungs. Poor, not-really-alive resuscitation Rob. Even when my proctor showed me how to do it right, I still kept messing up!

Then later, while attempting to resuscitate a mannequin-baby in a pink striped jumper, I forgot to send someone to activate the emergency response system and then I checked the brachial pulse before I delivered rescue breaths! What the fuck was I thinking? I had been working that station with two of my classmates and the proctor, a bald older guy named Hollis, said to them, well you two did great, but I'd like you (ME!) to try again. Later he apologized for asking me to try again, saying, "I hope you don't think I'm an asshole."

No, sir, I think I am an asshole.

Another proctor, a young-ish woman in a green shirt with an angular bob haircut, said to me, "Hey, relax, it's just practice," when I was doing compressions at her stations. I nodded and thought, Just because my face is beet-red and I've broken into a flop sweat doesn't mean I'm nervous. I really wasn't that nervous, to be honest, but doing compressions is physically exhausting and it'll take it out of ya--especially if you started your day by eating your weight in hot, fluffy biscuits, like I did.

I left the practice session with a massive headache and a strong desire to quit EMT class. Then again, that's almost always how I feel when I leave EMT class. All I know is, I better get energized before my test on Wednesday. And: I know just the way to do it. The new Butterfinger Buzz combines the Butterfinger taste you love with as much caffeine as the leading energy drink!

Why is it that for every problem I have, candy is always the answer?

So Many Fat People! All In One Place!

2009-03-04T15:59:00.016-05:00

So, as everyone who reads this blog probably already knows--I'm fat. And, as everyone who reads this blog probably already knows--I love television. Well...this past weekend I found a way to bring these two parts of my life together! FINALLY. Because, being fat and loving TV usually don't go hand-in-hand...unless you count eating a bucket of chocolate candy while watching Millionaire Matchmaker.

It all started last Thursday night, when my dad and I got to talking about his favorite subject--my weight. He's always saying things to me like: "Sometimes I lie awake nights just worrying about you." And look--like many fat people, I'm a little bit insecure. Having my dad tell me that he lies awake nights worrying about me doesn't exactly inspire me to lose weight, although I know that's what he intends for it to do. It actually makes me even more insecure. I think: God, most girls' dads probably don't lie awake at night worrying about them. There must be something really wrong with me. And then I cry. And then I buy a package of Eckrich Smok-y Links and eat them while watching What Not to Wear.

Anyway, he sat me down and started turning on the charm. And let me tell you, my dad is incredibly charming. If he weren't an actor/business owner, he would be a motivational speaker. If he were a super-hero, convincing people to do things would be his power. It doesn't matter what it is, if he tells you to do something, you will eventually want to do it. He'll say: "I know you really like the Bean and Bacon soup, Liz, but you have to try the Lemon Chicken Rice. You have to. It's a Greek classic!" And I'll say: "I don't know, Dad...lemon soup? That sounds gross. And I really like the Bean and Bacon." But somehow, when the waitress shows up, I order the Lemon Chicken Rice. And even though it is gross, there is still the sweet taste of having made my dad happy, if even for a moment.

So, he started smiling at me and telling me how funny I am and how well-spoken and determined I am. "I see you in kickboxing," he said. (We take kickboxing class together twice a week). "You never give up." It's not often that my dad showers me with such praise, so of course I humbly drank it all in. And then he got to the point: "So, you know, your mom and I watch The Biggest Loser every week. And we really like it. And...they're having auditions in Detroit! And I really want you to go. We really want you to go. We think you could get on and win!" Oh yeah--my mom was there too. But she was sleepily eating a beef quesadilla and half-watching Ghost Whisperer, so, it was kind of like she wasn't there.

I just sat there, staring at him, chuckling nervously. "You want me to go to an open casting call for The Biggest Loser?"

"Yes!" He beamed. "It would mean so much to me."

I said: "But I don't even know if I'm big enough." I know--typical fat-girl denial.

My mom suddenly turned her attention to me, eyebrows raised, mouth curled in a half-smirk, shooting me a look telling me that yes, I was definitely fat enough.

Like I said, my dad is good at convincing people to do things. So by the end of the conversation, I had not only shaken his hand and promised to go to the casting call, but I had begun to reassure him that this was truly what I wanted. "I want to be the biggest loser, Dad! I do! I want to! I can't wait to go try out." I didn't know where these words were coming from. I wasn't lying, but I did have the feeling I sometimes get when I'm giving a speech--where words are coming out of my mouth and I don't remember even thinking them.

Getting up at 5:30 a.m. and driving all alone in the frigid cold to a Gardner-White Furniture store in Macomb, I wasn't quite as enthusiastic as I had been when I agreed to all this. But, I had my "fat picture" (which for me is just, like, any picture of me) and I had my ten-page application (which asked questions like: How would someone who knows you well describe your worst qualities? Um...Overly sensitive, talks-too-much, fearful, etc.). I was all set.

After a minor mishap with Google Maps (if you call Google Maps telling me to go right when I actually needed to go left a minor mishap), I arrived at Gardner-White around 7 a.m. and saw an already enormous line snaking its way around the building. In case you were wondering, it looked a little something like this:

I was lucky enough to find a parking spot in the packed lot. So, I parked and filled up my little knapsack with my audition materials and the things I assumed would make waiting in line more bearable--my iPod, my Microbiology book (I had a test to study for), my phone, etc. Then I walked my sad, fat self to the end of the line, which was already way past Gardner-White and had extended onto the sidewalk in front of a neighboring cluster of condos. I hadn't been standing there for more than 2 minutes when I realized how little the things in my knapsack would make waiting in this line more bearable. For one thing, it was 9 degrees out. I hadn't even brought my scarf! I did have gloves, but they were the shitty $2 ones you buy at Target that get holes in them if you even think about touching something that might cause a snag. Luckily, though, I had pounds and pounds of disgusting body fat to keep me warm.

I looked around and noticed that other people had come much better prepared than I had. They had chairs, blankets, battery-operated heaters, mini-grills, hand-warmers, and grocery bags filled with food! I felt like I was standing on the grounds of a gypsy camp. I probably would have started feeling sorry for myself (I mean, that is my M.O.) if it weren't for my fantastic line-mates. Just after I got in line, I was joined by the jovial Noel, whose dad dropped her at the curb and who skipped right over and introduced herself to me. She has one of those personalities that puts you immediately at ease. She exudes warmth. It turns out Noel is an RN, and I'm studying to be an RN, so we had a lot to talk about. Soon after she arrived, Matt, a curly-haired 19-year-old Taco Bell employee who had recently lost his father to a massive heart attack, showed up.

As time ticked slowly by (and I do mean, slowly), I started to feel this wonderful camaraderie with everyone there. I knew I had almost no chance of getting on the show. I mean, sure, I'm fat. I have at least 100 pounds to lose. But there were people there that need this show a lot more than I do. Like Matt. His dad died of a heart attack at 50, and at 19, Matt is already headed down that path himself. Watching the show, your heart goes out to the contestants who all have stories like Matt's, but actually standing in line and looking into the faces of all these people who desperately want and need to lose weight is so much more poignant. It's sad, but it's also inspiring. I've had issues with weight my entire life, and with that, I've often felt completely alone. It was nice to see the tangible evidence that no--I'm not alone. There are thousands of people out there that are just as frustrated as I am with being overweight, and just as committed as I am to getting healthy.

We waited in the bitter cold for 9 hours straight. I was number 510 in line. When we finally got into Gardner-White, it was like finding water in the desert. I thought, I will never go outside again. Gardner-White was all warm and cozy and filled with lamps and couches (no, we weren't allowed to sit on them. Fat people ruin furniture, remember?). We had to wait another hour inside, but I would have stayed in there all night--that's how nice it was compared to the cold. When we finally got to the end of the line, my whole (huge, fat) body was abuzz with nerves. Was I actually about to go and meet with a casting director?

The way they do it at a Biggest Loser casting call is they usher you in in groups of ten. Then they sit you down at a table and a casting director goes around and asks everyone a couple of questions. My line-mates and I worked it out so that we would all be in the same group. It was me, Noel, Matt, another friend Lynda who we met later in the day (a venerable African American woman with the sweetest 11 year old daughter, Cameron. Lynda promised her an iPod for waiting patiently all day), and 6 other people I didn't know. We ran into the casting room cheering and clapping and jumping around, like basketball players running onto the court in front of hundreds of screaming fans. This was our moment.

Our casting director was an adorable 30-ish guy named Tad. He wore a Green Day T-shirt and a stylish porkpie hat. He started by telling us that he understands our plight, as he used to be over a hundred pounds overweight himself. Then he explained to us all about the show, and what would happen if we were cast--how long we'd have to be away from work, school, our families, etc., and a little bit about the two seasons they're casting for (attention Biggest Loser fans: I totally got the inside scoop). As a bona fide TV addict, I was thrilled just to be in the presence of a casting director and to get even the tiniest behind-the-scenes peek.

So: Tad went around the table, looking at everyone's pictures and making notes on everyone's applications. The questions he asked weren't probing. He would simply ask, "Does anyone in your immediate family have a weight issue?" or "So, you're a nursing student. Can you get time off of school?" Those were the questions he asked me. I tried to be as outgoing and smiley as I possibly could and to let my personality shine through (you know, the personality my dad convinced me was glowing enough to get me cast?), but that was hard to do in the less-than-2-minutes of time I had with Tad. He did say he liked the clip I used to attach my photos to my application (a tiny binder clip with a flower pattern, in case you were wondering) and I told him that it was my gift to him. He clipped it to his jeans pocket.

Matt, my line-mate, got misty-eyed before Tad even made it over to him. It was, I think, a combination of nerves and thinking about his dad, whose picture he had brought with him. I gave him a little side-hug, but I kept thinking: save the tears for Tad! Save the tears for Tad!

Ultimately, our time with Tad lasted only about 20 minutes. But it was a great 20 minutes. I thought my line-mates and I all did well representing ourselves, and we were told we'd know if we were going to get a callback within two hours. As we walked out of Gardner-White, it seemed impossible that the day was finally over. I was exhausted, sore, starving, and still half-frozen--but I was on top of the world. I hugged Matt, Noel, and Lynda goodbye and we all exchanged numbers. Then I got in my car and drove home, feeling more hopeful and happy than I have in months.

Alas, I did not get a callback. I don't know if any of my line-mates did, either. But I hope they did. And even though I'm probably not going to be on the Biggest Loser, I am inspired--and in the long run, that may be worth more than $250,000.

I Still Love You, Jason.

2009-03-03T15:58:00.003-05:00

I can't help it. I think I am falling love with Jason Mesnick. Even though he picked the girl I wanted him to pick and then promptly dumped her on national television, I still cried tears of joy when he asked runner-up Molly for a second chance and she said yes! I guess I just have a soft spot for single dads with skinny legs and nice teeth. Also: I gotta give mad props to The Bachelor producers for taking tense moments and making them even more awkward. For example: Jason finishes tearfully explaining to Melissa why they're "just not right for each other" and Melissa angrily whispers, "You are such a bastard," and then tactful host Chris Harrison pokes his head in with this helpful remark: "So just to be clear, Jason, you are officially ending things with Melissa tonight?" Um, yeah, Chris. That's what I don't want to be with you anymore means.

"My name is Harvey Milk, and I want to recruit you."

2009-03-01T20:22:00.005-05:00

I just wanted to say that I finally saw "Milk" today and it was FANTASTIC. I am so glad Sean Penn won Best Actor for it. He was amazing, and Harvey Milk is my new hero. If you haven't seen it, please go see it today. Cut school, cut work, don't study, don't go to the gym, don't go grocery shopping, don't do the laundry, don't walk the dog--just go see Milk. I guarantee, you'll be inspired.

Fat Tuesday and other Guilty Pleasures

2009-02-24T18:51:00.003-05:00

So today was Fat Tuesday. Also: I've decided that tomorrow will be Fat Wednesday, and Thursday will be Fat Thursday. Oh what the hay, I might as well declare March "Fat Month." Or maybe I should just chuck all my healthful, good intentions right now and designate 2009 "Fat Year." Oh wait...that was 2008...and 2007. I'm a FPOS (Fat Piece Of Shit) and I know it, but it's nice to have a day where I'm actually supposed to eat my weight in marshmallows. And lord knows, I always do what I'm told.

I decided to make today all about guilty pleasures. So I put Ashlee Simpson's "Autobiography" on repeat, gave myself a full hour to just sit and think about Dawson's Creek, watched "The Firm" starring Tom Cruise (whose erratic public behavior the past few years and Scientology-Matt-Lauer-Brook-Shields-I-live-on-a-compound craziness has forced me to relegate him to my list of guilty pleasures), and spent a good forty-five minutes researching "new ways" to solve the Rubik's Cube online.

I'm sure you all know that my biggest guilty pleasure is food--namely chocolate candy, white cake with white icing (I'm a cake racist), anything with a cream center, hamburgers with mayonnaise and ketchup, cheese pizza, Doritos, Cherry Coke, and movie theater popcorn--all of which have led me to the current state of hypertensivity that I now enjoy. According to my nutrition textbook (I'm currently taking an online nutrition class for my nursing prerequisites), I should be following a diet called DASH. Don't you just love acronyms? I do. Add acronyms to my list of guilty pleasures. I'm out of the acronym-loving closet. Stone me, I don't care. I fucking love acronyms. Anyway, DASH stands for Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension and it involves eating a lot of (guess what?) fruits, vegetables, and low-fat dairy products (This means you, plain yogurt)! I was pretty sure the diet plan was going to be more like, pizza pizza broccoli hamburger apple hoagie croissant double fish filet eclair orange...but I'm wrong all the time.

But why rely on someone else's old, dirty, used-up acronym when I can make up my own? So, I have. Forsaking "Fat Year," (head hung and heart heavy, mind you) I've come up with my very own diet-plan acronym! Drumroll please. It is: DETS. As in, I've got a DETS to society. As in: I've eaten so much junk food during my 26 years on God's green Earth that I have probably personally contributed to the starvation of little 12-year-old Babatunde in Africa, and now I need to repay my DETS to society. Because, I can't stop at just one Cadbury Creme Egg. For every four Cadbury Creme Eggs I eat, that's one less Cadbury Creme Egg for Babatunde. I'm sure you're dying to know...what does DETS stand for?

It stands for: Don't Eat That Shit

So now, whenever my cart at Big Lots is loaded with Planter's Cheez Balls, Funyuns, Rolos, and Storck Chocolate Riesen, I think to myself DETS and I throw something back. This whole "DETS" idea is bound to keep me thin (my goal is to be as thin (and as awesome) as Mary-Kate Olsen by 2010!) and my conscience clear!!

I hope that every once in a while, you let yourself enjoy a guilty pleasure, especially if it is a white chocolate Kit-Kat bar. Those are unbelievable. But, if you're ever in the mood to be healthy, just say to yourself: DETS! I haven't tried it yet, but I'm pretty sure it works like crazy.

**Please click the links in this post. They're hilarious. Let me just say...a hotline for Planter's Cheez Ball info? That is priceless, and also necessary. I think all Cheez-flavored snack foods should have their own hotline. And I'd like to be the one who mans the phones. And: they really don't make commercials like they used to. What? Astronauts eat Rolos? You had me at chocolate-covered caramel. No need to oversell. And: check out the shorts on the Storck Chocolate Riesen kid. You're laughing, but next spring I guarantee Garrett Neff is wearing those at Fashion Week. Also: I'm pretty sure what the Storck Chocolate Riesen commercial is really saying is this: if you eat Storck Chocolate Riesen, you will grow up to be a creepy pedophile who also leers at old ladies.

"You commie, homo-loving sons of guns!"

2009-02-23T16:22:00.003-05:00

Finally, my sedentary lifestyle is beginning to pay off!! Yesterday, I went to the movies with my parents, as is our Sunday afternoon ritual. We saw that raucous new cheerleader comedy (nothing like a cheerleader comedy to warm you up on a blustery February afternoon) Fired Up, starring Eric Christian Olsen and Nicholas D'Agosto (otherwise known as "West" from Season 2 of Heroes).

As we were standing in line to buy our tickets, I noticed a stack of papers that appeared to be fake-o Oscar ballots! Now, I know I'm not a member of the Academy (yet) (btw--"The Academy"--good name for a horror movie starring Judi Dench as the evil head-mistress), but I do so love filling out my very own Oscar ballot and seeing how many I get right! So of course, I snatched one right up. And only then did I realize that my very own Lapeer Cinemas was hosting a contest!! AS IN: fill out this ballot, turn it in before 5 pm Oscar Sunday, and the person who gets the most right wins 8 free movie passes. Seeing as how all I do is lay in bed and watch movies, and when I'm not doing that all I do is go on IMDB to research movies, and when I'm not doing that all I do is drive to Royal Oak so I can see "Rachael Getting Married" because God forbid it come to Lapeer--I know a lot about movies. I thought, I've got this competition LOCKED UP.

But then I looked at the ballot. There were 15 categories, including some rather challenging ones, like Best Foreign Language Film, Achievement in Visual Effects, Achievement in Cinematography, Achievement in Costume Design, etc., etc., along with the biggies (Best Picture, Best Actor/Actress, Supporting Actor/Actress, Best Director). They didn't show Best Documentary Feature any love. What gives, Lapeer Cinemas? That's one of my favorite categories. So anyway, I filled out my ballot and nervously slipped it into the ballot box. Watching the Oscars last night, I was like a gambling junkie at the race track. I was sweating and pacing and making promises to God. Because, not only were 8 free movie passes on the line--so was my pride. To my utter delight, I got 13 out of the fifteen categories right--including all of the really hard ones! "Hell yes!" I screamed aloud in my room when they announced "Departures" out of Japan as the winner of Best Foreign Language Film. "Hoo-rah!" I screamed when they announced "The Duchess" as winner in the Costume Design category. And because I know you're all wondering which ones I got wrong, I'll indulge you. Best Actor (Wtf, Academy? It was supposed to be Mickey Rourke!) and Best Original Screenplay (I picked "Frozen River"--maybe because I haven't seen "Milk" yet (Damn you Lapeer Cinemas for keeping "Hotel for Dogs" around for 6 consecutive weeks!)). So I got 13 out of 15 correct. Not too shabby, I thought. But would it be enough to win me the tickets? I didn't know.

Then...around 2 pm today I got a call from a Lapeer number that I didn't recognize! My stomach flipped. "Hello?" I said eagerly. "Hello, is this Liz Abruzzo?" a young woman (with complete and utter adoration in her voice) said. "Yes!" I screamed. "This is so-and-so"--I can't be bothered to remember peoples' names--"from Lapeer Cinemas and I'm calling to inform you that you won first prize in our Oscar Predictions Contest. You got 13 out of 15 categories correct." I sat in an amazed, elated silence. "Thank you!" I shouted into the phone. "You can come and pick up your prize of 8 free movie passes any time." After excitedly assuring her that I'd be right there, I hung up the phone and proceeded to race up and down the length of the loft apartment that I share with my parents, squealing and jumping around so much that I scared the cats.

It was like a dream.

8. Free. Movie. Tickets.

...And my pride.

I'd just like to thank all the people that have helped me make this dream come true: my parents for always allowing me to watch whatever I want, even Child's Play when I was six, my sister Gina, for helping me to bring one of my favorite characters ("Mother") to life in one of our own movies, Kate Bauer for sharing with me the love of ALL movies, not just the critically acclaimed ones (This means you, "Dante's Peak"), and all my devoted blog readers, without whom many of my movie-related rants and raves would go unheard. Thank you all! And also: DAAAANG...these free movie passes are heavier than they look!

Sunday, sunday, sunday

2009-02-22T17:58:00.002-05:00

I probably should have done this a month or two ago, but today I'm prepared to write a list of resolutions. There is so much wrong with me that I need to fix, and I'm pretty sure that resolutions are the way to do that. Or maybe resolutions paired with intensive therapy and an open-ended course of anti-psychotic drugs.

I resolve to:

1. Go to baseball games this summer, hopefully with friends.

2. Make friends.

3. Stop being insecure around and afraid of people that I don't even like.

4. Buy a big canvas, I mean BIG, and paint some crazy abstract painting on it this summer. I will paint on my roof, because that is the perfect place to do it, and because we don't have a yard.

5. Stop feeling sorry for myself because we don't have a yard.

6. Learn to sail.

7. Go on a cool trip.

8. Actually start doing the things that I think about doing, that I want to do, like learn to sail and go on a cool trip.

My Morning

2009-02-18T17:09:00.003-05:00

Woke up.

Opened my mouth wide to see if I could make my ear pop.

Turned on the shower.

While waiting for the shower to heat up, squirted warm water into my ear.

Got in the shower.

Knocked over my shampoo bottle and wondered, not for the first time, why the shampoo bottle is so much larger than the conditioner in this shampoo/conditioner set.

Got out of the shower.

Accidentally knocked my bra into the toilet, which I guess serves me right, since I left my fresh clothes for the day precariously perched atop the toilet tank.

Frustratedly put my pajama top back on, so I could go back to my room to get a new bra.

Returned to bathroom.

Dressed.

Went to kitchen, and looked nervously around for my mom, hoping not to run into her.

Put a bagel in the toaster.

Returned to bathroom.

Put my hair back.

Put on minimal amounts of makeup.

Returned to toaster.

Put Chive-flavored cream cheese on my everything bagel.

Got water from our awesome water cooler (it cools! it heats! it looks neat!)

Remembered that we have orange juice.

Silently bemoaned the fact that I already filled a cup with cold water when what I really wanted was orange juice.

Considered carrying two beverages into my room, before deciding against that ridiculous display of decadence.

Ate breakfast while watching the Real Housewives of Orange County season finale.

Thought to myself that if I wanted to blog about everything that annoys me about the RHOC, I would literally have to take notes while watching.

Threw up onto my cat when Tamra said that Slade "looked like a homo" because he was wearing white thong sandals!

Decided to become a cutter when Vicki bragged to numerous party guests (the RHOC were at a swanky end-of-the-season soiree) that she bought herself a Rolex and then added this aside: "I felt a little odd showing people a gift I bought myself. I didn't want to be saying, 'Look! I bought myself a Rolex because my husband can't do it!'"

Finally ripped myself away from the RHOC, comforting myself with the knowledge that when I got home from school I'd have episode 1 of season 2 of the Real Housewives of New York City to enjoy!

Go ahead and judge me, but watching the Real Housewives is kind of like being able to stare at a person with a goiter without feeling guilty or impolite.

The Wrath of Mom

2009-02-17T15:46:00.004-05:00

...And the string of bad things happening to me lately continues. So: this morning, I go out to the kitchen to get some breakfast--a bowl of cereal, an orange, and an apple. I like to eat a big breakfast, in the hopes that it will stop me from eating mass quantities of marshmallow peeps later in the day.

I see my mom standing there. I say, "Good morning, Mom." She says, "So your dad was sick last night. I think he got the same thing you had. Now I'm worried I'll get it!" You should have seen the panic in her eyes. I said, "Well, if you don't feel sick, then you're probably not sick. It hits you pretty fast, at least it did with me." And I went about making my breakfast. As I poured milk on my cereal I said, "If you're worried about it, you could just not eat anything, because then you wouldn't have anything to throw up." I thought it was a smashing plan. Then she started angrily emptying the dish rack, slamming plates and cups noisily into the cupboards, and she said, "Well I am going to eat because I'm hungry! I'm going to have a bagel!"

I decided it would be a good time for me to leave. You see, my mom is often in a really, really bad mood in the morning. Yep. Pretty much every morning, I awaken to the sounds of her furiously slamming the washing machine lid or berating one of our cats for peeing on the bathroom scale. I know better than to get in her face about this behavior, as her bad mood has usually passed by the time I see her again later in the day.

But then I had to go back to the kitchen for a napkin... I walk in to find her heaving my empty milk carton and empty box of cereal onto the hardwood floor. You see, I had used up the last of the milk and the last of the cereal, so I left the empty box and the empty carton sitting on the counter as a reminder to myself to take them out to the trash. Emptying the trash in this household is a major point of contention, as we have only two very small trash receptacles, which fill up very quickly and need to be emptied pretty much every day. My mom always ends up emptying them (only because she makes a point to do it everyday! Not because we force her at gunpoint), so I guess she gets secretly mad at my dad and I for never doing it and then she lets her anger build up to the point of...throwing things.

Needless to say, we had a confrontation. Things were said. And now I feel sick to my stomach.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2009-02-16T18:53:00.003-05:00

Hello you! Hello you wonderful Humane Egoist blog readers, you! I hope you're having a good day so far. I hope you woke up, took a lovely bath (complete with lavender bath salts and wilted rose petals), read two chapters of your favorite book, had some skillfully prepared Eggs Benedict and a mug of hot cocoa, said your daily affirmations, and dressed in a silk pantsuit (boy or girl--doesn't matter--a silk pantsuit always works!).

If you had a morning that went more like this: got up, peed, took a quick shower, looked at naked self in mirror and shuddered at/silently berated self for wrinkles, fat rolls, blemishes, skin discoloration, or other deformities, ate a Toaster Strudel on which the icing that you not-so-deftly applied to it looked nothing like the picture on the box, dressed in fraying jeans you bought at Wal-Mart, stepped in an icy puddle while walking to your car, spent 15 minutes scraping ice off of your car even though you had convinced yourself that this morning was definitely warm enough for there to not be ice on your car (spring is here! you convinced yourself, until you walked outside and realized that no, spring is not here. Father Winter's icy fingers are still wrapped tightly around your world, or at least your car), and sped away while wondering if that tiny brown freckle on your left index finger is melanoma, then your morning was much closer to mine. Well...minus the Toaster Strudel. My parents don't allow me to eat Toaster Strudel. I only wish I was allowed to eat Toaster Strudel.

I hope you all have been well since I last posted! I, sadly, have not been well. I had an ear infection. I had to go to a walk-in clinic. A doctor squeezed my armpits. A nurse told me my blood pressure was high. She tried to be nice and blame it on the BP cuff, but I know it's me. My car wouldn't start. My dad got it to start by popping the clutch. I said, "I'd like for someone other than you to tell me the car is ok." He said, "So now you're afraid to drive it!" He's scary when he shouts. He said, "Every time it won't start, just pop the clutch!" But I don't want to have to do that. Because you have to get the car rolling in order for that to work, and then jump in real quick and pop the clutch, and I feel that people would point and laugh if I was attempting to get my car rolling in the Genesys Regional Medical Center parking lot. I can't handle that kind of stress. I would get all sweaty. On Friday (the 13th), My Dad and I tried to go see Friday the 13th, but it was sold out. We had to see "Taken" with Liam Neeson instead, and on top of that, we walked in 20 minutes late and when we sat down, the couple that was sitting in our little 6-seat row (read: two empty seats between us and them) got up and moved away to the second row of the theater, which is (and I think we can all agree on this) not an ideal spot to sit, so they must have been really offended by our presence. On Valentine's night, I sat around in the dark feeling sorry for myself, even though that is a total cliche. Then I thought, I'll make myself feel better by cooking a really nice dinner. Then I got food poisoning. Or, it wasn't food poisoning, but it was some sort of flu bug that hit me all at once. It made me so sick that I threw up 6 times. Then I went to sleep. I slept for five hours straight, which made me happy because by the time I woke up I didn't feel sick anymore, but sad because I'd been planning to spend the day watching old episodes of Six Feet Under, as they are the only thing that make me happy of late...old episodes of Six Feet Under and Toaster Strudel, that is.

Comedy

2009-02-10T19:10:00.000-05:00

I have an ear infection. SO: you guys get a funny video.

Demetri Martin Stand Up Presentation from Demetri Martin

Movie Trailer Magic

2009-02-08T11:52:00.005-05:00

Hello and welcome to the latest installment of....MOVIE. TRAILER. MAGIC!!!! I've been sifting through trailers all morning and here are three that I think look pretty good. I've posted the ones that were available in HD in HD, so you may want to give your compy a little time to load up (Compy = computer (I like to shorten words that don't really need to be shortened, because I think it makes me sound cool...and well, I really need to feel cool sometimes because I'm incredibly insecure)) I think that extra loading time, by the way, is totally worth it.

So. Trailer # 1. "Sunshine Cleaning." It was produced by the same team who brought us "Little Miss Sunshine," which kind of leaves me wondering...can they make a movie that doesn't have 'Sunshine' in the title? Is that like...their 'thing'? But that's all beside the point. Steve Zahn. Need. I. Say. More.

Ok, Trailer # 2. "17 Again." Don't make fun of me for this one. I love movies where people go back in time and get to live part of their life over again. Or...movies where people wake up and suddenly their life is totally different, a la "The Family Man" or "Mr. Destiny." And they always realize whatever it is they're supposed to realize...and along the way we have some laughs. With this one, I find it a tiny bit hard to believe that Zac Efron grew up to be Matthew Perry. I'm just saying. I also love movies about people awkwardly trying to fit in in high school. You know, like "Carrie"? I get the feeling this movie is going to be a lot like "Carrie."

Trailer # 3. "The Last House on the Left." Oooooh. Yesssss. I love scary movies that don't involve angry earthbound spirits or videos that make you die when you watch them or washing machines that suddenly turn on for no reason and then when you lift the lid, there's a corpse inside. This is one of those movies that sort of dances along the border of horror and thriller. I love movies where people that you initially think are kind and wonderful and "wouldn't hurt a fly" turn out to be a little sadistic when it comes to fighting for their life and the lives of their family members. Plus, honestly, I would go see this movie for the title alone. It's a remake, though, so hopefully it can live up to the splendor of the original. One more thing: scenes of horror and tragedy set to the mournful sounds of a classic rock song as sung by a sad-eyed girl = movie trailer magic.

Gypsy

2009-02-06T23:45:00.002-05:00

I wanted to write something cool this week. But then nothing cool happened. Usually something cool happens to me at least once a week. So, instead, I'll just tell you guys about all the strange or pseudo-interesting things I thought about or saw this week:

1. This isn't strange. I wish it was strange because then it wouldn't be common, but unfortunately it is (common). I went grocery shopping today, as I do about every other week or so. By the way: I've become the girl who grocery shops in dirty $7 imitation winterized Crocs and sweatpants. Don't you hate when you're shopping and there's a really annoying person standing directly in front of the thing that you want to grab? It's like, how the fuck long can someone look at toilet paper? This woman was just standing there today, with like this tortured expression, like it was Sophie's choice. So I just kind of stood near her, waiting and moving my cart around and picking random things up and then setting them back on the shelf. So anyway, she finally moves and I grab my toilet paper (after I agonized over which brand to buy for about twenty minutes...turns out it IS a tough decision) and then I headed over into the next aisle. And who do I see? Annoying standing-right-in-front-of-the-thing-I-want-lady, again! Don't you hate when you keep seeing the same annoying strangers when you're grocery shopping? It's like, ok, I ran over your toes in Dairy, then two aisles over you made an awkward comment about wanting to "try" olive oil (and I thought you were joking, because what kind of person has never tried olive oil? But it turns out you weren't joking, because you're weird, which I should've known since I've been grocery shopping before and I should know by now that everyone but me at the grocery store is weird), and now here you are again in Meats. Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me.

2. I bought the Fleet Foxes album off of iTunes on a friend's recommendation. I listened to it while driving to and from EMT class in Flint. I love it. Fleet Foxes...they're like a slightly more sinister Beach Boys, like if the Beach Boys were singing in an all white room or the middle of the desert. It reminds me of bedrooms with shag carpeting and lone trees in fields and cold stone statues and boys riding bicycles at night and bonfires and stained-glass windows and rock quarries and pick-up trucks and wind on my face and everything else good in the world.

3. I had to drive to Genesys Health Park this week to pick up my ID badge. I'd never been there before. It was pretty cool, more like a giant mall than a hospital. In fact, it was a lot like a mall, because every mall I've ever been to has been filled with people who look half dead.

25 of the Randomest Things About Me EVER!

2009-02-01T20:54:00.000-05:00

1. I love slasher movies. I also love zombies. A small part of me honestly believes that someday I'll be tested. Like maybe I'll be changing a light bulb in a leaky basement, in my bare feet and a slip, and someone will step from the shadows wearing masonry boots and a gas mask and carrying a long, rusty scythe. Could happen. Or, if the end of the world IS ever going to happen (like maybe in about 4 years, that's what I'm thinking) I think it honestly might be death by zombie for most of you. Not me, of course, because I'm ready.

2. Speaking of the end of the world, when I was in 10th grade (around the time ‘Armageddon’ and ‘Deep Impact’ were released), I was pretty much convinced to the point of not being able to sleep at night that there was a huge asteroid headed Earth's way. I kind of still think there's an asteroid coming, and I'm pretty sure its got zombies on it.

3. When I can't sleep at night, instead of counting sheep (which I think is a ridiculous thing to do, since I only count when I have to…NEVER for fun), I try to remember the order in which people won Head of Household on the latest season of Big Brother. That's fine. Go ahead and judge me.

4. I've begun to take baths instead of showers lately. There's something about sitting in a puddle of my own filth that's so RELAXING! No, but for real: sometimes I'll put my head under water and I'll close my eyes and I'll start to think really calming thoughts....like about a half-fawn, half-man frolicking in a field of daisies...but then I'll think, "What if there's a man standing over me with a knife right now (or a scythe) and I wouldn't know it because I've stupidly got my head under water?" And then I think, "Man, toffee is delicious."

5. It bothers me that in my last "random thing" I had to put my thoughts in quotes. I realize that quotes mean SPOKEN words, but Facebook doesn't have italics. Actually, Facebook DOES have italics, but it's this whole complicated process where I have to put things in brackets and who the fuck has time for that? Ok: I'm picky about things like grammar and formatting. I always, always proofread my emails and look up correct spellings.

6. I think Gizmo from 'Gremlins' is the most wonderful and adorable little creature, and it genuinely bothers me when people call Gizmo a gremlin. Gizmo is a MOGWAI. He only turns into a gremlin if you get him wet, feed him after midnight, or expose him to bright lights! It's not rocket-science.

7. If I could, I would build a giant Cadbury Cream Egg around myself and eat my way out.

8. You know how sometimes when you're lying on your bed about to eat a heaping bowl of Apple Jacks and watch the latest episode of Real World/Road Rules Challenge, you'll take the first bite and realize that whoever washed this spoon didn't wash the soap all way off? I really hate that. And now, I have soap paranoia. I'll be drinking hot chocolate out of my favorite mug and I'll think, "Was that white chocolate cocoa with SOAP undertones I just tasted?" And then I'll take another sip and I'll be like, "Naw!" But then I'll think, "Did I taste soap?" And then I'll think, "No, I didn't." And then I'll think, "Did I?" It's like when people get one of their legs cut off, but they still feel like they've got two legs. Yep, that's exactly what it's like.

9. I lived in Chicago for five years, and sometimes I feel like half of me is still there. Like my torso, and one of my arms and legs and half my head. No, but seriously: my years in Chicago were fan-freaking-tastic, mostly because that's where I got to witness Kate Bauer asking our hapless waitress at Clark's (while pointing to an old, clunky ATM machine), "Hey, does that bad boy work?" I plan to be back there (in Chicago, and also at Clark's--they've got delicious cheese fries and Kansas City Steak soup!) soon.

10. I love going to movies by myself. I mean, I love going with people too. No! No! Don't touch me. Ok, I'm calm now. There's just something about being in a big (and preferably empty) theater on, like, a Wednesday afternoon (I'm also a fan of not having a job) and watching some movie that changes your life, while eating the biggest tub of popcorn they sell, doused with the most imitation butter imaginable. I've seen countless movies alone, but only once have I gotten the theater completely to myself--when I was 18, at the Kalamazoo 10, for the movie "Duets" starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Scott Speedman.

11. I've often thought that I shouldn't allow myself to listen to music while driving long distances, only because I have a tendency to relive my entire life in my head and, like, plan what people should say at my funeral.

12. I'm not afraid to cry in public. I've done it many times. That's something you find yourself doing more often when you live in a city, because it's harder to find places without people...and I'm totally the kind of person who bursts into tears without much warning. There was a period in my life when I would try to plan for tears: like, 1 o'clock: Fundamental Math Class, 2 o'clock: Lunch at Gourmand, 3:15 o' clock: Cry my eyes out while beating my fists against a feather pillow. But sticking to a schedule always SOUNDS easier than it actually is.

13. I take a kickboxing class. And even though I know I'm not supposed to, I secretly really want to beat someone to a pulp. Like a stranger, probably. Like...I don't know...maybe this older woman I saw at Kroger the other day buying an ice cream cake. I don’t know…I probably won't.

14. Just in case you really don't know me that well, you can't take a lot of what I say seriously. Or I guess you CAN if you want to, but you probably shouldn't, because I'm a jokester. Once, I had my mom call my sister Gina and ask her to get her coat out of the closet, and then I hid in the closet and waited for Gina to come for the coat so I could jump out and scare her. It took her about 45 minutes to finally show up, but the look of pure shock and horror on her face made the wait totally worth it. If you ever live with me, be warned: I may do something like this to you.

15. When I was living in university housing at Columbia College, my roommates and I had a two year-long game going in which we hid a disembodied mannequin hand around our apartment. We'd find it in the freezer, the shower, shoved between the mattress and box-spring of one of our beds, or hanging precariously from a light-bulb cord.

16. I love riding my bicycle. Once, when I was living in Chicago, I rode around downtown late at night and it was totally deserted. It felt a lot like the opening scene of '28 Days Later.' In fact, that's how I caught this weird disease where my flesh started falling off my body and I turned into a rabid cannibal. That's also how I learned that Aspirin truly is a wonder drug.

17. Once, for about a month, I was the proud owner of a duckling. There is nothing more satisfying than falling asleep with a fuzzy little duckling nuzzled against your cheek. Also: duck meat is delicious.

18. Sometimes I feel like one of those people on a TV show that have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Except instead of an angel and a devil, I have a girl who really wants to travel the whole world and sleep on beaches in Greece and touch baby chimps in Central Africa on one shoulder and a girl who wants to stay close to home and surround herself with family on the other shoulder. And...both girls are me. I know, man. It's deep. Also: one girl has long hair and the other girl has a jaunty bob.

19. I think a great idea is a "Decades" theme park, where instead of, like, getting to experience the magic that is Donald Duck's tug-boat, you would get to go and walk around a city block that is made to feel like you've stepped inside the 50s or 60s! It would be authentic and mind-blowing. And honestly, I'm pretty sure this is as close to time travel as we're ever going to get.

20. I have an arch enemy, and its name is: centipede bug. They follow me wherever I go. If someone told me I would never again fling back the shower curtain and be greeted by a 30-legged brown-bodied insect that crawled up through my tub drain in the night or that I would never again turn on a light only to have my heart jump into my throat at the sight of a centipede bug crawling up my wall or across the floor of my room, I would be a happy woman.

21. It doesn't gross me out that much to find a hair in my food. But, I debated whether or not to leave this random fact on the list because I think that other people will read it and think I'm disgusting. Look, it's not like I LIKE finding hair in my food, but if I find a single hair in my food (as long as it's not a really gross looking hair...I think you all probably know what I mean by that), I'll probably just pick it out and maybe get rid of the bite of food that was right close to the hair and then go about my business.

22. Gina-bo-beana, my wonderful sister, is just about the best girl on Earth. I like to tell her that she is a "frail little woman," because it makes her laugh and because she IS pretty tiny. I can pick her up. I think she would make a swell-looking garden gnome. But I would also be sad if she got turned to stone and stowed away in someone's garden because then I wouldn't be able to talk to her anymore. I would be able to look at her and douse her with water whenever I wanted without her being able to yell at me for it...and sure, that's fun for a month or two...but then I would really start to miss my sissa. Sissa is a fun word to say. So is sausage...if you pronounce it: "Sow-sage." It's not fun to say if you say it the regular way. But anway: I love you, Gina. Thanks for being the best sister on Earth. You inspire me and everyone around you more than you know.

23. I'm pretty sure if I looked long and hard, I could find you some parents that named their baby Frosting. And frosting is delicious, so I'm glad somebody decided to do what I'm sure many, many people have considered over the years. I've been thinking lately that when I get a puppy, I'm going to name it Huck. Or: Funyun. You know, like the totally delicious onion-flavored corn snack?

24. I've never been ice-fishing, but I think there is something poetic about it. Only if you do it at night, though--a cloudless night with lots of stars--and only if you listen to old-fashioned music on a portable radio, music like "I'll Be Seeing You" as sung by Billie Holiday. And, only if you light your fishing hut by an old-fashioned oil lantern. And only if you and your fishing buddy are the only ones out on the ice, and only if the only sounds you hear are your own voices and the crackling of the radio and the squeaking of your boots against the ice and the snapping of your fishing lines when you get a bite. Or, I don't know...you could just play Wii Ice Fishing.

25. I think I'm a little bit psychic. Or maybe I just wish I was. One time, in a poetry class at Western, this girl was reading a poem about a dead dog and I was thinking to myself, "She's gonna cry," and then she DID! I mean, it IS really sad when a dog dies. I get that. But when Funyun dies, I think I'm just going to throw a party in his honor. Also: I totally believe in that thing where if you think about something a lot, it will come to you. Because once, I thought about how much I wanted a cheese quesadilla from Gourmand, and then later I went and bought one.

To anyone who read this entire thing: Wow, thanks! You must really like me. Or maybe now that you've read this, you don't like me and are actually considering placing a concerned call to my parents. Either way, thanks a million. I've enjoyed writing this.

Monkey Poo

2009-01-31T18:03:00.004-05:00

Ok, I'm officially a drama queen. I got an A on that test that I was freaking out about. I guess I'll never learn. Since I do this EVERY time I take a test. And now, I'm sick. And, it's the kind of sick where I'll wake up in the middle of the night and I'll be like, how come my mom never hugs me anymore? What year is it? Where is my cat?! I haven't seen my cat in weeks! And then the next morning, I'll see Jack (my cat--the one who still has his whole tail) and I'll be like...oh...there he is. It's awful. Supposedly, tea with honey helps. So, I've started an IV of mint tea with honey. But I'm still sick as fuck. What's up, God? What is up with that?

This week at EMT class, we learned how to put people on backboards and carry them around. Now I have a strong desire to spider-strap strangers that I see at the market to a long, stiff board. And, I bought a blood pressure cuff so that I can practice. Except I take my own BP so often that I now have little bruises on my arms. It's just I'm so competitive. I'm like, 140! This can't be right.

Since I'm not feeling so well, I thought I'd end this blog early and go eat a sandwich to cheer myself up and probably some of you (if you need cheering, that is, which I hope you don't, but if you do, eat your own sandwich. And if that doesn't work: eat a cheeseburger. If that doesn't work, I suggest taking a samba class. If that doesn't work, go roller skating. If that doesn't work, ride a camel at a water park. If that doesn't work, there's something really wrong with you).

Test Anxiety

2009-01-29T13:02:00.005-05:00

Ugh. I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Because I just took a test. And even though I usually do well on tests, I always, always, always, feel like I didn't do well. But what's with people who get an 80 question test and are done in 15 minutes? I don't even think I could read all the questions in fifteen minutes, let alone obsess over them and go into a cold sweat, as is my ritual. God, I hate tests. And, I hate that I hate them. Why can't I be one of those carefree people who comes in on test day with, like, a strawberry cream cheese bagel in my hand and sit and eat while I chatter with my friends about tonight's sure-to-be-fantastic episode of Grey's Anatomy? Why must I be the girl who insists on getting to school at least an hour early so I can study more--the girl who races to her car after she's turned in her exam only to sit there for twenty minutes checking answers? I am in a self-made prison, a prison of power-point lecture notes and critical thinking crossword puzzles and the 206 bones in the body and blood pressure cuffs and rumors about bad teachers and about the unlikelihood of ever getting into the nursing program and my own fears of what will happen if I don't get in and what am I going to do if that happens and what a waste and oh my god and I think I better stop at McDonalds so I can drown my sorrows in a 10 piece nugget and I'm getting fatter and my dad doesn't like me anymore and I'm ashamed of myself.

But don't worry about me. This will pass. I'm pretty sure I got a B, anyway. ...At least a B. I mean, hopefully a B. Dear God, please let it be a B (or better)!

No one saw this coming

2009-01-23T09:50:00.006-05:00

My cat, whose name is Giuseppe, but who we all refer to as "big kitty" went to the vet yesterday. He's had this disgusting growth on his tail for quite some time now. Here's a sample of many conversations I've had with my mom since I discovered the growth over a year ago:

Me: Hey mom, when I pet big kitty's tail, I feel this disgusting knobby thing near the middle of it. It feels like he got his tail slammed in a door and now his tail is swelling up.

My Mom: Oh, that's nothing. You're crazy. There's nothing there.

This conversation probably happened 30 or so times over the past year. And then on Wednesday, my mom says, all self-righteous:

"I'm sure I'm the only one who cares enough to have noticed, but big kitty has a growth on his tail. He needs medical attention, so I'm taking him to the vet tomorrow."

But, the sad news is that big kitty went to the vet and it turns out that they have to cut his tail off! Next Thursday is the big day.

He has no idea...

"...So I guess this means I'm out of the book club."

2009-01-21T15:40:00.007-05:00

Tonight, Lost is back. I've seen every episode since the premiere and I plan to stick with it until the bitter end. Is it bad that these days my happiness is determined solely by how many things I've got set up to tape on my DVR? I don't think so. I think it's regular. On the schedule for tonight:

1. Lost. I'm still debating whether or not to tape the hour long last season re-cap lead-in show. I have, after all, been studying my Lost flash cards and playing my homemade Lost board game ever since the season 4 finale.

2. Top Chef: New York. Tonight, not only do I get to see some bad ass chefing, restaurant-wars-style--I also get to see the inaugural Top Chef hookup! And this one is juicy, because the two that make out both have significant others at home! Don't you just love watching people's lives crash down around them?

3. The New Adventures of Old Christine. The title of tonight's episode is "What Happens in Vegas is Disgusting in Vegas." What's that smell? Oh yeah, it's hi-jinks.

4. The Real World: Brooklyn. This season's cast are so...mature. One of them is even a dolphin trainer! A dolphin trainer with a huge penis...as the main focus of last week's episode was a flare-up between virgin Mormon Chet and his obsession with JD's magnum-sized condoms. The mystery remains: who put the condom-clad banana in the fish tank? Like I said: mature.

5. Criminal Minds.

Spencer Reid is my ideal man.

That's the way I like it.

2009-01-20T12:16:00.003-05:00

Reasons I am happy today:

New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president.

Oh! And: I heard Lapeer is getting a Sonic.

Just take a deep breath

2009-01-18T18:21:00.002-05:00

Sometimes when I act like a brat or a jerk, I have this thought: someday, this person (that I'm being a jerk to, or acting like a brat around) is going to be dead or they're going to have cancer or have something terrible happen to them and I will be sorry I was such a jerk. It makes me feel guilty--for being a jerk, for thinking about them dying, for failing at my daily resolution to be a better person--but it doesn't make me stop. Why? Why can't I stop having opinions about things, or why can't I keep my opinions to myself? Why, when someone is gushing about a movie we just saw do I have to rain on their parade by saying, "yeah, it was alright"? All I know is that I probably shouldn't be allowed out of the house on Sundays. And I probably should not go to packed movies, where some stranger sits right next to me when there are clearly other seats available. And I probably should not be forced to listen to said stranger talking loudly and saying "awww...oh no!" every time the kid on screen gets electrocuted or beaten up. I probably should not put myself in situations like these, because inevitably I wind up walking through a dirty parking lot at dusk in the middle of winter, watching the sun set over Steak n' Shake and thinking about the little girl I saw in the mall, the lost little girl with no shoes on and a face red from crying and the frantic lady in scrubs trying to help her find her mommy. And for some reason, I feel pretty sad, but instead of just being sad, or just keeping my mouth shut, which is what I ought to do, I'm just a jerk. And then I think: someday the person I'm being a jerk to is going to die and I'm going to regret my bad behavior. And then I feel guilty.

A few of my favorite things about winter...

2009-01-17T16:34:00.003-05:00

When the outside and the inside of your car gets iced up, so you have to scrape while you drive just to be able to see. I love that.

Always having wet feet is a plus.

Salty-pants. I just think they look better.

The possibility that if you forget your gloves, you may have to have a finger amputated. Gives me a rush...

Never seeing the sun.

You are MY Golden Globe winner, Dexter.

2009-01-12T00:32:00.004-05:00

I think the title says it all. Michael C. Hall is perfect. Dexter, the TV show, is perfect. Dexter, the character, is perfect. And the Hollywood Foreign Press have their heads up their asses.

Why I Want to be Just Like Mary-Kate Olsen: A High School Graduation Speech as given by Head Cheerleader Joleen McQueen

2009-01-12T00:23:00.002-05:00

Hey you guys! First off, I’d just like to say ‘we did it!’ Yeah! And I think we all deserve a round of applause. How bout it? Principal Hansen asked me to come up and give a speech because he knows just how much you all look up to me, and I just want to say that I’m really honored. It’s just that in these difficult times, we all need someone to kind of, aspire to be, ya know? And you all probably are probably thinking, ‘Joleen McQueen is perfect—who the hell does she look up to, God?’ Oh...am I allowed to say hell? Sorry...

Anyway, the thing is, I do have a roll model, and it’s Mary-Kate Olsen. And I know that you’re probably thinking, ‘Why would Joleen McQueen look up to Mary-Kate Olsen? She like, throws up everything she eats.’ And yeah, she does have anorexia, and it is kind of unfortunate that that came out just as I was about to give this speech, but her anorexia is not what I’m here to talk about. I’m here to talk about her spirit, ya know? Yeah! And I think that deserves a round of applause.

I mean, she’s got so many qualities that all of us, young women and young men, can look up to. She’s beautiful, she’s thin, she’s got great hair, she’s got big blue eyes and clear skin. Yeah, so maybe she’s anorexic, but who isn’t these days? I mean, they say that anorexia is about control, having control over what you eat when you don’t feel like you have control over anything else. But for Mary-Kate, it really was just about being thin. And now she is thin! And she’s getting help for her disease. And I think we should all support her in that, ya know? Yeah! And as we’re heading out into the world, I just think that you guys should try to decide who you all want to be just like. Because disease or no disease, I want to be just like Mary-Kate Olsen. Because being thin and rich is what counts. And I’m the most popular girl in school now and I never, like, want to, like, take a step down from that, ya know? So, ask yourselves, who do I want to be? And I hope your answer is Mary-Kate Olsen, because that’s my answer, and if it’s your answer too, then we, like, totally have something in common.

Danger Mall

2009-01-07T23:02:00.003-05:00

I have visited my sister many times, and we usually can’t think of much to do, so we often end up at the mall. It’s a fantastic place, the mall. It doesn’t make me nervous, like it does my friend Josh. He can’t take crowds. I like the crowds. The mall makes me feel like anything is possible. It also makes me feel like I’m normal. I think: Hey, I woke up today and had the same idea as thousands of other people. Look at us all, shopping for things we probably don’t need, but that will make us feel good, maybe for a moment, maybe forever. Probably not forever, but maybe. Possibility. That’s the mall to me.

There are two places in the mall I usually gravitate toward—the frozen yogurt stand and the pet shop. Is it odd that neither of these places has anything to do with clothes or with looking good? In fact, they have quite the opposite effect. Yogurt (I don’t care how fat-free it supposedly is…fat free doesn’t mean much when you eat as much of the stuff as I do) makes you a fat, sticky mess and pets make you hairy and smelly. Fat, hairy, sticky, smelly. That’s me in a nutshell.

I usually can’t bring myself to suggest going to the yogurt stand. I’m afraid Gina (my sister) will say that I’m too fat to have frozen yogurt, fat free or no. Or I’m afraid that even if she doesn’t say it, she’ll be thinking it. This isn’t fair to Gina. She’s not that type of girl. I don’t think she thinks I’m fat. But I think I’m fat. And, the mall makes me feel fatter even though I’m probably one of the least fat people there (the mall really attracts the fatties, huh?). So, I settle for looking longingly at the fro-yo stand. Oh, the suffering. If I’m lucky, someone else will mention frozen yogurt, probably the skinniest and most stylish girl in our group. When this happens, I’m jumping up and down on the inside, but on the outside, I am nonchalant, like I could take it or leave it. “Fro-yo?” I say. “Um…well, maybe…I mean, I’m not that hungry, but I guess I could get some.” I’m hesitant enough to be convincing. The skinny is convinced it was all her idea when in actuality it was probably some sort of otherworldly power of suggestion emanating from my brain that made her want the stuff. It’s all my fault.

Then there’s the pet store. It’s overpriced, and I know that I could not even afford to buy a feeder fish there, but I love to look at all the little guys in their sad little cages and imagine taking them home with me and letting them sleep in my bed. I could have a kitten that would fall asleep on my tummy while I listen to a Neil Young album. I don’t even have a Neil Young album. I don’t even have a record player. I don’t even have my own apartment, and if I did, it would not be an apartment that allows pets. And I am not the type of girl who would ever sneak in a pet, even if it was just a harmless little kitten. I would be afraid my landlord would see my kitten perched on the windowsill and that he or she would then promptly evict me in a fit of rage. Then I would never be able to rent another apartment because I would have a bad reference. So, instead of renting my own place, I’d crash on friends’ couches. Pretty soon I’d pick the wrong friend’s couch to crash on and I would start smoking pot every afternoon. At first I’d feel exhilarated, then just groggy. Soon I’d start to be hungry for the hard stuff, and I’d do cocaine, then heroine. I’d sleep around, have a bastard child, and lose all my money. Then I would be homeless and crack-addicted and I’d have to put my baby in foster care. I’d become a prostitute, then get thrown in jail for trying to pick up an undercover cop. I’d rot in jail for months, all the while writing sad letters to my baby that say things like “don’t worry punkin—mama comin home soon.” I’d make friends with my cell-mate Betty (she has a bastard kid she never sees, too) and we’d become lovers. Then I’d be loosed from jail not only a still drug-addicted out-of-work hustler, but also in the midst of a sexual identity crisis. My baby will have been adopted by then and I’ll sink down into a depression the likes of which I’ve never known and can’t understand. I will have lost the support of all my friends and family (even the drug addicted ones!). When even my hooker friends can’t stand to look at me anymore, I’ll hitchhike to the one place that used to make me feel whole—the overpass above I-90. But the guy who stops to give me a ride will have an evil heart. He’ll pull into the parking lot of an old burned out church and rape me right there on the imitation leather seat of his pickup truck. Then he’ll kick me out of the car right there in that church parking lot, where I’ll kneel down and cry. I’ll send an anguished scream up to the sky. “Why me, God? Why me?” Then I’ll dust myself off and walk another five miles ‘til I hit the overpass above I-90. I’ll climb up on the cement ledge and watch the cars fly by down below, mesmerized for a moment by the blurry lights the way I used to feel sometimes when I was on crack. Then I’ll whisper “take carry of my baby, dear lord” before plummeting into traffic below. It won’t be until after I jump that I realize how many other lives I’m endangering by choosing this method of suicide. That’ll be the real nail in the coffin. I really just can’t do anything right. So…harmless kitten my ass. That’s why I can’t have a pet.

You know, there is such a thing as being TOO healthy. That's what killed Bruce Lee.

2009-01-02T18:24:00.006-05:00

I spent the day at the mall, alone
KB Toys is going out of business
Or, as I like to say: bid-niss
I saw a movie at the mall
A couple brought their little twins into the movie
The twins cried and shook their rattles
I got the biggest popcorn combo they had
I was this close to getting two drinks
I love those names they give to the combos:
"Perfect Co-stars!" "A Midsummer Night's Butter."
Adorable
Yesterday, we ate at Olga's
I thought our waiter was overbearing
And, I felt pressured to order quickly
I don't like Olga's
What if I don't feel like having my dinner wrapped in a pita?
My dad thinks I should adopt a "clean-eating" plan
He says I'm not allowed to drink from the faucet anymore
He says I should go on a juice fast for 21 days
It is now the year 2009
I guess I should have some goals, some plans
What's scary is that every year I have the same goals and plans
And if you think about it, you'll understand why that's scary
What if I only ate turnips for a year?
Then I could write a memoir about it
I could call it: "Turn UP"
That's a good title
I start EMT class in two days
I don't know what door to go in
I emailed my teacher
My email said: "Hey, yo, what door?"
I am going to learn about vehicle extrication
That means, getting someone out of their car after an accident
Like, using the Jaws of Life
My favorite film is Jaws
Sometimes when my dad comes home and the house is dark he yells out: "Hooopah! Hooopah!"
Because that's how Captain Quint says it
I love my dad
But some people find him intimidating
He doesn't understand why
I said, "Maybe it's because of your buzz cut, stocky build, and olive-toned skin."
I don't find my dad intimidating
Except when he is screaming at the top of his lungs and threatening me with a knife
I'm just kidding, he doesn't do that

And to all a good night...

2008-12-24T19:20:00.002-05:00

Every year, I write a Christmas Eve blog. This year is no different. Tonight, my parents and I enjoyed a feast of fried rice and garlic chicken at our favorite restaurant--Empress of China--conveniently located on Dort Highway. Nothing says Christmas like burying your face in a juicy, fat-covered Chinese rib and wiping your greasy fingers on a festive red cloth napkin. After all (like most people in the world do) when you say Christmas, I think: "Chinese ribs."

I wish I could say I'm overwhelmed by a Christmassy feeling. But truthfully, after I finished my Chinese rib, all my holiday cheer fell away like, well...like meat off of a juicy slow-cooked rib. Tonight just feels like another harsh and unforgiving winter evening, with no promise of gifts tomorrow morning or Hot Toddys tomorrow afternoon. Even the thought of spraying whipped cream into my mouth doesn't put me in a holiday mood.

After returning home, as we walked across the slick pavement of the parking lot toward our loft apartment, my dad noticed the makeshift Santa house that the Chamber of Commerce sets up downtown every year and that kids line up outside of in the days leading up to Christmas, eagerly awaiting their turn to tell Santa that they want a tutu or a bubble-gum dispenser or one of those learn-it-at-home Rosetta Stone language kits and said: "What if we blew up Santa's house tonight? Or burned it down?"

I probably should have been horrified, but all I could think was: I'd like to see that. Yes, I would like very much to set fire to Santa's little red house tonight.

But alas, we don't have the supplies or the know-how. So I guess it'll be another mundane Christmas this year. And the best part (the ribs) is already over.

Maybe God does love me...

2008-12-22T22:00:00.002-05:00

So: it turns out I will be getting more Netflix discs before Christmas! Oh! What did I ever do to deserve such an embarrassment of riches?

That's A Fact

2008-12-22T01:04:00.002-05:00

I know it makes me look really lame to post twice in one day, but guess what? I am lame.

Technically, it is tomorrow, anyway.

Sometimes when I am reading, I'll start to feel tired, so I'll think, "Ok, this is a good time to turn out the light and go to sleep." So I do...and then I am immediately not tired anymore and my mind keeps turning and turning, and I think of everything I've ever done wrong in my entire life. Then, to soothe myself I watch True Life: I'm Getting Out of Prison.

Dead Inside

2008-12-21T17:18:00.003-05:00

It has been a long, long time since my last post, and for that I am very sorry. I know there are at least six people who read this, and I hate to disappoint. So, why has it been so long since I last posted, you may be wondering? Well, pretty much, things just got very hectic with nursing school. (I like to say that I'm in nursing school, when really I haven't been accepted yet and am just doing pre-requisites in hopes of getting accepted). This was the first semester since I graduated from Columbia College in 2005 (at least I think that's the year I graduated) that I took a "full-load" of credits. I took 12 credits, which by normal standards really isn't that much, but...those twelve credits kicked my ass. Mostly, it was Anatomy/Physiology that was the most time-consuming and difficult. My teacher was tough and made us really delve into every system of the body, down to the most delicate and minute details. I'm sure someday I'll be thankful for her demandingness, but right now I'm just thankful I'm done. I no longer have to get up at 6 am and drive an hour to listen to a lecture on pus (complete with power-point slides!)

Another reason I haven't been blogging lately: I fear that I am dead inside. Winter is depressing. Every time I go outside and see that we have another foot of snow on the ground or get pummeled by winds so forceful and icy they make me wish I was dead all over (not just on the inside), I want to go back into my little apartment (which sometimes reminds me of the cave where Milo the cat, of "Milo and Otis" fame spends a harsh winter with his brood) and sleep until spring. I want to run on the trails, but they are covered in ice. I want to visit friends, but the roads are crappy. I want to watch ER, but Netflix is slow as fuck (lately)! Dead inside.

The one bright spot in my life: DEXTER. I have probably said this before, and if you're a regular reader of this blog you've probably noticed my little shrine to Dexter, but Dexter is the best show on Television...possibly the best show in the history of television. If you don't like blood and gore, I don't care. You still need to watch Dexter. If you don't believe in capital punishment, I don't care. You still need to watch Dexter. If you don't think Michael C. Hall (as Dexter) is the sexiest, most badass, slyest, cleverest man-hunk on TV (or planet Earth), you are crazy. Because he is. Michael C. Hall is a FANTASTIC actor. Every other actor on TV or in theater or movies pales in comparison to the superbness that is Michael C. Hall. If he doesn't win the Golden Globe this year, he will have been robbed. Yet again. If you've never seen Dexter, you've got a hell of a ride ahead of you...and I'm jealous. WATCH IT.

Where Jim goes, I shall follow.

2008-11-09T17:52:00.003-05:00

To the writers and producers of Ghost Whisperer:

(*Spoiler Alert!*) I had bad dreams last night because of you, and I was in a foul mood this morning because of you. How DARE you kill off Jim! How DARE you. Jim is adorable and lovable and he and Melinda actually have a good relationship. Make that HAD a good relationship. You had better know what you're up to, CBS, because you've pissed off a lot of people. By the way, detectives don't just blindly shoot at people they can't even see! Ridiculous! Here's hoping you've got some kind of miracle up your sleeve, because if not, you've lost another long time viewer.

Sincerely,

Jim's Homegirl

Ghouls

2008-10-30T16:15:00.003-04:00

Halloween is coming up, so here are some scary movies to watch out for:

The Uninvited

I like her and all, but Elizabeth Banks is in EVERYTHING. David Strathairn is my best friend, though. AND, we've got a GG alum in this flick (Gilmore Girls, for those of you reading this who aren't Kate)--Arielle Kebbel, aka "Lindsay" the girl who married Dean after Rory dumped him for Jess...and who Dean later divorced after having cheated on her with Rory.

Friday the 13th

Finally, a remake of this! Let's hope it's good. Jared Padelecki as the main star in this makes me a bit nervous. I mean, I love you Dean, but the last horror movie you did was House of Wax. Friday the 13th is beloved, so let's not mess it up!

The Haunting in Connecticut

This horror movie has it all--the unassuming "innocent" family who "doesn't deserve this," a fridge full of rotten food, scary birds, a hatchet, ghosts, seances (what do you MEAN they had SEANCES in this house?! We're MOVING!), girls getting caught in the shower curtain, and Elias Koteas. What more could we want?

Rumors

2008-10-08T13:36:00.002-04:00

Something that I have learned about people: they like to say things.

It doesn't matter if what they're saying is correct, just so long as they get a chance to say it.

The accelerated 2nd degree BSN (bachelor of science, nursing) program that I am attempting to get into is very competitive. They only let in 50 kids per semester. And, it is merit-based, meaning that if you finish the prerequisite classes, but only with the bare minimum GPA that you need in order to be eligible for acceptance, you are not guaranteed a spot in the program. This makes kids very cutthroat. It also makes them say things. For example:

"I heard they've already filled the year 2009, and now they're admitting kids to Fall of 2010."

"Well I heard they've already filled 2010, and now they're admitting for 2011."

"I heard you get in right away if you're double-jointed."

"I heard they only admit vegetarians."

These rumors extend way beyond just the likelihood of getting into the accelerated BSN program. People also like to say things about our teachers and the classes we're required to take. For example:

"I know for a fact that she puts trick questions on the tests."

"I heard he grades his tests at the bar."

"I heard you only get an A if you go to office hours every day."

"Well I heard only redheads get As, and then only if they know how to ride a unicycle."

Today in Chemistry, the shit hit the fan. Turns out there was some kind of technical malfunction that happened when our scantrons from the first exam were fed into the machine. The answer key was incorrect or something. So, kids ended up getting lower grades than they should've. We knew how many questions we'd gotten wrong, because our teacher had gone over the answers with us in class prior to feeding our scantrons in the machine. SO, when the scantrons came back all messed up, our teacher said he'd figured out a way to ensure everyone got the scored they deserved (if not an even better score than they deserved). He would add 10 points to each person's score, since 3 questions were off on the answer key given to the scantron machine (the scantron machine had different answers than the correct answers for those 3 questions, so everyone who actually answered them correctly got them wrong). So if you got 100% it would say on your scantron that you got a 91% (33 questions on the test, 3 pts per question, and 1 bonus point). BUT, some overachiever girl raised her hand and complained that "people who had actually gotten 91% originally would now have 100% with the added 10 points," and she "didn't think that was fair." Her 100% would be in-tact, but she didn't like the fact that maybe people who had legitimately answered incorrectly one or all of the 3 questions "in question" were now getting a free ride. The teacher told her to be nice and get over it.

BUT, rumor has it:

"Now he's not giving anyone those 10 points, because of that one girl!"

"He's just going to throw out the first exam entirely and our grades will be averaged from the next 3 exams!"

"He's just counting those 3 problems as wrong, even if you got them right."

Ugh. I can hardly stand it. I should've had a 98% on the test. I only got one wrong. But if I have to take a 90 or 91% at this point, I will. Hey, an A is an A. I can't help but think a lot of these problems could be avoided if people would just resist the urge to "say things."

Creepy Fingers

2008-10-03T21:16:00.003-04:00

I am ashamed of myself. I can't believe it's been so long since I last posted. I'm about to cry. But maybe I'm just feeling melancholy because I'm listening to instrumental folk music on Pandora right now. I can't think well enough to put my thoughts into sentences, so I'm just going to make a list:

1. The new Dane Cook movie is good. I don't care if you don't like him. He's special, and this is my blog and I can say what I want. And I love him.

2. Ricky Gervais is my hero. His new movie Ghost Town is a gem.

3. Beverly Hills Chihuahua comes out this weekend! Lets just be thankful that in these trying economic times we have a movie about talking dogs to go blow 10 or 20 bucks on.

4. I would rather eat vulture vomit than watch Beverly Hills Chihuahua

5. But that is a funny title. You can use it from now on when you're trying to describe the worst night ever, as in: "He made me eat sauerkraut and then we watched Beverly Hills Chihuahua."

6. I just sneezed twice. If you'd seen Ghost Town, you'd get it.

7. I taught myself how to knit, but now I am struggling with the notion that it is an "old person's hobby."

8. If you're not watching the New Adventure's of Old Christine, you should be.

9. If you're not listening to the This American Life or the Creative Screenwriting Magazine podcast, you should be.

10. I desperately want to go to Scotland...or Ireland....or somewhere with "land" in the title. Because when you end a word with "land," it automatically sounds magical...like a place where I might be able to meet a half-man-half-fawn, like Mr. Tumnus. Don't you think Americaland sounds better than America? In America we've got high gas prices and school shootings. But in Americaland, we have princesses and horses with rainbow manes and sidewalks made of marshmallow peeps.

11. Christmas is coming.

12. When someone fast-forwards too fast (or too slow), they've got "creepy fingers"

This happens to me all the time.

2008-09-08T17:48:00.002-04:00

I'm minding my own business, happily going about my day, and hoping for the best. I drive to my favorite gas station, the one I always stop at on the way home from school. It's a Meijer gas station--well-lit and big enough that I don't feel like I'm on display. Their candy isn't stale (stale candy is the worst!) and they don't have too much merchandise, so that it's overflowing and falling into the aisles. I hate that. And they're always getting new things, like Bagelfuls. I never buy the Bagelfuls, but I like that this particular Meijer gas station moves with the times. As a rule, I try not to use the bathroom, but today I had to. It's a nice, private single bathroom with a working lock that is usually very clean and airy. I went to open the door...LOCKED. God damn it, someone's in there!! Why the FUCK does this always happen to ME?! That's what I was thinking. Then I said to myself (in my head), "Calm down, Liz. It's probably just some very well put-together soccer mom who is reapplying her lip-gloss and will be out in a hop, skip, and a jump." Do that in your CAR you ignorant BITCH! I shook off all my angry feelings and busied myself looking at the road maps of Michigan. It's funny how if you look at something like that long enough, you'll start to think, you know, I really need a Michigan road map. I can't believe I've gotten along all these years without a Michigan road map. I've been looking at the road maps for quite some time and I start to think, what the hell is going on in there? I think, any minute now I'll hear the toilet flush. And I did start to hear noises, but not good noises. Whoever was in there must have been attempting to rip the toilet out of the floor while hacking up a lung, spitting, burping, yawning and slamming a fist onto the paper towel dispenser. After I finally heard the toilet flush, a behemoth man-beast emerged from the bathroom, clad in a stretched-out gray tank top and tight fitting black jeans and a skull cap. He smiled at me. One tooth.

Gravel--bane of my existence!!

2008-09-07T19:20:00.004-04:00

Today I saw "Hamlet 2." It was very good. I recommend it to all of you who read this. That means you, Kate. It's a funny delight. After watching Hamlet 2, I went with my parents to Sam's Club and was dismayed by the lack of free samples of mini quiche there. Usually, weekends at Sam's Club mean a veritable feast of freebies. We went to Sam's Club because I've been thinking about purchasing a new iPod. Sam's Club often has good deals on electronics, and my parents are members. I bought my TV at Sam's Club. Kate can attest to the fact that it is awesome. My TV is the kind of TV that you really want to watch your shows on. And I love shows. While we were looking at the iPods, my dad starting ranting about how technology is "ruining" society and how he hates cell phones, but refuses to pay for a land line. Earlier in the day, he lamented that gas pumps "these days" are "so hard to figure out." I thought to myself that when he says things like this, he sounds like an old man. It's not fun when you have a moment where you see your parents as the elderly folk they're sure to become one day. Later, we went to Courtland Center mall, where my dad was dismayed by the fact that all the restaurants in the food court except for Sbarro's and a pretzel stand had closed. He said the guy at the pretzel stand claimed to be able to make hamburgers, but my dad didn't see how that was possibly since the only thing behind the counter was a conveyor toaster. I don't know about you, but some of the best burgers I've ever had came off a conveyor toaster. We walked around the Steve and Barry's superstore and my dad complained that he "doesn't look good in horizontal stripes." Then we went to JC Penny's, where I was super-excited to show my mom the new Sephora that's built right into it. My dad moped and said he "liked it better when it was Mervyn's." He'd look forlornly at a silk tie display and say, "This used to be the cuff link section when it was Mervyn's." After that, we drove to Davison for a fish dinner. Supposedly I got melted butter with my baked scallops...but only if your definition of melted butter is "chicken broth." I also got some high-school cafeteria style mashed potatoes and gravy, which I could barely look at, let alone eat. And it only cost us $55 for dinner! What a steal. Ironically, my dad had nothing to say about that.

I was thinking that it might be fun to post some of my old emails, so here's the oldest one I've got (it's from March of 1998 when I was a Junior in high school):

"matt,

first of all, i don't know if it was you or tom who fucked with my
password, but whoever it was is gonna be majorly fucked over because i
didn't think it was funny. it took me forever to get on tonight but
i've got a new password now and you can be sure that neither one of
you will EVER find out what it is. and whoever wrote on my outgoing
mail "lizbian queen of the dykes" i didn't think that was funny
either. and ducks can too have names.

liz

p.s.what's so awkward about interracial relationships?"

Leave me alone!

2008-08-25T13:53:00.002-04:00

It has been a shamefully long time since I last wrote. Get over it. I've been busy. I finished up my Biology class (and got an A, thank you very much). The most interesting thing about that class was the fact that there were mice running rampant in the classroom. Even though I love mice dearly, it was still frightening to feel something scurry across my sandaled foot during a lecture on the chromosomal basis of inheritance. Aside from Biology class, I've been watching a lot of Big Brother, laying around, going to kickboxing, reading, listening to audiobooks, worrying, crying, listening to music, talking about how people should eat more raw foods, thinking about how I should go outside more often, making lists of things I want to buy, talking about the future, sleeping, dreaming about telling the contestants on Big Brother what strategic moves they should be making, jogging, playing word games, attempting to learn how to hip-hop dance, reorganizing my drawers, thinking about how pretty soon I won't be able to wear sandals anymore, pouting, cooking, going to the movies, and talking on the phone. So, I haven't had a lot of time to write this blog.

Dear Diary

2008-08-03T19:52:00.002-04:00

Dear Diary,

Tonight at dinner, I spent the entire time listening to my parents argue and looking out the window at couples getting into their cars in the parking lot, wondering where they were going, where they'd been and if they still love each other. I ordered a baked potato instead of fries because I figured it would make my dad happy. He doesn't like to see me eat fatty foods. But my baked potato was old and wrinkled. Meanwhile my mom ordered a fully-loaded Coney dog and fries. I found out when I got home that I was not picked to be an extra in the Drew Barrymore movie they're shooting in and around Saline this summer. Well that's just great! I read that they needed thousands of people, so I figured, sure, they'll call me. I guess I'm not pretty enough or cool enough or special enough or quirky enough to even stand in the background while Drew Barrymore walks down the street. And I just wanted to see famous people. Still, I know there is a lot to be thankful for. Diet Coke tastes delicious, Big Brother is on tonight, and my mom bought these new flip-side crackers (one side is pretzel, the other side is cheddar!) upon my request. I can't eat the crackers in front of my dad, though. So what I'll probably do is put some in a Ziploc bag and hide it at the back of my closet or under my pillow and then munch away quietly while watching a documentary about people who attempt to ride Great White sharks. This past Monday was my birthday. I got a lot of well-wishes from friends and family, so I'm thankful for that too. I'm 26 now. I guess that means I'm...well, I don't really know what that means. There's no set thing that you're supposed to know or be able to do by age 26. Or maybe there is and I'm just too dumb to know it. Maybe that's why Drew Barrymore hates me. I'm 26. I'm living with my parents. I miss Sean and Catie. I miss Kate. And sometimes I even miss Josh, though I probably shouldn't allow myself to. Every year on my birthday, I buy a gift for myself. It's kind of like a safety net, so that if no one gets me what I really want, I know I'll just go and get it for myself. Birthdays and holidays aren't supposed to be about presents, but let's be honest, they're a little bit about presents. They're also a little bit about seeing which people really know you, who's really in your corner, who cares. One year for my birthday, Josh got me an ankle bracelet. It was nice and all, but most anyone who knows me knows I'm not much of a jewelry girl, and definitely not much of a foot-jewelry girl. It's the thought that counts, though--I know. I wore that ankle bracelet to my sister's wedding. Eventually I grew to like what it represented, or what I thought it represented--that Josh saw me as someone graceful enough or feminine enough to wear something like a pretty silver ankle chain. Since a lot of times I think of myself as someone who looks thick and solid and man-ish, or as my dad and other gentler sorts would describe my body type: "strong," it felt good to think of myself as girly for once. But, I remember showing Josh that I was wearing the ankle bracelet, and he didn't even remember giving it to me. When I reminded him that it had been his birthday gift to me just a month before, he told me he must've forgotten since he sent his sister to pick it out. His sister, whom I'd never even met. This year, I couldn't think of a gift to get myself. What do you get for a 26-year-old who's got pretty much everything, including a fantasmo TV on which to watch everything from Jaws to Gilmore Girls? Nothing, I guess.

Steven Daigle--Big Brother 10

2008-07-31T15:27:00.002-04:00

If you're wondering about the title of this post, I did that just in case Steven of Big Brother 10 was surfing around looking for little tid-bits about himself online, as we are all wont to do on occasion. Well, Steven, I hope you're reading this because I've got some things I'd like to say:

1. YOU TOTALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN VOTED OFF. If it was up to America, I can say with absolute certainty that you'd still be on the show. You're sweet, smart, and not a total tool like some of the other house guests still roaming around, cough...Jessie...cough.

2. WHAT WAS WITH JESSIE'S GOODBYE MESSAGE TO YOU?! He could've at least said something like, "Hey man, I'm sorry I had to get you out of the house this week." Instead, he spent the entire time talking about how he knows you look up to him and want a physique just like his!! I think "physique" is Jessie's favorite word. No, wait, scratch that--"Jessie" is Jessie's favorite word. Your physique is great as is, Steven. You're way way hotter than Jessie could ever hope to be!! I keep trying to think of what movie star you remind me of...I wanna say a cross between Dennis Quaid (the early years) and Kevin Costner (the early years). Two hot cowboy-types, like yourself.

3. I VOTE FOR YOU TO COME BACK FOR THE NEXT BIG BROTHER ALL-STARS EDITION! I would've loved to watch you play the game longer. If it weren't for some bad luck early on, I think you would've made it pretty far. So if any BB producers are reading this (which I'm quite sure there aren't, but hey...), put Steven on the next All-Stars edition. America wants more Steven! Steven deserves a fair shot.

4. YOU SEEM LIKE A GENUINELY NICE FELLOW. I know I don't know you at all, but you seem like a good guy, Steven. I wish you the best! Here's hoping Jessie gets voted off tonight. If he's not out tonight, he'll be out soon, I'm sure:)

This post will bore you to death.

2008-07-14T17:45:00.003-04:00

My book on blogging says that you're never supposed to write something like this on your blog:

"I have no idea what to write today."

I was just thinking about what to write in this post, and I thought I would make a list of what I did today. Then I thought about titling the list: "All the boring things I did today." But then I remembered my 'Rough Guide to Blogging' book, and how it says you're not supposed to preface your writing by saying that it's boring because then no one will want to read it.

Fuck you, 'Rough Guide to Blogging'! You don't know shit. My reader is loyal. She'll read whatever I write!!

ALL THE BORING THINGS I DID TODAY:

1. Get up. Think to myself that it sort of seems like it's raining outside and maybe this is a sign that I shouldn't go running this morning. Remember a scary story my sister told be about almost being attacked by a deranged man in a silk shirt over the 4th of July holiday (while she was out for a run), and think that this is probably definitely a sign that I shouldn't go running this morning. Remember the show I watched last night--The N's (Noggin) Student Body, a reality show hosted by Laila Ali in which fat high-schoolers are challenged to lose weight. Remember how disappointed I was in Rachael (I think that was her name) when she kept saying, "I can't, I can't." Remember how her trainer told her that "It's not supposed to be easy." Remind myself that making myself get up at 7 a.m. to go running (when I totally don't have to) is "not supposed to be easy."

2. Go running. See geese. Avoid eye-contact with other people on the trails.

3. Make a soy blackberry smoothie. Wonder why my blender always looks to streaky--it's not like I never clean it.

4. Eat my smoothie while watching Big Brother: After Dark (BBAD, as I will refer to it in all further posts). Try to decide who I love and who I hate on Big Brother 10, but it may be too soon to tell.

5. Drive to school, listening to the mixed CD I made for Cori as a going away present.

6. Go to Bio 111. Nice kid holds the door for me.

7. Realize that my teacher has not let us out early enough for me to make my noon kickboxing class. Decide to stop at the Meijer gas station outside of Oxford and get snacks.

8. Purchase a dark chocolate Dove bar, some cheddar cheese combos, a peanut butter Lindt Lindor truffle and a Diet Coke. Think to myself that I shouldn't be buying this stuff. Remind myself that I can have this stuff as long as I factor it into my daily calorie allowance. Remind myself that this is "not supposed to be easy."

9. Eat my snacks while listening to a Fresh Air podcast in which Terry Gross interviews Jenna Fischer of The Office.

10. Get home. Take a shower. Make Biology flashcards for 3 and a half hours.

11. Go to Dagwood's to punch the hanging bag we have in the basement. Hanging bag falls down. Dad comes down to help me put it back up and we finally figure out (he figures out) a way to hang it so that it won't fall down anymore. Realize that with the bag hung this way, it no longer makes the loud squeaking noise that it used to. Feel overwhelming wave of relief.

12. Pilfer some Lindt Lindor truffles from Blondie's and go home. Put a WW Quesadilla in the microwave and hit 2. Check my email. Worry about financial aid. Check my blog. Decide to post something.

13. Post a list of all the boring things I did today while microwave beeps at me.

Tomorrow is just one more day I get to press play.

2008-07-13T10:40:00.003-04:00

The verdict is in. My Bio 111 teacher finally posted our grades online. For the record, I'm pretty sure he said the grades would be posted sometime Thursday, but they didn't show up until mid-day Saturday!! Ba-humbug. Anyway, I got a 98! I would be celebrating, except that I can't stop thinking about how that 98 would be a 100 if only I hadn't changed that ONE ANSWER. Screw you, temperature at which water is its densest (that'd be 4 degrees Celsius, for you curious minds out there).

I decided that in order to unwind from my test, the only thing I would do all weekend would be to watch television. I'm so proud of myself for coming up with this plan. Of course, a few things got in the way of that. I had to go to Meijer with my Mom. But it turned out great because she bought me season 3 of The Closer, which is one of my favorite shows. Season 4 starts on Monday, so we wanted to catch up on Season 3 before that premieres. I also had to go over to Dagwood's a couple of times to get sandwiches. It's times like those I wish I had a Segway. Soon, a trend started to develop...after a few blissful hours of TV watching, I would start to feel guilty about "not living." Then I would make myself do a Biggest Loser workout or go swimming or something. Then I would start to feel sad that I wasted so much time being active, when I could've been watching Gross Anatomy, a stellar 80's dramedy starring Matthew Modine as plucky med student Joe Slovak. Oh, the humanity! You may think I sound like a lazy, fat bitch. You're partly right. However, as anyone who reads this regularly would know, I am a movie lover. I consider movie-loving and TV-show loving to be a hobby of mine. Some people like to go fishing (I like fishing too, except for the whole killing an innocent creature thing). Some people are numismatists. As much as I love shiny things and history and placing round items in specially-slotted cardboard notebooks (and I do--I really, really do), I would prefer to...oh I don't know...watch a show? Some people love to watch baseball. That's cool. I let them have that. I don't call a baseball lover a lazy, fat bitch. So why can't you let me have my hobby? Just let me be! Let me be, dammit! I've seen a lot of movies, and as a result have learned many lessons. I have learned that it is never a good idea to investigate that noise in the shed. I have learned that men and women can't be friends. I have learned that it is OK to punch someone in the junk, as long as you're on a runaway train and you're hanging halfway out the window. See? So many lessons. As Zoe Saldana's character in Center Stage says (near the end of the movie, when they're about to find out who made the company), "Tomorrow is just one more day I get to dance." That's how I feel about watching movies. Even if I sometimes feel like I am wasting my life watching other people do cool things with their lives (or watching what someone other than me imagined other people doing and then wrote, cast, filmed, edited, sold, marketed, and released)--it's a sweet, sweet sorrow.

Whatever happened to Preparation A through G?

2008-07-10T15:32:00.004-04:00

Hello all (all one of you who read this, that is)! I'm sorry it's been such a long time since I posted. Why do I feel like that's the sentence I always start with?? Hmmm....peculiar! Anyway, I guess I haven't posted in such a long time because I've fallen into a deep depression. Last night I was reading a book that I thought was going to be good, but it wasn't good. I looked at the picture of the woman who wrote it (you know the picture in the back of the book with the little blurb underneath that says how the author is happier than she's ever been before (ever!), living in Mayberry with her husband and her small-enough-to-put-in-a-bicycle-basket dog, Triscuit?). I shouldn't be allowed to do that. It always makes me feel like...hey, this woman wrote a book, and this book is not even good...why don't I write a not-good book and get a husband and a dog? I'm too busy to get a husband and a dog. I have Biology class to worry about. Today I took my first Bio test, and I did the dumbest thing ever...I went back and changed one of my answers...and it turns out I changed it from the correct answer to the incorrect answer! I'm ridiculous. I'm sure I still did fine on the test, but it bugs me. And by the way, why would I ever need to know the temperature at which water is its densest? I guess you need to know that if you're going to be a nurse...because when people come into the ER, they're usually like, "I'm shot! I'm shot!...But before you stitch me up can you please tell me the temperature at which water is its densest? I just wanna make sure I'm in good hands here, and if you don't know that well....say buh-bye." Here's a question: how is it that some people can finish a 51-question test in 7 minutes? It takes me longer than 7 minutes to fill in my name on the Scantron (and then go back and make sure I didn't fill in two letters in the same row or something...). I'd only finished page one of the 6-page test and people were already walking up and handing in their tests! Wtf? Maybe I'm just a slow reader or something. But I'm annoyed by people like that. It's not a race. This isn't the Tour de France. We're in Biology class. We're learning about the functional groups. We're learning that DNA has a sugar-phosphate backbone. Cool your jets. Speaking of jets, today I saw the new Will Smith movie "Hancock." There are no jets in that movie, but whatevs. It was actually a pretty good movie. I resisted seeing it because I don't generally like superhero movies, but this was more romantic comedy disguised as action adventure. When I learned that Jason Bateman was in it, it was a done deal. He's great. So, I recommend it. If you really want to see a movie this weekend and don't feel like watching Wall-E (I don't blame you), go and see "Hancock." It's deece (that's my slang for decent...get with the times, you!). Other than seeing "Hancock," here's what I did today (in chronological order):

1. Wake up and go over all my Biology stuff in my head while lying in bed, thinking that I should probably go back to sleep so that I'll be well rested, but not being able to sleep because I was nervous about the test.

2. Go running in Rowden park. I try to do this every morning. When I go early enough, I get to see ducklings! I heart ducklings.

3. Shower, breakfast, watch 10 minutes of 30 Days, the super-fantasmo Morgan Spurlock show.

4. Drive to Oakland, listening to Biology-related podcasts and tutorials. (I am a super nerd)

5. Sit in Oakland Center looking at flashcards, pretty sure that people are making fun of me.

6. Sit on the floor in O'Dowd hall waiting for the door to my classroom to be unlocked and listening to my classmates muse about what will be on the test.

7. Take my Bio test and finish WELL AFTER most people in my class.

8. Drive home while listening to a mix CD I made, all the windows rolled down because I have no air in my car.

9. Stop at the Meijer gas station outside of Oxford, get a donut and some cheese crackers (it's fat day).

10. Go to the store and talk to my mom about how I messed up on that 'at what temp is water its densest question?'

11. Mom looks up the correct answer to the question and confirms my fears (I changed my correct answer to the incorrect answer! Stupid! Stupid!)

12. Cori comes to Dagwood's and we have lunch. But I didn't eat that much. The pasta salad was too mayonnaisey.

13. Go see Hancock.

14. Now I am here.

Don't worry about me. I'm really not all that depressed. I just felt like writing that. Things are going well. I've been drinking smoothies for breakfast. It's all good.