There's nothing like ringing in Christmas by downing an entire bottle of wine FROM THE BOTTLE. That's right. Classy, no-glass-drinking straight from the source. Well, I suppose it's not the actual source, though I think it would be really, really fun to drink wine straight from the barrel. Very oak-y tasting.

Yes, so that is how I spent my Christmas Eve. This is after I drove my car ONTO A ROCK. You may well be wondering how I managed to find the one actual boulder in my apartment complex and drive my car onto it, so that the car was completely stuck and two-wheels-off-the-ground immobile. Allow me to explain:

I am an idiot.

See, it went down like this...I was cleaning out my car (I say "car", but we all know it's really a toaster on wheels) at the dumpsters and then I was going to drive back to my apartment to put my stuff away (because, again, I'm an idiot and went shopping on freaking Christmas Eve). The car is cleaned, I'm turning the car around, and since I'm a multi-tasker, I figured I could check my cell phone AND rearrange my packages at the same time.

Not so much.

I heard a big "ca-chunk", and suddenly my car/toaster is rising in the air and making a horrible scraping noise. (The scraping noise was actually a good thing, I suppose, as it reassured me that I hadn't run over one of the many annoying small children that cavort around the complex...which would, honestly, be no big loss to ME, but I hear parents don't like to have their children maimed or killed at Christmas.) At first, I thought that maybe I could possibly back the car OFF the rock. Again, "not so much". Turns out if you have a large rock under your car, and not all the wheels are on the ground, you can't go anywhere. (I know, I know...CRAZY!) So, I just start laughing, because really, what can I do at this point? It's Christmas Eve, I'm broke, I've just grounded my vehicle on a large rock, I have no possible means of getting said car off of said rock myself, and no way to pay for maybe possibly having ripped a huge gaping hole in my car's no-no place.

Fortunately for me, my car comes equipped with a 24-hour roadside assistance number. (WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD)

Poor Guy That Has to Work Christmas Eve for Idiots Like Me: "Hello, Honda Roadside Assistance. How can I help you?"
Idiot: "Well...I guess you could say I need some roadside assistance."
"What seems to be the problem?"
"Huh, well, it appears I've driven my fucking car onto a fucking rock on fucking Christmas Eve."
"(Disbelieving pause) Uhhhh..."
"(Manaical laughter)"
"Well, ma'am, it sounds like you need a tow truck, here's the number of the place we use."
"I cannot fucking believe I just did this. Can you believe I did this?"
"Ma'am...no."
"Well, thanks anyway. I will call this number right away (more maniacal laughter)."
"(Click)"

While I waited for the tow, I walked back to my apartment with my packages, making sure to lock the door of my car (what an idiot...seriously, no one could possibly steal it). I dropped off my packages, and immediately began cleaning like a fiend, Windexing everything in sight, because this is what Virgos do when they're stressed. I'm laughing, sweating and shaking all at once and saying over and over, "I can't believe I just fucking drove my fucking car onto a fucking rock."

The tow truck guy was great, but did not believe that I was sober when I "parked" my car. Fortunately for me, my car's privates are all intact, and she's driving okay.

I still feel like an idiot, though. And I still want to drink wine straight from the barrel. Merry Christmas to me.

I chatted with Phil the other day about his trip to Honduras to visit the AIDS orphanage he works for called Montana de Luz. He sent out some really beautiful, moving photos of his time there. This one in particular really moved me and Lisa and I told him so. The following is a rendition of the chat we had online (with some heavy editing...Phil can't spell, and I write in sentence fragments). I wanted to leave it as close to the original conversation as possible, because Phil's words were very organic and moving.

(Phil:) “There is a really funny picture of Jose* I should send you.”
(Me:) “Who's Jose?”
“He's the one in the AMAZING picture with Molly where she is giving him his ARVs in bed.”
“Oh yeah. That pic turned out great!”
“Doug took that…it’s a real crazy story…”
“Do tell.”
“That day Doug and I were walking from "down below" which is the village in the valley where MDL is located. (MDL is up on a mountain right outside the village.) So we're hiking up the hill to get back to the project, and about three hundred yards away is a group of kids, which we assume to be from the village, Nuevo Espanranza (or something like that). Anyway…one of the kids breaks off, and at about seventy yards away, I spot it as Jose, and he starts in on a dead fat kid sprint…”
“Haha!”
“…the whole time yelling ‘Amigo Felipe!’ He runs straight up and jumps into my arms.”
“I love fat kid sprints.”
“So, naturally, I just about think that is the best thing ever to happen to me, when Doug says ‘Just wait, Dude,’ and proceeds to show me this slide show of photos of when Jose came to the project in March, malnourished, 104.5 fever, chicken pox, and a worm had laid eggs in his neck.”

“Seriously? Gross! That's nuts…”
“When it got to its worst, they were pretty sure he wasn't going to make it through the night. That night, Molly (Doug’s wife) crawled into bed with Jose while he cried through the night."
“Wow.”
“He made it through to the morning, the fever broke, and she began to administer the drugs. Doug snapped a photo.”
“Wow...that's when the photo was taken?”
“Fuckin’ a.”
“That's amazing.”
“So then he proceeds to show me the pictures of where Jose came from, where they had him before Doug and Molly picked him up. (Oh, I also forgot to list HIV/AIDS on his list of infirmities when he arrived.) As Doug showed me the pictures I pretty much lost control, and wept like a baby for about half an hour just thinking about the kid who had ran the seventy yard fat kid sprint to have me carry his fat little ass up a mountain….”

I don't normally write "serious" posts, but these kids and this project really moves me. There's all kinds of stupid shit going on in our world right now, and regardless of politics or religious beliefs, all I can think of is a little quote from Bono: "This is a war we can all agree on." Please check out their website, and consider maybe sending a few extra bucks their way this holiday season...or whenever, really, you cheapskates.

Here's the aforementioned "really funny picture":

and a great "after" picture to show the good work these people are doing.




*Name changed to protect child's privacy.

The Doctor is IN...

I'm not sure when I got to be such a guru, and I don't mean to toot my own (French) horn, but I'm pretty great with advice. I may even start charging for it. Of course, my charges will be flexible based on what you have to give. Dolly Parton's father gave the doctor who birthed her a sack of cornmeal. So, you, for instance, could give me your Ipod for the gems I dish out. "My Ipod?!!?" you may shout indignantly. "How is an Ipod at all comparable to a sack of cornmeal?"

Funny you should ask! I had to do some serious calculationing (yes, "calculationing") here, such as factoring in inflation, as well as comparing the relative value of each said item to the particular individual giving it. Now, Dolly was born about sixty years ago into a poor family, so a sack of cornmeal was a pretty big deal, seeing as though it was necessary for living. You, however, probably have an adequate amount of food, but are clearly attached to your Ipod, and if you're like me, you cannot live at work without it (my job is more than mind-numbing). I'm just trying to get you where it hurts without you necessarily having to sacrifice actual money.

Though I do accept all major credit cards.

My advice is so darn good, I've begun receiving actual visceral, emotional responses to it, like tears, smiles of glee or one enthusiastic reaction I like to call "throwing things" (I'm pretty sure people aren't intentionally aiming for my head.) I was able to elicit the first of these last week when speaking to a class of high school Seniors on neuro-linguistic programming. I always close my lectures with a bit on dating, because really, that's all these kids care about right now. (Body language in the workplace? Who cares. Body language in the backseat of your car? Go on.)

So, I was telling the girls to always believe a guy's body language over what he actually says, because we know that men are 1.) dirty liars* and 2.) don't like to be yelled at by girls, so they often will be ambiguous with their language so they don't actually have to say, "I just don't like you." So what happens is these girls hang on to dead end crushes or relationships because of a few misleading phrases ("I'm not ready for a relationship right now", "I'm just busy", etc.), and they "waste the pretty", meaning, they waste time on guys who don't like them, when they could be with somebody who adores them. I then tell the girls that "he's just not that into you" and advise that they move on.

I deliver this to these females and one cute little blonde raises her hand. She looks at me and with tears in her eyes says, "You've seriously just ruined my life." She writes down the name of the book I recommended to the class, then looks at me again, "I really just want to go to the bathroom and cry my eyes out."

I'm glad I could help.

Geez, I'm a jerk. I probably shouldn't have taken her Ipod from her after that.

*I really don't believe that guys are dirty liars...this just usually gets a laugh in class.

So, I need some help from you people. I have a contact for a webzine, and we're in talks for me to do some contributions. I've given her some ideas that she likes, but I'm always trying to think of a new angle on SOMETHING, and maybe you all know of something that I've either written about that you've enjoyed, or maybe I've given you my unique perspective on a topic (probably;)), or maybe you can think of a way I could lend the "Sarah" voice to happenings here in Columbus.

The 'zine is going to be mostly read by people in Chicago, and it's an attempt to comment on life and people without being overly "snarky". Most articles should be fresh and funny, but not critical, if possible. Any ideas would be helpful and much appreciated!! Thanks!

Actual conversation with my sister today:

Me: I need to know what you guys want for Christmas. I'm going shopping after work today.

Heather: Well, Todd needs gift cards. You know what I like. Kate wants boots. I don't know what Ben wants. I haven't asked him. (laughs)

Me: (laughs, too, because Ben is--as yet--unborn) Well, does he want clothes?

Heather: He doesn't really need clothes. The only thing we don't have that he actually needs is a bouncy seat.

Me: Oh, like one of those baby catapults? (refers to great flinging capacities of said seat)

Heather: Yeah! Exactly!

Me: Do you want one of those fancy shmancy vibrating ones? (grins)

Heather: Well, those get more expensive. I just need something that'll hold him.

Me: Isn't that what grocery bags are for?

Heather: (Horrified laughter) You are never babysitting my kids! Ever!

Me: (laughing hysterically now) But grocery bags have handles!! They're great! Very convenient.

Heather: (Weightily, and with great conviction) You're sick.


Actual conversation with Lisa, describing above incident:

Lisa: (Horrifed laughter) You are sick!

Me: "Paper or plastic?"

Lisa: (Practically) Well, they do have handles.

Me: I know!

Lisa: Easy to give them a bath in.

Me: Yeah! Just add water and shake!

Lisa: (Seriously) We're going to hell.

Me: (Plunging gamely ahead) And, you can store the baby and the bag under the sink!

Lisa: (To no one in particular) And she keeps going. This is awful.

There's nothing like lying wide awake and staring at the ceiling to inspire blog posts.

Of course, in my case, I still have nothing beneficial to say.

I've been sick for the last couple of days and am now on an anti-biotic that's main attraction is making it sound like my stomach is at war with itself. Bombs, heavy artillery, you name it, it's happening in there. Seriously. I'm not hungry, but my stomach is rolling and growling like I am, and I can't sleep with all that noise.

However, here's one more totally inane, boring thing for you to read...my prescription was FREE. That's right, Giant Eagle's just giving the stuff away...apparently, Wal-mart is good for something, in that their total destruction of American society has at least driven the cost of Erythromicin down at my local grocery. Never mind that countless children are doing slave labor so that Bobby Jo from the holler can have living room drapes for five dollars less than other places, or that the scariest people you'll ever meet come out of the woodwork for a night out on the town at the area Wally World (two things: 1. NEVER go to Wal-mart around the first of the month and 2. NEVER go to a Wal-mart in the mountains. You think it's scary on the west side of Columbus...you ain't seen nothin' till you've seen the mountain people come out of hiding for supplies. Yikes)...at least I get heavy narcotics cheaper than normal, and hey, if it effects my bottom line, well then, all is right in the world.

And in other, slightly more exciting news, my new show has opened.

Apparently I was a little harsh in my last blog. One commenter (show yourself, Anonymous, SHOW YOURSELF) told me I needed to "ease up". Let me say at the outset (my sister will chuckle at that last little phrase:)) that I was not intending to be negative or nasty or any of those things...I was merely observing, and if I happened to be surrounded by crappy people, is that really my fault?

However, since I'm an easily accomodating blogger, I am yet again at Panera, and I will attempt a much more positive spin on my observations.

There are two ladies seated at the table next to me. One is black and one is white. Hooray!

There are a couple of blue-collar looking men at the table in front of me. One is smiling and has a big American flag on his hat. He probably supports George Bush and likes to beat his wife, but today he is happy, and at Panera refreshing himself and his plaid shirt with bread. For that, I am grateful.

There is a lady seated with her back to me. This makes me happy, because I'm pretty sure in real life, we wouldn't get along. However, her highlights look nice.

There is an old man sitting in a chair by the fire. He looks deep in thought, but content. A small smile plays around the corner of his lips and he reminds me briefly of Christmas wrapped in Valentines Day wrapped in your fifth birthday where your parents hired a REAL PONY for your party.

There's a lady seated at a booth a few tables over. She observes her laptop intently, like a small mouse checking out a piece of cheese (the cheese, which oddly enough, has been placed on a piece of wood which boasts a spring and a lovely metal bar). Now she is smiling. Mice don't smile. (SNAP!)

Was that better? ;)

I've found this little "nook" at Panera. Single table situated right next to a cool wall sconce and tucked away in a corner so that I almost feel as if I'm NOT in a ridiculously overpriced, mediocre coffee, fatty soup national chain. I should be learning my lines, but it's a beautiful day outside...prime weather for people watching at Easton.

Two rather large women at a table outside (yes, it's THAT nice...and in October, no less) scarf down refined carbs and sport bad roots. One can only assume this is not their first meal of the day, as they chew and talk--often all at once--about kids and men and deals at Wal-mart. Four businessmen in crisp white shirts and boring ties sit at the table directly in front of me and discuss cars, football and finances, and block the aisleway (and consequently, my path to more coffee) with their over-stuffed briefcases, which are filled with expense reports and the drivel that steals time from their families and slowly squanders pieces of their souls (but hey, at least they can afford the baguettes).

A harried looking girl works the bagel counter and she runs like crazy trying to please everyone all the time, and one can only assume from the fine lines on her young forehead that work isn't the only place she does this; she has the tired look under her eyes that says she's in an endless loop of granting other people's wishes but never her own.

There's a young mother with a small boy and an oversized stroller, and she is met by a short black man who she greets as "Mr. Hill" and hugs awkwardly (parallel arms that hit him just under the armpits, so that he is forced to keep his arms parallel, too, but held higher, so that they wrap around her shoulders, because if he went any higher, he'd have her in some sort of weird sleeper hold.) The boy steals a sucker from his diaper bag and offers it to Mr. Hill, who flashes beautiful white teeth and says, "No, thank you." and gives the boy a pat on the head, the kind of pat you'd give your least favorite cat (the one you took in because it just kept hanging around, and in a brief moment of feline altruistic insanity decided to keep so your other cat could have "company".) Perhaps Mr. Hill and the mom are sleeping together, and this is their idea of a date, but because the kid is there, they have to continue pretending Mr. Hill is some sort of formal business associate, though it's obvious from the mom's "mom-jeans", mis-shapen t-shirt and ratty tennis shoes, she hasn't seen the inside of Corporate since the birth of Lollipop Boy ("Is 'Gwasshoppa' fwavored").

An older couple occupies yet another outside table, and they look like they're already dressed for next Saturday's big game against Illinois. They're so typical "Ohio" that I can only smile and shake my head...you know, that cross of upper middle class suburbanite (I'm guessing Gahanna), but born and bred from the good farm genes that made this state great. Hefty, solid, Midwest stock, but in really expensive OSU gear. The kind of people that drink Bud Light by the case, but paid over $300,000 for a small, cookie-cutter MI home in a pretentious neighborhood. I'm pretty sure she also dresses the stone goose on her porch to coincide with the holidays.

My coffee is cold now and needs to be warmed, but there's a rather large suitcase in the aisle, as apparently one of the businessmen is from out of town (big meeting about marketing soccer stadiums?). And--apparently--he's from someplace where it's socially acceptable to occupy my bee-line to a legally addictive stimulant with his Samsonite.

And now, time to learn lines.

1. Wow. Tonight I was rendered speechless, and for those of you who know me...well, this is no easy task. Suffice it to say, it was a good speechless. And there was a lot of blushing on my part, as well.

2. My roommate has meningitis. Yikes. Send up a prayer, cross your fingers--whatever you do to get a leg up in life--that I won't get this disease as well. I mean, the boy is SICK. I seriously think he may have been awake, oh, maybe eight hours or so in the last five days. He also had to have a spinal tap, TWICE, and did the throwing up thing too. Sarah does not like to throw up. She would not like to have meningitis. Work on this, people.

3. So the new dog isn't working out so well. I'm not really sure what to do about this. I feel like I've tried everything I can think of, but nothing's changing like it did with The Pipp. So does anyone out there want a dog? She's very, very, needy, but also incredibly sweet and cuddly. I think she needs a crazy, busy family so she gets a ton of attention and stimulation, preferably with a mom that stays home a lot (she's probably only in her crate like maybe four hours a day, but this still seems like too much for her) and a fenced in backyard to run around in (terrible on a leash). I'll be looking up shelters/humane societies tomorrow, but if anyone is interested let me know (she's all black, about 30 pounds, clumsy as all hell, but a good dog overall.)

4. Bedtime.

You know you've found a good friend when you're out shopping and you have a conversation that goes something like this:

Lisa: I really like these shoes. Don't you?
Me: (Makes face)
Lisa: (laughs) So you don't like them.
Me: They're not my favorite. Don't you like these? (holds up a kick-ass metallic strappy number)
Lisa: They're very "you".
Me: What's that mean?
Lisa: Oh you know...
Me: Well these are "you". (holds up ho-hum pointy flats). And oh wait, these are boring...you'd probably like these.
Lisa: Oh yeah? What about these? They're pretty ugly, I'm sure you'll like them.
(Sarah and Lisa now move rapidly up and down aisles picking up various examples and yelling...)
Me: Oooo, look, plain brown boring ones! Do you want to buy them?
Lisa: These are hideous...didn't you say you were looking for something like this?
Me: Oh wow. These are cheap and have no personality...perfect for you!
Lisa: These look like hooker shoes...I bet you want them for Christmas, huh?

Oh, good times and laughter at the shoe store. :)

I just saw the most chilling, scary movie of the year today.

No, it didn't involve blood, gore, severed fingers or screaming. There was no suspense, no hacking people up with chainsaws, or weird underground mutants who want to rip your head off.

It's called Jesus Camp (www.jesuscampthemovie.com), and I've never cried quite like that for a film, or been so angry, or wanted so much to make my life better as a result of seeing this documentary. I'm not sure every one will have the reaction I did. Most of my tears were a result of my upbringing, and most of my anger was from feeling like I wasted so much of my life on something that doesn't make sense the way it used to. At one point, Lisa leaned over to me and had to ask if I was okay. This was after a particularly disturbing part that she had just finished commenting on by saying, "No way. People don't really do that, do they?"...and then I watched as her mouth fell open when I was able to recite along.

They do. And I can state unequivocally now that it's wrong. We were wrong. It's all wrong. In today's climate of gray, this is something that I feel is very black and white. Clear cut. Wrong. I'm pretty sure Jesus had some specific intentions about how he wanted his followers to be, and the same dude who ate with prostitutes and thieves is probably a little appalled at how his views have been so twisted and skewed as to so fit and align with the Religious Right. I have the feeling that the same peaceful guy who got pissed off, not at Caesar, but at the religious/political hybrid that was taking over synagogues and worship would go into a modern, evangelical church that has not only an American flag in it, but a cardboard cut-out of George Bush and start flipping tables. (Especially with kids involved...you know, all that stuff about whoever misguides the little ones deserves to have a millstone hung around his neck and thrown into the sea.)

The thing is, there will be people who watch the film and be proud and say, "What a great way for our cause to be spread." They won't see the problem, they'll see the opposition as just not having "the truth", and any flak they receive will be "suffering for Jesus." I feel as though I can't change anything about them...and I can't decide if I even want to. I do know that I need to get my head out of my ass and truly figure out what I believe. I know what I don't believe--that's easy enough--but for a person to be able to sit down, as the (misguided?) people in this movie do, and say, "THIS is it", without any doubt, well, that's a little tougher. Especially when you feel like you're starting from scratch.

I felt like today that there's something I can do, but I don't know what. I feel as though I'm on the cusp of something great...be it a discovery or a revelation or just a different mindset. Scary movie, yes...but a good kick in the pants, as well. See it, if you will, but be prepared to think.

Or hell, skip it and go see "Employee of the Month."

1. I just finished watching the coolest show EVER. I mean, EVER. It's called "Heroes". Great story, cool characters, really awesome music, intelligent humor and even some interesting twists. Plus, Greg Grunberg is going to be on it, and it also features quite possibly the hottest Indian man I've ever seen.

2. The birthday has come and gone. It was pretty shitty, with some nice parts mixed in...thanks Tim, Todd, Tabbi, Lisa and Kate! Thanks to the nephews and niece and sister...ESPECIALLY my nephew Samuel, whose birthday is three days before mine. I said, "So you're the big eleven now...that means you're getting old, but not as old as me!" To which he replied, "You're not old. The last time I, like, saw you, I was thinking you were, like, a teenager or something."

I'm not gonna lie...that was the best gift I received all day.

3. I was accosted by Mexicans at a gas station the other night. I think if I had been anywhere else besides a well-lit, well-occupied area, I would have been scared (two got out of their car and decided it would be a good idea to invade my personal space and start touching me in an overly familiar way.) Instead, this crazy, angry, militant person came out of me, and I--probably quite foolishly--decided it was an equally good idea to get back in their faces and tell them in a deadly tone to "Get back in your car...RIGHT...NOW." And, "DO...NOT...touch me." It helped that I was a good three inches taller than all of them...but I was seriously pissed. DON'T MESS WITH ME, PEOPLE.

You're scared now, aren't you? I'm scary.

4. I experienced a small personal victory recently. I won't share, because it's that small, but I did it! Hooray!

5. I'm exhausted. I'm not liking my early mornings so much. I'm going to bed...get back in your car RIGHT NOW.

Look closely. First, let me just say...some girls got it, some girls don't.

Second, it's the eve of my birthday. If you haven't gotten me something from the following list, I count you not as my friend:

1. A pony (I've been wanting this since I was five...somebody's gotta come through sometime, right?)
2. A car (pay mine off, we'll be friends for life)
3. Sweaters
4. Shoes
5. Pay for a few of my voice lessons...seriously, not that hard to please
6. Clothes for my dog (I'm one of those closet "I like my dog to be cuter than me" freaks...but just can't bring myself to spend that much money on my actual DOG.)
7. Sweaters, shoes (did I already mention this?)
8. A lobotomy (this would help me more than you could possibly guess.)
9. A rug (2x3 or so) to cover up the rug that my dog completely destroyed (don't tell my landlord)
10. Buy me dinner. Or a lobotomy. Or a boob job. I'm really not asking for that much.

I have a lot to be thankful for. I have nice hands and nails. I'm not one of those girls who has to worry about manicures all that often because my nails break. I have a great roommate. And a great sister.

And I can't think of much else because I'm pretty morose about actually turning the big two seven. Help.

Somebody better at least bake me a cake. Or a cupcake. Hell, a twinkie with a candle will do.

I'm gonna go to bed and cry now.

Grrr.... Time to vent.

1. You know what I despise? Going over with someone in detail why a proposal you're making is a really great idea, telling them all the reasons why it would be beneficial for them to do what you're proposing, and even laying out--kindly, mind you--why not accepting your proposal would be a bad idea for them; THEN having them do just the opposite, only for them to find out that you were right to begin with, and now they're up a shit creek with no paddle (which is a really gross concept, by the way. A "shit creek"...a small running river of poo, that you've for some reason have decided to take a leisurely row in...and now you've lost your paddle, you moron.) So now you're faced with the option of calling out the immature but highly satisfying "I told you so" or waiting patiently for them to beg for forgiveness, which you pretend not to give at first (a tad immature, yes, but better than "I told you so") but eventually graciously bestow, because hey, you want to be the better person (and reap all the benefits that you were telling said groveller of before.)

2. My dog rolled in a dead squirrel today.

3. Good intentions do not a good idea make. Good intentions mixed with habitual impatience just breeds disaster.

4. I've started my new job, which I love. I have good friends, whom I love. I have shelter, food, water, and a free workout facility, which I love. But all I can think of is turning twenty-seven--TWENTY-SEVEN--in nine days and how my entire life will be over. And I'm not being dramatic. I really think that'll be the drop off point for me. Three years until thirty...an age that stretches out like a black abyss, that marks the slowing down of my metabolism and the speeding up of my wrinkles...an age that ensures that I literally will have to work off that cookie, which I just joke about doing now. That says I have five good years to have kids, if I so desire, before they start marking "Advanced Maternal Age" on my hospital chart. I don't even WANT kids, but I still feel like time is running out. I'm afraid that at thirty, I'll make the slow decline into mom-jeans, Keds and stretch marks, and there will be no return.

Okay, perhaps I'm being a little dramatic, but I still feel a little panicky.

Ooo, I know what will help...presents!

And that's the end of my rant...for today.

If I were a superhero, do you know what my super powers would be?

Allow me to tell you.

I would rid the world of "Support Our Troops" (or "Breast Cancer" or whatever the hell cause you have) ribbon magnets that are placed horizontally on cars rather than vertically. They look like deranged Jesus fish when they're not positioned properly, like they're taking a swim off the back of your car. I suppose people think they'll be easier to read if they're horizontal, but really, they just look ridiculous, and I want to make the world a better place by helping people not annoy me so much.

I would ensure that everyone spelled the contraction of "you" and "are" correctly. Civil war in Iraq? Bad. Homelessness in America? Wrong. Writing me a message to me saying "your pretty" instead of "you're pretty"? Just plain heinous and sick. I've obliterated sub-par evil doers for less.

I would also make sure that no one was able to sing "Phantom of the Opera" songs for community theatre auditions. Lex Luthor tried to make his own evil island, but it doesn't hold a candle to some pre-pubescent girl screaming "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" in her own key.

Finally, I would make several routinely overpriced things available to the masses...
1. Therapy ($120 an hour for me to pour my heart out, only so you can ask me more questions and nod thoughtfully?)
2. Quality cut and color. (Seriously, $200 to look good for six weeks? Four really, if you count regrowth...)
3. Good shoes and boots. (A heel with two straps of leather should not cost more than $35...I don't care what kind of animal it came from or who hand sewed it.)
4. Breast implants. (It should be a scholarship based on need.)

Dah, dah, dah DAH!!

I'm a little offended that no one commented on my "Three" post, which I found to be:
1. Witty
2. Insightful, and perhaps even
3. Wise.

Whatever, people. Whatever.

So, I was browsing through myspace this morning and realized that I was only clicking on profiles that fell between the ages of 25 and oh, about 33. And it's not as though there aren't people older on myspace...and THEN I was hit with the horrible thought, "Will I still be updating my profile when I'm forty-five!?"

I feel like a big, lonely loser already.

Myspace is such an oddity...it's a strange, strange world of first impressions. Some people are really good at this, and some people, not so good. (And sometimes, the people who seem to have it down are the ones that you meet in person later and scare the shit out of you.) So, in light of this, I've decided to make a few rules here for making a good first impression on myspace.

1. Please use a profile picture of some sort, be it a cartoon character, a symbol, or a really cheesy senior class picture. I am very shallow, I mean curious and would like to place some sort of mental image with the knowledge I'm gaining about you elsewhere. However, your picture should not include:
a.) You playing your guitar.
b.) You giving the world at large the finger.
c.) You with some girl whose face you've blacked out.
I wil not click on you on principle if you violate this.

2. SPELL CHECK. Remember high school English class? I don't want to look at your profile quote that's all mangled and misspelled. In fact, I've been known not to view an attractive person's profile because he has written something to the tune of, "leave the gun take the cannolly." It's really not that hard to a.) capitalize the first letter of your sentence, and b.) google the word to figure it out. I also don't want to have to take extra seconds reading your profile because you've used numbers and symbols instead of actual letters, or because you haven't taken the time to use punctuation of any sort.

3. Please, for the love of God, do not put that you "love to have fun" (see previous post.)

4. Do not ask to be my friend without accompanying your request with a message of some sort. I don't often walk up to a stranger in the mall and ask them to be my friend without either introducing myself or saying hello first. In fact, if I was just walking up to random people asking them to be my friend, and I was either playing a guitar, giving them the finger or with some person whose face I've blacked out, this would probably be grounds for them to punch me in the face. So please, just even a line that says "hi" is sufficient.

5. Do not proposition me in your messages. I will not be your friend. Apply this principle to the mall scenario...yes, that's right, it makes me want to punch you in the face.

6. Please put something in your "about me" section. Don't put "just ask" or "I am the bomb". I get that you believe that you are some sort of super amazing individual, but frankly, I'm just too lazy to send you a message and ask random, easy questions that you could just as easily have answered for me with minimal effort on your part.

And now that I've just wasted a good half hour writing about this when I could be at the mall asking people to be my friend...

THREE

I'm standing on the doorstep of the future, and I realize:
1. I've forgotten my pants.
2. I don't know how I got here.
3. The door is locked.

Why does 27 seem like:
1. Such a large number?
2. Such an old number?
3. Such a close number to 30?

I am learning that men see the phone as:
1. A way to order pizza.
2. An inconvenience.
3. The means to teach me an inordinate amount of patience.

Just because you put on a leotard:
1. Doesn't mean you're a dancer.
2. Doesn't make you look slimmer.
3. Doesn't make you graceful.

Three morally questionable things I do:
1. The occassional "borrowing" of wireless internet.
2. Speeding through school zones.
3. Pretending I don't see my dog pooping, thereby negating the use of the plastic bag I have stuffed in my pocket.

Three things I love:
1. My dog.
2. Singing.
3. Laughter...that I've caused.

Three things that annoy me:
1. The noises people make when they eat.
2. Being touched while I eat.
3. People eating off my plate.

Three wishes:
1. Smaller thighs.
2. Bigger boobs.
3. Ending world hunger, blah, blah, blah...

Three things I try to be, but will never be:
1. Neat.
2. Patient.
3. What's a good word for "not intense"?

Three reasons why this blog post is weird:
1. I'm exhausted.
2. I ate bad Chinese food.
3. There's nothing good on TV.

My stomach feels heavy...

I like writing. I love the way I can take words and make endless combinations of nouns and verbs to communicate something. I love punctuation and structure and turns of phrase. But I do not--DO NOT--want to write any more eulogies, okay, people?

I went to a memorial service for a theatre friend this morning. I just saw him last Friday when he came to a performance of Pippin. This Thursday he was found on a trail in Marysville with a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the head. I don't know what to ask or say...I mean, "Why?" immediately comes to mind, but there's also the fear of getting answers to my questions. Maybe the one thing that made Charles give up on life will be the one thing that scares me enough to do the same. I don't know...maybe it was simpler than that, like what my friend Tim said, that maybe Charles' sweet spirit wasn't made for the hardness of this life. Either way, there is a heaviness in my middle, like a black disk, and it's pushing, pushing down on any happy thought that peeks it's head out.

Sort of like a slow motion version of the Chuck E. Cheese game "Whack-a-Mole", only a lot less cheerful...and no tickets to buy cheap, shitty toys at the counter on your way out.

So hopefully today, this will be my last eulogy for awhile...

The first time I saw Charles Bedouin was at an audition for "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and my first thought was, "Whoa, Jon Lovitz does community theatre!" Charles was so much more cheerful than Jon, however, and every part he read over the next few days had heart and humor. He was eventually cast as the lovable Dr. Spivey...though I'm not sure the script called for Spivey to be lovable, Charles just made him that way, and inspired a very real rapport among the actors who played his patients.

I spent a lot of time with Charles backstage, and one thing I noticed about him was that he always had this little smile around the corners of his mouth that made it seem as though he was the only one hearing the punchline to a very clever joke. And while the rest of us certainly weren't the butt of the joke, we were definitely a part of it. Charles loved silly turns of phrase, putting emphasis at the completely wrong point in the sentence. He would routinely ask, "How are.........YOU?" with a tinge of Scooby Doo in the "you" and loved when you would come up with a phrase of your own to do the same to. He often would say something humorless or inane, and find it hilarious and start laughing with this Santa Claus-like guffaw (and in a way, he was a bit like a dark-skinned Santa, sans white beard and bag of toys, but full of mirth and the desire to make people happy) and then you had to laugh, because whatever joke Charles was a part of, you wanted to be a part of too.

I don't know what made my friend of such a short time decide that life was too much, but I know that if it was something he couldn't find the humor in anymore, it must have been pretty bad. I can't help but feel the joke's on us for only having known him for a few months. But I can take happiness in knowing that every memory I have of him is one of him smiling, or about to smile or thinking of a way to make someone else smile, and that's a rare thing to find in a person these days.

So, here's to Charles...thank you for happy memories, and for reminding me, even now through my tears, to smile.

I am not a patient person.

This gets me into trouble.

A lot.

On a different track, we may have found a dog for Jai. My friend at work had one that just wasn't adjusting well to their busy schedules, so I said we'd try taking her for a week. She's about the same size as Pip with longer black hair.

Poor Pip, he's so excited to have a sister ("Piper"...how cute is that?!?) but she's just overwhelmed right now and is not havin' it. He just keeps looking forlornly at her and trying all his best "I'm cute" tricks and the new dog is like, "Good God, if that brown dog humps me ONE MORE TIME..." I think they'll get along okay in a few days, though, once she calms down a bit and Pip remembers that there are appropriate and not-so-appropriate things to do to one's sister.

One last weekend for the show, ya slackers! Just two more performances! Christopher thought my hair was a wig! I just tried to explain that yes, my hair is really that big!

Waaaayyyyy too many exclamation points. I'm really not THAT excited.

My child is driving me insane.

What? You all didn't know I had a kid? Let me tell you a little about him...

He's about twenty-five pounds, cute as a button, energetic as all get out (okay, really, what does that mean, "all get out"?), loveable, cuddly...oh, and he loves to lick his own balls. Or the spot where his balls used to be, at least. His name is Pippin...or The Pip, or Pippi, or Pipster, or "You little bastard!!", but the latter is usually reserved for the times when he destroys molding or carpet. I heart him with all my, um, heart. But let me tell you, the last few days...

He's been hyper lately, which is to be expected, because I've been lazy and haven't been running him like I should, so I accept that some of this is my fault. One of his favorite things to do when he's real hyper is see that I'm wearing shorts, then throw his body at me forcefully and drag his claws all down my leg. He also loves to run the "track" all around the apartment, but when he's especially high-energy, he won't take the time to go around me, but will try to go between my legs or just knock me down.

But this is all "normal" hyper activity...yesterday took the cake.

Jai and I went to the North Market to pick up our lunch and then headed over to Goodale Park to eat. Pip was a perfect angel in the Market, and walked nicely on his leash, and didn't shove his nose in anyone's crotch. We get to the park, and there's no leash law there, so we let him run and water every tree in sight while we ate. He made a little dachsund friend and happily violated her under our picnic table. He frolicked and sniffed and did all those really happy things that dogs do, ending with a big, air-pawing, joyous roll in the grass. Jai and I chuckled at the insanely happy look on Pip's panting face, and made a little conversation about why dogs roll in the grass.

Dogs roll in the grass because it's instinctual. If they were in the wild, they'd roll in something to mask their scent...usually something putrid, foul, or generally stomach turning.

Pip heard the call of the wild all right.

Here he comes back to the picnic table, prancing proudly like the showdog he was meant to be (damn you, mixed parentage!) and looking at me like, "Aren't I the cutest thi--"

"Oh dear God!" I cry, as the scent of decay and deadness and all things horrid and nauseating hit my nose. The little bastard had actually found something to mask his scent...as if the scent he was currently sporting (white tea scented dog shampoo, a little of my perfume and dog sweat) just wasn't satisfactory to him as a canine. Even my hands where I touched his head had picked up the smell. I say to Jai, "And now I have to put the little bastard in my car!"

So I walk the little bastard back to the car, careful not to touch any part of him if I can help it, and I'm desperately hoping that nobody thinks it's me that smells this way. We get home and its bathtime. Two shampoos later (and many, many dirty looks from my dog, who hates all things water...yeah, he usually pees if you say, "You wanna get in the shower!?!?" and reach for him) I've got him back to "normal" dog smell, and by now, he's so exhausted, he gets right in his bed and falls asleep, looking like a perfect little angel. How could I stay mad at that?


Now, if he looked like little Daphne...that's a different story.

Congratulate me.

So, a few weeks ago, I found this ad in the paper for a "public speaker" for The Bradford School. The description sounded like me to a "T" (what does that mean, exactly..."to a 'T'"?), so I called and got in for a group interview. The first part of the group interview just went over Bradford and the position, money, etc. The second part was an impromptu speech from us. I was instantly excited, because this is what I do, you know? I must have done alright, because I scored a second interview, and I aced that, as well. So, lo and behold, I'm suddenly getting paid to talk in front of people.

I've been preparing for this my entire life. My sister can attest to this...how many hours, Heather, would you say that I spent in front of the mirror per day making faces at myself? And I've always been one of those weird people who loved speech class and giving presentations in school. So, now it's all paying off!

Like I said, congratulate me. I'm amazing.

And I look really hot in a suit.

Hey! Sidebar: get your asses to see "Pippin"! Only two weekends left! (www.ltob.org).

I know that it's not nice to laugh at those who are less fortunate than you...but I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist.

Jai's been wanting a dog, and I'm a huge "rescue" person, so I've been perusing all the different sites and I came across this unfortunate creature. I know people say all the time, "I haven't laughed that hard in awhile!" but...

Seriously, folks, I haven't laughed that hard since the Autistic boy at work told us, loudly, that he was going to have his testacles checked to ensure he would have beautiful children.

And every time I look away, I think to myself, "This isn't nice! And it's really not THAT funny...". But then I re-look and it's all over.

Poor little Daphne...she really just wants to find her "forever home", and here I am, the calloused hag that I am, posting her poofy, homeless head for all to see.

Am I a bad person?

Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear your answer...I was laughing too hard.

Several things for today's post:

First, a rant...

Please stop putting on your profile that you "like to have fun". This is the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard, and if you have a "delete" button, I will not hesitate to use it. OF COURSE you like to have fun. If you were having "fun" and weren't enjoying yourself, then it wouldn't be classified as "fun" anymore. There isn't anyone who doesn't like to have fun, because fun by it's very nature is enjoyable. Please be more specific next time...say, "I like to go dancing with my friends" or "I really enjoy laughing myself silly when I'm drunk." I will know at this point that you're having "fun".

Second...another rant.

Please stop being rude. You are not nearly as smart as you think you are, nor are your comments being taken as "witty" or "superiorly right". You are just annoying and I want to kick you. You don't own the establishment that you put so many of your hours into...you are a volunteer, just like the rest of us, and it's super annoying/irritating/make-me-want-to-scratch-my-own-eyes-out frustrating that you think you're too good to participate in a civilized discussion with the rest of us. And yes, I'm being vague, because at this point, I'm still trying to keep the peace and hold my tongue and not be rude myself. This is what I like to call "venting"...ahhhh. I feel better. :)

Third...a warning.

If you're going to be a cast member in Pippin, please remember NOT to fall down the stairs or off the stage. Said tumbling will result in you tearing the ligaments in both ankles, bonking your head, skinning your knee and generally scaring the rest of your fellow cast members to death...especially when they've seen you fall and must still go on stage, knowing you're (sorry) no spring chicken and probably really hurt. Also, remember that falling is not such a good idea, because then your doctor won't let you come to your performance the next night and the director will have to step in for you, book in hand, and do your part as valiantly as she can. And she'll do a good job, but she really doesn't want to be stepping in for people because she generally frowns on her actors hurting themselves.

And that's all...

I am too tired to entertain you all. Come back some time when I'm feeling witty.

Or even better, let me entertain you on stage: www.ltob.org . We opened tonight!! Come see us!

Speaking of missed opportunities...

My old piano teacher died earlier this month. The memorial service was planned for the 29th. I had every intention of going...how could I not go to a memorial service for someone who I saw once a week every week for eight years? For some reason, however, I got it in my head that the service was SUNDAY, July 29th, which as we all know, doesn't exist in 2006. So you can imagine my surprise when I'm asleep on the couch yesterday and I'm awakened by the alarm on my phone which is reminding me to go to said service...in ten minutes.

I seriously felt like crying. I know that Mr. Somerville probably won't know if I was there or not, but I felt like I needed to honor the man that gave me a gift that today serves as a source of creativity, emotional release and even sometimes income. And not to be crass, but you don't usually get a raincheck on these type of things. They won't hold another one just because you're an idiot and don't know how to read a calendar.

So, in penance, I'd like to post a short eulogy here.

James Somerville scared me, but in a good way. He was a tough man, an instructor who tolerated little deviance from constant rehearsal and practice. He was the type of teacher that made you afraid of less than your personal best, and who made you tremble when you knew that you'd chosen to watch TV...or God forbid, play sports...rather than spend an extra hour or two at the keyboard, and now, you were walking into your lesson unprepared.

His small apartment on Summit Street routinely smelled like hotdogs, had little natural light, and was stuffed to the gills with antiques, old papers, music and three pianos. I remember sitting on a threadbare blue chair that was old and sinking, and perfect for a tired child to fall asleep in, except I rarely nodded off because I was either a) partaking of the candy he kept stocked in a crystal bowl between the chair and a tired old couch, b) gazing around at the mysterious paintings and artifacts tucked here and there about the room or c) scrambling to review my music or fill in my music theory homework that I had neglected to do once again.

Mr. Somerville was not an overly verbose man. His responses to your playing more often fell on the side of "gruff", and it was not uncommon to be sent to the porch to clip your nails, or have him bang on the lower keys in frustration over your pitiful attempts at Bach, or for him to snatch your music, tap you on the shoulder to move, sit in your spot and show you how your piece was supposed to sound. And oh, the sounds he could work from those keys. Always emotional, never rushed, the music would pour out of the dusty, dilapidated old instrument and make you wish, not for the first time, that you had practiced harder that week.

There were times, though, that you had put in the work required of you and when you finished your piece, perfectly or nearly perfectly, you were met with silence. And when you turned your head to face your instructor, a small smile played around the corner of his lips, as if he wanted to laugh for joy, but wouldn't, lest you take his joviality as license to slack off for a week. Then he'd tilt his head, pat you brusquely on the shoulder, and dispense his highest compliment, "That was very nice."

And you knew then, you'd really rocked that score.

It's funny to look back now and see how proud he really was of us, when my duet partner Anna and I played our thirty-two page two-piano duet to perfection, or when we performed in front of nearly eight hundred people and received thunderous applause, or the greatest individual honor of all: being scheduled as the last musician to play in one of his private recitals. He taught us much about performance that I still carry with me today...to never show a mistake on your face or in your body language, to play like you were the greatest musician alive, whether you were playing Haydn or Rachmaninoff, and how to add power through subtle drama in tone, phrasing...even through your appearance for a recital or concert.

He was a quiet man on all levels, never revealing much about his past or present...not that we thought to ask once during our elementary, Jr. High or High School years. He put up with our childish tantrums, our teenage surliness, our wanting to play pop music or poorly arranged hymns for church competitions...he helped us with it all, maybe not necessarily patiently, but perhaps "enduringly" because we were his kids, and we were helping him live his dream as he was helping us live ours.

So, thank you, Mr. Somerville, for instilling in me a permanent love for music and meter, a true appreciation for practice and hard work, and for exposing me to performance and even now, nearly ten years after my last lesson with you, helping me to be the person I am today.

They say that a big break only comes once in a lifetime.

Wouldn't you know it, I had mine and blew it. If I could kick my own ass, I would. Perhaps I could get a volunteer?

So, I've mentioned my voice lessons before and how amazing they are, right? Well, turns out that this guy is also related to one of the biggest agents in the country, who decided to visit during my lesson. The same lesson where I heard phrases like, "The great ones are always on. There are no excuses." And, "The great ones could make your purse cry."

I was not one of the great ones yesterday. I made excuses, and my purse did not cry or even tear up. And neither did the agent. Whaddya know...

On a side note, if you have really bad panty lines when you're wearing jean shorts:
a) your shorts are too tight
b) your panties are too tight
c) your butt is too big for said panties or shorts
d) all of the above

Ah, the coffee shop. Always good fodder for blogs...

The things I do for community theatre...

Not only do I give up a good portion of my free time, sacrificing gas and mileage and sometimes relationships, and not only do I spend time outside the theatre in lessons and memorizing lines and trying to get my freaking slow-ass feet moving, but I've spent my last three weekends in various states of rehearsal and set painting. I'm tired every night, and wake up cranky nearly every morning, only to go to work (in Hilliard, no less, which means I don't have time in between work and rehearsal to go home, which in turn means that I leave the house at twenty after seven--a freaking m--and don't get home until, at the earliest, twenty after ten--p freaking m) get tired out some more, rush around on my lunch break trying to accomplish things I can't accomplish in the evenings, grab some shitty food--if I'm lucky--and head off to a theatre that, at present, pretty much amounts to a box with a stage in it.

And why do I torture myself month after month after month like this?

Because I love it.

I love the challenge of learning a new role, of getting inside a character's head, and bringing a person to life by utilizing parts of myself, but also dredging up emotions and actions I never believed I could manufacture. I love the comraderie the theatre instills in me...the way I've learned to make friends quickly and deeply, the way I've allowed people to have a glimpse of my life, and ultimately a glimpse at my vulnerability--if you're watching closely and I'm doing my job correctly--because a character is never believable unless they are in some way vulnerable. I love the way the stage makes me feel alive, just for a moment, and the discipline of selflessness acting requires of me, since the role I play is never really about me, but how I make the audience feel in that moment.

It's a crazy, too-small world where everybody knows everybody else's business, and more often you're talked about than talked to, and personal politics often outweigh raw talent in the casting process. It's a life of fast food, fast changes and fast thinking. I've discovered it's not uncommon for me to put on a pair of jeans I haven't worn in a while and find that they're falling off of me because for the last two months, I've been surviving on too little sleep and too much caffeine. And yet, I find myself looking forward to showtime, to my fifteen minutes of "fame", even if it's in Grove City or Dublin or--God forbid--Hilliard. I don't get paid, my fellow actors and I are often underappreciated, and still I trudge in to rehearsal or a show night exhausted, but feeling more human than I feel anywhere else.

Of course, getting to wear a dress with a slit up to your left butt-cheek is a bonus, too.

:)

Dear Dale,

I hate lawyers.

Love,

Sarah
********
Dear Randy,

No, No, NOOOOOO.

Love,

Sarah
********
Dear Everyone Else,

The crying jag is officially over as of yesterday. Somewhere along the way, I've re-found my heart of stone and can return to being calloused and jaded and hateful of Paris Hilton.

Thanks, though, to everyone (except Dale, of course) for all the love and encouragement you sent me over the last few days. I really appreciate it.

Now enough of this mushy shit. Let's go knock over some old ladies!!

Love,

Sarah

Author's Note: No old ladies were harmed in the writing of this blog.

Does it count as "crying" if you tear up, then realize that you're in public and stop?

Jai said yes. I was about to argue with him when I started crying for real.

Make that three days in a row, folks. Good thing I skipped Saturday, cuz this is just getting annoying.

I'm really not all that worried about my body's sudden interest in estrogen. While the past few days have been hard, for sure, it's also been really cathartic to get it all out...all the crap that's been building and building and building. Sort of like taking Milk of Magnesia for the soul.

Gross.

On the bright side, maybe all this extra feminine girly what-not that's going on with me means that I'll get bigger boobs. There is a plus side to everything, and I'll find it. Even if it's a stretch. And highly unlikely.

Thanks to all of you that had kind words to say after my last penned meltdown...I just wish I had read my blog comments before going to work, where I cried AGAIN. Geez. This is getting to be a bad habit.

And for those of you who didn't have kind words, I've made a list, and I'm just psycho enough these days to hunt you all down and do...something. I'll figure it out. I might cry on you and ruin your shirt. Yeah...I'll wear extra mascara and be sure to work up a good nose full of snot. You're all screwed now.

And quit twisting that last sentence, pervs.

Well, it's official. I was worried over nothing. My dance solo has now been cut from the show--under pretenses that "I don't care how good you are, I don't want to see just you dancing for 60 measures."

I bet no one ever said that to Barishnykov. Or The Star Wars Kid.

I probably should be a little offended, but I'm so relieved, that I'm conveniently forgetting to have my feelings hurt. Seriously, thank you, Deb. Now I can just focus on my acting and singing and looking cute in my fringe skirt. I've decided that I'm just going to Sharon Stone it for this production, too, and skip the dance briefs. I'm not sure if that will make you more or less likely to come to the show.

Probably less, since I've been meaning to tell you all: I'm a dude.

Alright, all this crying has made me downright silly and weird. I'm going to bed.

I am losing my freaking mind.

The tears have been flowing more freely than ever these days, and I'm not real sure what to do with that. I cried Thursday because someone put their arm around me and said, "How are you?". I also cried Thursday because someone patted me on the back and told me I was a good person. I cried again Thursday in the car on the way home from rehearsal. I cried Friday on the phone with a friend. I skipped Saturday, just for kicks. I cried today over something I never would have cried over before, but for some reason, today it was a tragedy. And no, I won't reveal what I cried over, because it's embarrassing and makes me look weak.

And Lord knows, I hate for people to think I'm weak.

Just for the record, I am not PMS-ing. This is something entirely different...a lifetime of salty water build-up. A hole in the dam. Complete mental meltdown, I suppose. Nah, not really, just a lot of stuff happening all at once, and for a girl who's usually really good at compartmentalizing her emotions, the past week or so has been like the overzealous temp getting a hold of your desk space while you were on vacation and doing a little "organizing".

But it makes me feel a little better that you're probably depressed now after reading this. Hooray for Schadenfreude. :)

My problems probably aren't even that bad, but I'm usually so proficient at either a)denial, b)blame or c)feigned ignorance, that I can cope. It's just that when everything (EVERYTHING...with the possible exception that I had a tasty salad today, and a particularly satisfying greasy sandwhich last night) is bad all at once, and you don't do heavy narcotics, things can seem overwhelming. I swear if one more thing happens (knock on wood) I'm going to crawl into bed, set the alarm for half-past never, and go to sleep.

So, how are you? :)

Yeah, yeah. I'll post something funny tomorrow.

Posted comment by Heather from 7/14/6:

Cool: Watching and loving Mr. Rogers as he rides around his living room on a kid's tricycle when you're about 3 years old.
Not cool: When your older sister and brother make fun of Mr. Rogers so bad that you get furious and start yelling at them and burst into tears.

** This happened yesterday at our house with Sam and Kate (only it was Little Einsteins) and I couldn't help but think of you and your beloved Mr. Rogers. Can you ever forgive me?

No. I am obviously damaged beyond repair by what you and Joe did.

That, combined with the fact that you would never let me play with your Strawberry Shortcake dolls...something about not wanting me to cut off all their hair and otherwise destroy them. Whatever.

Oh yeah, and all the times Joe would play fun games with me and Sam, like tying us to a chair and timing us to see how long it would take to extricate ourselves (you'd be surpised how well tube socks work to tie one's hands). Oh no, my friend, sister of mine, I remember the Mr. Rogers instance quite clearly, and forgiveness will be long in coming.

Okay, no, I don't remember that at all, but, oh, Heather, that was hilarious...poor Kate. I feel her pain. ;)

Cool: An Ipod.
Not Cool: Not having an Ipod. :(

Cool: New clothes.
Not Cool: When your dog locks himself in the bathroom, and you've stupidly hung a new bra and shirt on the back of the door, and said animal goes beserk and begins pulling on anything he can get his teeth onto because apparently, he's decided that getting all the hangy stuff down is his gateway to freedom. Because of his insanity, he rips your new bra in half so it looks like two (little) flying saucers with weird straps and also puts a big hole in what was to be your favorite shirt, rendering it and the brazier useless.

Cool: Excercising and working up a good sweat.
Not Cool: Sweating profusely for no reason.

Cool: Wearing sunglasses on a sunny day to protect your eyes.
Not Cool: Wearing your sunglasses inside for any reason, but especially because you think it looks cool or because you have a "black eye". Unless your name is Tina and your husband's name is Ike or unless your name is Bono and you make millions and millions of dollars counting "one, two, three, fourteen", your sunglasses are not an accessory once you cross a door jam, no matter how fashion forward they are or how much money you spent on them. They might be cute perched on your hat or used as a headband, and they always look nonchalant and savvy when looped over a pocket or purse edge, but never, ever because you think you're a movie star or even an above average person or some sort of victim of crime, sporting accident or personal carelessness.

Cool: Blogging.
Not Cool: Crossword puzzles.

Cool: Actually getting a dance step right.
Not Cool: Being yelled at for singing flat because you were concentrating so hard on moving your freaking slow-ass feet.

Cool: Peace and quiet.
Not Cool: Children, especially ones who decide they need to kick their sister, causing said sister to jerk--and rightfully so, because the little brat, if anything, has a strong right leg--right while you have a sharp instrument in said sister's mouth. Then you have insane urge to jab child in eye, but know you shouldn't, even though you're sure this is one of Satan's spawn, and you're probably ridding the world of evil by doing so. To add insult to injury, child's mother thinks this is all very funny, and you look like the jerk because you, the stranger, are suddenly the disciplinarian, because you're the one who has to say in a firm, but calm, tone, "Honey, it's very important not to be a little beast while I'm working here." Then you have urge to slap mother, because you're sure that while she's probably an intelligent woman, her lapse in judgment in sleeping with the Devil (who I'm sure was charming and held the door and bought her dinner and pretty things) has produced this child who has now ruined what was otherwise a perfectly nice day.

Cool: Feeling well rested.
Not Cool: Not going to bed because you are still on the computer. Good night.

And yet another:

Expresso...really, really, fast coffee.

So today was a lesson in humility. Funny how the word "humility" is the root of "humiliation".

I cannot, absolutely cannot, dance.

I can shake my ass in a club. I can do a few sensuous strip tease moves and wiggle my hips and run my hands through my hair...I can even do a decent hip-swivel-turn and the Lawn Mower and a little move I like to call "The Crank". But put me on stage, ask me to do a kick-ball change, and suddenly I'm--and yes, this is really, really horrible what I'm about to say, so you should probably stop reading--suddenly I'm Christopher Reeve...post traumatic horse accident. No, scratch that, I'm Christopher Reeve's love child with Elaine Bettis. I'm freakin' Chrislayne Rettis. A fish that has just been snared and is flopping around in the bottom of a dinghy, sucking nothing but burning, dry air into its parched little gills has more grace and style than I.

It's not that I don't try. And it's not that I don't have confidence that I can do it (eventually...after some sort of lobotomy or perhaps brain washing or maybe gene splicing). It's just that, plain and simple, I suck. And I'm not saying this to get sympathy. My attempts are quite laughable, actually. You'd laugh the way you'd laugh the at Autistic kid who's been taught to say, "Nice ta-ta's" to every girl that walks by (true story)...you'd think it's funny at first, and then, when you really applied some brain cells, you'd realize it was just plain sad.

That's me...in jazz shoes.

So, needless to say, I'm a little well, yes, embarrassed, humiliated, and maybe show-up-to-work-in-my-underwear ashamed, but I'm also a tad freaked out. This character that I've created is one of my best. She's a culmination of a few years of ups and downs and a new maturity in my acting, and my voice (thanks to my new voice teacher) is better than ever, and for all "intensive purposes" (ha!) I should rock this show (if I do say so myself). But then, right in the middle of everything, I have to move this body, Fastrada's body, and I feel like all the hard work I've done up to this point will be overshadowed by my grotesque two left feet.

"That one girl was good, but she sure can't dance."

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm afraid it will ruin my entire character, or ruin the experience of the character for the audience. Now, I know that I'm being dire to some degree, but really, people, I'm not sure you're understanding me here. William Hung could dance circles around me. Kevin Bacon would have given up on me and gone looking for another preachers daughter to corrupt. I make the Star Wars kid look like a fucking ballerina (sorry, Heather.)

Big sigh...I think I'll go eat something fatty to cheer myself up. Oh great. Yeah. That'll help me move better.

Okay, I think I'll go eat something fatty to cheer myself up.

Excerpts from the new English to Sarah Dictionary, now at your local Barnes and Noble.

Statement:
"I think we could learn a lot from each other."

Translation:
"I think you could learn a lot from me."

Statement:
"I was thinking about that last situation/statement/comment and I've come to a conclusion."

Translation:
"I was poring over that last sitaution/statement/comment and analyzing it from every possible angle, turning it inside out, making it mean something entirely different than what was originally intended, then spending time worrying about possible future implications of the situation/statement/comment one, five, and ten years down the road, making mental spreadsheets and pie charts, then re-thinking everything based on my conclusion, and am standing here talking to you about it now as though I spent thirty seconds in between SVU re-runs and it's just now crossed my mind and I felt like, oh, on a whim, bringing it up in between a conversation about farts and my dog."

Statement:
"I really liked the new Superman movie"

Translation:
"Brandon Routh is my new boyfriend."

Statement:
"Whoooo-hooo!"

Translation:
"Don't let me drink any more."

Statement:
"I loves me some chocolate cake!"

Translation:
"I loves me some chocolate cake!"

Statement:
"Yeah, so..."

Translation:
"You've dropped the ball in the conversation, and now I have to resort to monosyllabic filler words. I can even drag out the 'sooooo', but it's your turn to pick up the slack, because obviously, I can't think of anything intelligent to say."

Statement:
"I walk like I know where I'm going."

Translation:
"Where the hell am I?"

Gluttin'- (v.) to really be askin' for it, to really be deservin' of.

"I'm gluttin' for punishment."

Whopping Cough-(n.) a stupendously large coughing disease that they inoculate you for. Not to be confused with the whooping cough, because that's the correct way to say it, (and why say Valentine's when you can say Valentimes, you get me?)

KYMBURLEE-(n.) 1.)a really asinine way to spell your child's name. 2.)a good way to irritate your child for the rest of her life, as no one in their right mind will ever be able to spell her name correctly the first time. 3.)a good way to bring images of large, thick shouldered, short necked, unusually hairy women to mind every time someone thinks of your child and her ridiculous name.

And yes, that is how you spell "asinine".

Unconscience.

"I was hit in the head and knocked unconscience."

This means that a blow to the cranium robs you of your moral code, apparently. Watch out for low hanging objects...(hey-oh!)

So I thought playing Candy Starr was fun, but she's got nothin' on Fastrada. Holy crap, every rehearsal, more and more stuff bubbles out of me (gross) for this character. I don't know where it comes from, and it's a little frightening that I could have so much fun playing a trophy wife with a reverse Oedipal complex, but dang, when you get to mix Katherine Hepburn, Minnie Mouse and John Lithgow in one voice, and get to be over-the-top sexually charged, it's a good time.

Would anyone think less of me if I seriously harmed a child? I have in mind little "Abbey"...or at least, this is what her mother keeps calling her over and over in full voice at the freaking library. "Abbey, sit in your chair right now, I mean it or we're never coming here again." (Child immediately gets up and runs to the magazine rack. Mother pursues.) "Abbey, if you don't sit back down in your chair this instant, I mean it, we're--one...twoooo...sit down! We are never coming here again and you're not getting any icecream, I mean it!" (Child does horrible fake cry and throws herself on ground). "Abbey, we might get icecream if you stop right this minute." (Child gets up and bangs on computer.) "Abbey, we do not hit, Abbey. Abbey, I promise, we are never doing this again. Abbey, I will give you icecream if you stop."

Abbey, I will promise not to hold your nose and mouth shut at the same time if you can shut up for two seconds. Abbey, Mommy will give you an arsenic icee when we get home! Abbey, if you keep banging on the keys like that, Mommy will have to play the "See Who Can Hold Their Breath the Longest" game...in the pool...underwater...while Mommy sits on you.

Oh dear God. That is by far the sickest thing I have ever written. I should delete it. Heather, please do not read this...

Oh crap, I just hit "publish". I must be unconscience.

The goose babies have reached adolescence.

They're hungry all the time, have huge, oversized feet, and adult heads perched atop grey downy baby bodies. At least, the more advanced ones do. These are the ones that get all the dates in the pond...the ones who can have perfectly normal conversations with adults, and exude a confidence well beyond their years. The ones who are already getting laid, have tried drugs and binge drinking, and still look hot the next morning in time for Algebra.

Then, there are the geese who haven't quite made it yet...they're all messy feathers, downy and adult mixing bizarrely and sticking out in random tufts. These are the geese that are in the band, chess and drama clubs, and have a vocabulary that is well advanced beyond their years due to a voracious reading habit (words which they try to insult the popular geese with...which is never, ever a good idea, since a simple "fuck off" from a popular gosling is so much more powerful than a well placed complex modifier from the goose who's a hall monitor), are still sporting an egg tooth, and are most often found following behind their moms at the mall...and of course, they're never wearing the right outfit.

Which goose baby do you suppose I was?

The funny thing is, all geese look alike once adolescence is over. You can't tell one from the other in the V-formation, you only know that they all have to take their turn in the headwind no matter what the pecking order was in the pond (you see what I did there? "Pecking"? Nice.) And, they're all equally annoying what with their huge cigarette-ash looking poop that you can find all over the apartment complex (and I get fined if I don't pick up the Pip's poo...I seriously should be able to "fine" the next goose defecator with a shotgun) and pre-5 a.m. honking right outside my f**cking window.

I suppose you think I'm going to say something profound here and compare my little anecdote to life...

...nah.

Me and Lisa and a real PIRATE...

Sorry for the bluriness...

I want to be a mug.

Fragility is a new state for me. I feel as though I'm affected (effected?) by the littlest things these days...a change in temperature, an off-hand comment, the fluttering of a butterfly wing (minus Ashton Kutcher), the slightest breeze. I hate admitting that I'm in a fragile state, not because being this way is hard to handle (in fact, it's kind of good for me...I'm much more emotionally in tune these days) but because of the pressure it puts on other people...which is why I haven't admitted it before.

Yes, that's right, I'm a closet people pleaser.

Anyway, take for instance, the difference in how you handle a china teacup versus that plastic cup you got at the dollar store. The teacup is pretty and all, with it's thin porcelain lip, handpainted flowers, and smoothly curving bottom (maybe I am describing myself here! Right...) but you treat it differently than an ordinary cup. So I don't want to be a teacup, with people handling me with nervousness or unsure hands because they don't normally deal with china and they feel like they might break me at any moment.

I also don't want to be the dollar store cup...the one you forget about in your bedroom for two months and now smells permanently of rotten milk and old socks...the one you just throw away because you can get a new one. The one that still has a permanent kool-aid stain in the bottom from your brief obssession with Vodka and cherry flavored water. The one you put in the dog food bag to scoop out the brown canine goodness. The one you...okay, I'm done.

No, I want to be an "I Heart Grandpa" mug. It's the mug you don't mind throwing in the dishwasher, but you still have your coffee out of it every morning, because no other mug fits your hand the way this one does, or has that chip in the corner from the time you accidentally banged it into the sink, or because hell, your coffee just doesn't taste right unless it's in this particular vessel.

So yeah, I want to be a mug.

And speaking of mugs, I've been informed I need to change mine on here (ha! You had to know I wouldn't let that one go...yeah, you know who you are.:)) Anybody have any decent shots of me they want to forward on? KL? I'm sure you have some interesting ones from last night...(anytime a pirate walks into a bar is a good time.) I am currently digitally defunct, with no camera, scanner, or otherwise technologically forward thing to help me on my quest. OOoo, maybe someone could give me any one of those things as a present. I loves me some presents.

I've decided "presents" is my "love language".

And now I'm officially rambling. Okay, back to Chuck and his Diary.

Two more for your aural pleasure:

"Drownding"--combining past and present aquatic suffocation in one little word.
"Chipole-tay"--Did you know that they even have a freaking cup there that tells you the right way to say their name (and, incidentally, all the wrong ways, including this one)? Did you know that it seems as though half of Columbus is lysdexic? Geez, people, it's CHIPOTE-LAY, not CHIPOLE-TAY...if I hear this mispronunciation one more time, I might have to spell check someone in the face. I mean, I can understand if someone would mispronounce a word like "insouciance" or "antidisestablishmentarianism" or...

...alright, I'm going to stop now...mostly because I can't think of any more hard words to mispronounce.

Hey! It's the last weekend of my latest show. If you miss this one, you will miss an opportunity to see me with spit curls, and to see me straddling not one, but two men in a matter of minutes.

Why are you even reading the end of this post?!?! Go buy your tickets!

Oh yeah, and everyone else is really good too, blah, blah, blah...

CHIPOTE-LAY.

*Comment posted on 6/9/06 blog post*

Hey Pip,

This is Baskin ... the Commodore's (holy) terrier. I know how it is man. You're young ... you'll get used to it.

Okay, so I am a little smaller than you. I love to jump off of the Commodore's 12' tall bed. One day I stove in both of my front legs and couldn't walk. You'd of thought he lost an entire bag of milkbones the way he was carrying on ... sobbing! A few shots and a couple of muscle relaxers later, I was zippin around like normal. What is it with these humans. They bathe everyday, they eat with their mouths closed, they can't lick themselves ... no wonder they're miserable! Anyway, hang in there, pal, and I hope you're feeling better soon.

Smell you later!

Baskin

Dear Baskin,

First, let me just say, "Woof, woof, mwuf, bark, yip, woof...barrr-ooooo."

Yeah-heah. You know what I mean, Playah.

Second, I just wanted to thank you for your nice note. I didn't know that we could "stove" our legs like that! (I had to ask my owner, whom I think of as "Goddess Who Picks Up My Poop", what "stove" meant, but I feel you now, man, I feel you now.) I will have to be more careful about that. Yeah, Dude, I can't believe I ran into that door. The Goddess is such a wonderful housekeeper that those babies are just clear, you know, like see through, and well, you know how it is when they're like, "Wanna go outside?!" and you're like, "Hell, yeah!" and then your brain just like stops working, and all you can think about is wagging your tail so hard that your whole back end wags too, or the possibility of maybe eating or rolling in something dead or even my own poo...or getting to smell some yaknowwudI'msayin', hello!!

So yeah, dog, thanks for thinking of me. What's the deal with our owners freaking out? You're right, you'd think she was the one who'd thrown out her back and couldn't lick her balls (panick, dude, FOR REAL.) I mean, I was the one who was thinking it'd been like, what, almost 6 months in our time since I'd been able to reach "down there", and she's the one bawling. Geez, lady, calm down and figure out a way to reach dese.

Whoah! Whoah! What was that noise?!!? Holy Crap! Holy Crap! Kill! Kill! Protect! Defend!!

False alarm...it was just the Goddess tapping her fingers on the wall. (Man, I ALWAYS fall for that!)

Alright, suckah, I gotta run. Seriously. In circles. All over the apartment. In a pattern: dining room, family room, hallway, bedroom, jump on the bed, jump off the bed, hallway, family room, dining room, slip on the kitchen floor. Repeat. I don't know what to do with all this energy. I've tried chasing my tail but it's just not the same as chasing some other tail...hey-oh!

Peace and doggie treats,

The Pip

I'm going to tell you a secret...

My self-worth is directly tied to my e-mail inbox.

This is sad, I know, but true. When I check my e-mail and see that I have new mail, even if it's "hOt v-iAgra 4u", I feel loved. I feel as though there are people out there who care about me and my erectile dysfunction. When, like today, I check not once, but twice, and there's nothing from no one, not even my on-line pharmacist friend, I sink into maybe not the "depths of despair", but perhaps the "depths of I-could-eat-a-bowl-of-ice-cream".

I know, I know, I need therapy...blah, blah, blah.

I'm going to tell you another secret...

I can handle other people's problems, but not my own.

Take, for instance, a few years back when my nephew had a seizure, and my sister's freaking out, running around the dining room table shrieking "I didn't give him his Motrin! I didn't give him his Motrin!" I, cool as a cucumber, dial 911 and take care of the situation (his fever had just spiked, and kids often have mild seizures when this happens. Who knew?). I take a cold, wet cloth and sponge him down until his fever recedes (my sister--this is sooo much funnier now--is still running around the table where I now have the boy and taking whole handfuls of water and splashing it on him. I love you, Heather.)

Yesterday, though, my dog has some health issues and I burst into my roommate's room at 7:30 a.m. bawling. Yes, bawling. Me, Sarah J. I-can't-cry-on-stage-because-I-can't-cry-in-real-life Storer. The girl who thought "The Notebook" was a comedy. The woman who couldn't stop laughing when her boss snapped one day and threatened to fire the entire staff. Then I'm freaking out because I'm torn about whether I should take him to the vet or go to work. So then I'm sobbing on the phone to Jen and she hears me freaking out and just tells me not to worry about it. Jai gets me calmed down and goes with me to the vet, where I'm nearly in tears as they give the Pip a shot (he was yelping, for crying out loud).

Turns out he's okay...just so happens that running full force into sliding glass doors doesn't always agree with small animals (don't say, "Wanna go outside?!?!" until after you open the door.) And HE'S the one that gets to take muscle relaxers. For a whole week. Meanwhile, this entire drama seems to trigger latent insecurities in me, and I'm nervous and jumpy the rest of the day, despite the manual labor I put in at work that leaves me exhausted. I couldn't sleep last night, and I woke up (at freaking SIX...in the MORNING) with an athsma attack and a headache today. Siggghhh...this has been a long week.

Good thing I have a pool. And a pack of Djarum Supers (much better than Black's, by the way). And Newcastle. And my dog's muscle relaxers.

Not that I've partaken of ALL of those vices today...

WARNING: DEPRESSING POST AHEAD

So, I've been riddled with bizarre and complex dreams of late, complete with stabbings, snow and snipers (okay, not snipers, but I was going for alliteration. I suppose I could have said "screaming". Yes...that would have made a lot more sense.) One of the dreams in particular has been disturbing to me, because even to this somewhat-skeptic, it seems saturated with symbols and meanings (I save four children, who are me and my sister and brothers as kids, only to abandon them to their imminent deaths later; the protagonist and antagonist are familiar to me but have no faces; my old school gym makes an appearance, and on and on). I usually enjoy dreaming--I often remember my dreams quite vividly--and find it to be very therapeutic, but now find myself going to bed later and later (as if this will forestall dreaming...in reality it only makes me tired and somewhat cranky...and even more prone to be skeeved out the next day by my dreams.)

I've also been asking people for their opinions and been receiving honest answers in return...

...this is not always fun.

I've also found myself slipping back into an old rut of late (warning again: watch for falling vagueness) that is not only not healthy, but also puts me into a sort of daily funk that I have to talk myself out of. I hate this. I feel as though I allow my life to stop for a moment each time this happens...what a waste of time and synapse. I'd much rather waste my time sleeping in, though as I've mentioned before, I don't really want to do that these days either.

On a brighter note, a stranger farted on me in Barnes and Noble yesterday. At first I was like, "Oh yay!! My brother drove all the way from Indiana to make me feel like we were kids again!" But it was really just some old dude in the Bargain Books section (I think he had picked up a cookbook about beans.)

This is why we always say "excuse me", folks, when you'd like to get by someone. It's polite, yes, but also gives people a chance to pinch it in.

AAAaaaaannnndddd...End Scene.

Cuckoo's Nest opened this weekend. I got laughs, which is nice. Okay, okay, I got laughed at because of my second act costume, but I'll take what I can get. Come see the show, people...I think we pulled it off, soap opera and all (www.emeraldcityplayers.org).

I went to see The Last Five Years with Marc and Christopher today, which is fast becoming my favorite show. I thought the guy who played Jamie was great, and I thought the girl was good, but I think any reservations I have about her performance are only because I'm jealous that it wasn't me up there. I love, love, love that role and the music and have now put that character up on my "must play" list. And I will, dammit, I WILL (see previous post about stepping on people and busting kneecaps to realize my dreams...).

My roommate is giving me a massage right now. I cannot type. I cannot say anything witty. I'm in the depths of relaxation. I am purring like a cat. I am cleaning my ears like a cat. I am not cleaning anything else like a cat though, because I'm not that flexible. And because that's real gross.

Seriously, I think I just ruined my dinner.

You know life is good when you not only get to wear fishnets on stage, but also a bustier and GREEN ANKLE BOOTS.

I love theatre...

Moving the office this week. It's quite the mixture of a "root canal in hell" feeling and a "my boss is nice" feeling. For instance, today was filled with disorganization, standing around, heat, and lots of bitching. But, my boss also paid for lunch, let us have beer during office hours, and sent us home early with a full day's pay. So now I'm all stinky and sticky and sweaty, but also full and boozy...and it's not even 5:30 yet.

So yeah, it was quite the day...I've also laughed a lot today, made other people laugh, been pensive, stood up for myself, and I even cried once, too. Yes, cried.

Oh my word...I think I'm finally becoming a woman.

The screen is black, and all you hear at first is the sound of sloshing water, the hints of a soft breeze, perhaps even the buzzing of a cicada. Then, rippling, blue, reflective water fades in, almost blinding in its sunshiney beauty, and the water is so clear and beautiful that even the audience wants to jump right in...you can almost smell the suntan lotion, and the faint whiffs of cigarrette smoke as the camera pans out to reveal a pool setting and catches that the cigarrette smoke is coming from the rebellious, wife-beater clad teenagers who are trying to be cool at their table and chairs under the umbrella in the corner (they're using an old soup can as an ashtray.) Music fades in...it's Frank Sinatra softly singing--as though from an old, tinny radio--the one about "tall and tan, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she's passing each one she's passing goes...ahhhh". The camera spans around the pool, revealing lounge chairs, and then there (on "ahhh") stops on a woman lounging in one, oiled to the extreme, one knee up, one arm over her head, the other arm placed strategically so as to cover the rather large ass hanging out the edge of her two-piece, over-sized aviator sunglasses protecting her eyes, her bikini top straining valiantly to push up what it can to greet the Sun, that fickle god that gives color to the young and cancer to the old, whom the girl worships in all its fiery glory and can't get enough of. She shifts in her chair, and the audience notices she could probably use a few more crunches, but hey, her arms aren't half bad (has she been working out?). The camera cuts in close to her face, and a smile plays around the corner of her mouth, and then we realize that she's dreaming, and the camera fades into her face and shows us her dream, (backed up by Frank, now louder, in full sound, "oooo, but I watch her so sadly, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah") which consists of the girl, in her mint green and brown bikini--ass now firm and toned...c'mon it's a DREAM--and she's slo-mo jumping and leaping around the edge of the pool like a young gazelle, and then suddenly she's in the pool, water streaming in rivulets down her flat, chiseled stomach, in between her boxom bosoms--a DREAM!--and she's splashing water everywhere, and even though it's so Paris-Hilton-stupid-over-the-top hot, the audience can't look away, and she does a terrifically huge, sexily laughing splash, when suddenly then the camera cuts back to real time, music kicking off abruptly, and shows the girl getting doused by an enormous splash from the fat, pasty-white kid (already pink on his flabby shoulders) who's just decided it would be an opportune time for a cannonball. (He's wearing goggles and has his nose pinched shut with one of those plastic thingies.) At first, we see she's flabbergasted and gasping from the shock of the cold water and a tad irritated at having her dream interrupted, but the kid smiles chubbily and waves, and she smiles too. As the music fades back in--tinny radio again--she leans back, the little smile returning to her lips, while the camera pans out and goes back whence it came from the beginning, past the chairs, past the smoking teens, back to the sparkling blue water, and fades to black, while Frank finishes: "She doesn't see me...she doesn't see me."

The pool's open, folks! Happy Memorial Day to me!