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.