The Happy Pill

Crazy for You

Dear Mom,

Over the weekend, I listened to Madonna in celebration of her 50th birthday and though of you. Of the way you sing "Crazy for You" with your foot tapping and the way your mouth holds notes like you are in a karaoke contest. You've always had such a beautiful voice, it's crisp and clear - definitely a first soprano. Those nights when we'd escape from your life, in Dad's red Camaro, I loved watching the way your hands gripped the leather steering wheel, how your legs flopped inward if you were wearing shorts - when you sat down. You'd probably slap me if I flicked at your bare thigh, so I never did. But always wanted to. Gloria Estefan, Supertramp, REO Speedwagon, Wilson Phillips, Berlin - those were our hits. If I had a car, I am sure these would all be in my playlists, whether I was smiling or crying. You tended to cry. With your tongue pushing your upper lip out like Julia Roberts. You really are beautiful like her, even though the height of your glamor is a new pair of white Reebok high tops.

But we didn't listen to Madonna there. She was more for cleaning and could randomly rouse our trip to the grocery store via ballad or dance beat if on the radio. The last time we shared Madonna, you were living in a brick ranch on a dry and unwatered lane in Pensacola, Florida. I was 14 and preparing for high school. It was August 16th, as Madonna's birthday is every year. The day before Grandma's. And VH1 had a special celebrating her 40th birthday. You cooked spaghetti, YOUR spaghetti. The spaghetti I missed that first summer without you when Dad dated Julie the Sergeant and I finally got my own room. It had been three months since you took the Dodge van with a bundle of our possessions, the most valuable being Domenic. You drove far away to a man you'd only met for a mere week before you decided to uproot whatever we were attempting to grow in that apartment on 62nd Street. The humidity outside was foreign to me, so I spent much of my visit there in your wood veneered house. Babe the Sharpei kept me company inside, and I watched you through the sliding glass door, smoking a cigarette outside.

The flashback is so vivid. I missed so much the image of your cotton elastic shorts, your tiny knees and mommy legs. Your racer back tank top of sorts, with neon screen print. Maybe Dad got them all for you while he was at concerts and you were at home with us. Or you got them at Goodwill. Your hair, wiry and thin, blown to death after the 80s, pulled back by a white waffled scrunchy. Small golden pieces above your ears always made a half circle outlining your face. I focused on them so much when I was little, amazed by your unintentional beauty. Your arm supporting your bra-less boobs, stretched across your middle and also holding up your cigarette-flicking arm. You inhale everything like it's pot. Slow, intentional. Even regular breaths. You release your boob-supporting arm to bring an already raw finger tip to your mouth for chewing. You use the butt of your lighter to smash a bug. You put your cigarette out and walk back inside. I love you more than I ever have. Madonna's biography on repeat, your sauce bubbling, the aroma of something that patched the torn nets of my elementary years. A foreign dog in my lap in a foreign city, with your foreign new family model.

This was the beginning of our end. My choice to be with Dad was the best I ever made, one you still say was training for the rest of our lives. Tonight I am thinking of that last long month I had with you before we became two people who e-mail, say hi for a moment when picking-up or dropping-off Man Cub, exchange sentimental gifts. I was telling my roommate about how it is so easy to remember everything about you and cherish the Best Ofs. Tossing out the Worst Ofs. And realized it's been 10 years. We went from spelling out the numbers to full-on two-digits. Your phone may be off the hook and your heart concealed somewhere in an undiscovered tomb, but you are still in my life every day. I see you in old men who need a family to take them in for a warm meal. I crave you every year when Miss America comes on and our Kielbasa special isn't stewing in a glass pan of sauerkraut and potatoes. I call your voice mail just to hear you say "Can't find the ringer button... leave a message." I am more of you than you think and miss more of you than a thousand bouquets of tulips will ever show. Despite this seriously unfair decade and that big closed door, I'm still crazy for you.

So call me sometime, will ya'?

Love,

Sara

On Why the Olympics Make Me Cry

Guo Jingjing inhales, straight-faced, hair slicked back and wet. She stands at the takeoff point, looking only ahead despite the proud roar of thousands of Chinese supporters surrounding her on what is her last career dive. Her body moves in the slowest motions, her arms swinging back to form what will be World Gold in the blink of an eye. Jingjing's sleek and pointed form, even to the unathletic eye, stands out as a championship form. Where other competitors arch off the end of the diving board, she soars higher, whips through strong, graceful movements dissolving into tipped, united feet as the perfected splash incites mass applause and exclamation from announcers. She steps out of the water, bows to her country and sheds a tear into her towel. This is her fifth and final gold medal at her final Olympics. She is the most highly decorated female diver in the world.

Commentators remind viewers that Constantina Tomescu is 38. She suffered an injury last year that derailed her training and threatened her chances of attending the 2008 Beijing Olympics. If she succeeds in winning the marathon, she will be the oldest indivudual to win an Olympic Gold for this event.  The cameras pan out to scroll the margin between Constantina and the silver medal. Significant distance. They zoom back in to she, who's never looked back since breaking away instead of sticking with the pack. When she approaches the Bird's Nest, coming down the long, cement tunnel like a team of post-season football players wrapped into one, her form wobbles slightly, but holds tight upon reaching her victory lap greeting. Unfinished but exhausted, she waves and looks around to savor her moment in history coming around the corner to the big line. When Kenya and China kick fast for runner-up status, Tomescu's flag has already jogged the stadium. She doesn't even look winded.

Dara Torres has a two year old daughter. Her first olympic appearance was in 1984, and this, her fifth. In the Sydney games and at the age of 33, she was already the eldest contender on her team or in the water. Announcers cite the long and fortunate road up until this Women's 4 x 100m Medley Relay. She's a smiler, not a brooding first-timer. The shot cuts away to her 50m freestyle neck-and-neck with Steffen of Germany. Dara takes silver and shows no sign of disappointment. Swims over to the victor and congratulates her. Is noted by voice-over for her professionalism and sportsmanship, having stuck her neck out the day before to ask judges to stop the race for another competitor whose suit malfunctioned. Now standing out of the post-medley pool, Team U.S.A. interviews and despite losing to Australia, the group beat a world record and Torres beat her personal best. The reporter turns to Torres and asks what she will tell her daughter who will never remember these games. "To never put an age limit on your dreams."

So many performances, good or bad, plucked at my heart strings in Beijing. Typically a full-on follower of gymnastics alone, I branched out this year and found a stronger appreciation for physical excellence. And while other olympians certainly caught my eye (ahem, Michael Phelps), my inner-empathizer felt so close to these three women. One the height of her nation's pride and at the height of endorsement frenzy taking her last leap, one coming back from an injury and winning by a real stretch, another painted as a loving mommy and fair competitor bowing to victory. Proof that the body is strong, that the greatest obstacle is the mental one. Undeniable evidence that grace and power are earned, not born. The national celebrity of Jingjing sets an unprecedented example for little girls and young women in China. The gap between Tomescu and those chasing her to the finish teaches all that setting a pace instead of following one can be risky and hard, but it pays off. Torres' smile echoes the benefits of choosing to humbly meet oneself repeatedly and never admit defeat.

I run about a 10 minute mile. I can still beat my 14 year old brother across a pool. Some days, I ride 20 miles on my bike, Murray. I can barely touch my toes, can do a somersault. I've never been an athlete and have never had ambition to win a gold medal. But I love victory, and I love the feeling of crossing one more big thing off the list. It is so beautiful to watch someone's small dreams elevate them to the crest of Mount Olympus. The image of one's passion in motion nourishes a cliche hope that, even though I am not the best at anything, I could be. Raw talent does matter, but these Olympic games have revealed far too many breathtaking lores of the fallen, the underprivileged, the beaten, the least likelies - for me to roll over and lose faith. That most of these athletes accept medals but are running on the fuel of personal bests. That impossible isn't reality, it is poison. That there is no way to deny what the recipe for success is. 

11.61

More slow motion moments.

A man's head on his wife's belly while Gershwin's classics resonate amongst hundreds of blankets and a lakeside breeze. A cyclist merging into oncoming traffic with a messenger bag on his back, headphones in his ears, drumming on his handlebars - listening to a song I long to hear. A friend describing an atrocity to another with her hands composing violently, mouth pausing when the hands pause.

I'm breathing in with the people around me, trying to exhale words onto paper. Absorbing absorbing absorbing. Praying that the sentences and illustrations fuse into the beauty I see. Because I see so much. I wish a chip could collect what I see in the words that scroll across my mind, reciting it back to me. All the verses and literature leaves. I try to scribble remnants of the fresh, wet thought - but it's usually lost to a cliche phrase, something I hate. Despise. God grant me the vocabulary! I want to be a writer so bad it hurts. Not a blog writer. Or a wanna-be writer. A writer of a page that's turned in a book that is purchased by a person who cares to know. I view life the way an author writes it, a song sings it - an artist reveals it.

I come to this blog time and again, with a list. About the guy who pissed me off because he thinks the uglier the woman, the smaller the enagagement ring she should receive. The romance I sense between myself and someone distant. The lasagna I made that tastes just like my Aunt's. How strongly I resent the short shorts comeback. It's all here. I can't tackle it all. And at the same time, tackling these momentary issues doesn't constitute a writer. What will I do - write a book ranting? In every which direction?

It's one direction that I need. For a book. I need to be grounded in roots. The kind that exist or do not exist but can be created by the colors, shapes and people in my life. Fiction or non-fiction? Start from scratch or re-hash the past? And while I sense that the material of my first 24 years is noteworthy, it's not laced with homelessness, sexual abuse, depression, life-altering love relationships, people with easily-ressurected traits or eccentric habits. Non-fiction needs more than Girl Grows Up Dysfunctionally (But Not Too Dysfunctionally) And Survives Unscathed. I guess I'm a bit scathed. But in the weird ways. I sleep with the light on when I'm alone and always sit at the back of the bus. Send my sociopath mother tulips every year for her birthday just a mere two weeks after she ignores mine. Avoid dating to avoid what I've seen said and done. Dated a stranger on the internet even though I lost Vicki Lynn to the same practice. Only clean when people are coming over, do laundry but once a month, am a lust-hungry but guilt-prone virgin.

I'm not between the writer's lines. The secrets I have aren't really secrets - they're favors to those who deserve a break from my money-thirsty pen's greed. Some of my tales are tall. Gargantuan. But my parents are beautiful people who have their own stories, neither of which would enter the public forum with any kind of a blessing. I love and respect them too much. And their parent's, too. I also fear that some of my memory is a haze. The midnight hours of my childhood spent in cars or on frantic trips to escape my Mother's fear of evil. Domenic crying, Vicki insisting we keep him awake to avoid anything getting him. That's a good long story for you. But a story that could end up with it's very own reprimanding on Oprah's couch. I remember it well, but well enough to verbatim truthfully? I would have to ask Her. The one who'd die if our horror was published. Because I want to write against her belief that it was all real. So I can finally turn the light off at night. Or at least walk in a dark room without feeling like ghast fingers are reaching for me.   

The story of Me - a complicated, semi-interesting one. Debate the possibility of fiction until I get bored imagining characters. Their associations. Their timelines. Their drama in an outline. My general ability to accomplish such an act of originality, when millions of books of people and places and plots pave the road for my anti-factual debut. How does one tap into an idea and stretch it to last 384 pages? Is it the slow motion moments I see? Am I constantly seeing my novel unfold but haven't the conviction to undertake it? Or the courage to face a real critic's kick to my precious, undented shin? I need to brush up on so many writing techniques, understand how to better my sentence structure. It's a mentor, not a peer - that I need. How to attain one out of my collegiate years? How do I compell - in general?

Or am I just a blogger? 23.2 visits a day. Half me checking to see if anyone's visited. 11.61 visits a day. If this is who I am, or will be, it's not enough. I am decent at this for now, but I want more. I want to feed my writer ego the pages it needs filled between the hardcover praises. The hardcover affirmation, that even if I was never to sell more than 1,000 copies, I could call myself a writer. A published one. Because somewhere inside is a story, be it the span of a bike messenger's career or the tales of my own mother's hysterical method of child-rearing. And I must tell it. Somehow. Because even though I am not prepared, I'm certain. And that's rare enough to know it's real.

involuntary

stop and go.
hollow hinging breaths
the commas and periods
saying more in the sentence
than the words.

want and not want.
fast bristles feeding
upon a vulnerable nape
starving for a taste of
what slow hands reach.

stay and don't stay
pushing away reluctantly
pulling hair poignantly
whispering don't leave -
then letting go.

no
no
no
no
yes, thank you.

Missed Connections

I visit Craigslist multiple times a day to see if someone's missed connecting with me, jotting down in the public forum a few of my characteristics - perhaps the twinkling pink nail polish on my fingers, the book in my hands, the exact time he saw me step on the train.

A wise dear friend, we'll call her Bethany Broughton, gave me a hefty piece of advice that I've been carrying around like a washing machine. "Change the verb," she said, "from 'make' to 'allow.'" I have tried my hardest in my years of responsibility to control and gauge romance, friendships, workspace, everyone, every place. Predictions and projections are my thing, for the girl who doesn't actually want to bump into Price Charming on the bus. Impromptu is human, real and can fail miserably. Who I am and who he is comes at a surprise all at once. We jitter, shake, wonder. To each other's faces - in a bare and introductory type of confession.

Actually, I want to read about the guy who is in love with me from afar. The one who sees my strategic shirt-tuck, the height of my waist, the well-coiled curls of my mane. Smells the twice-over of smoothing or firming this-or-that I lathered, senses my taste by the kind of book or magazine I hold. This is the version that gets what she wants in the end if Mr. Online Confession struggles to rid the thoughts of me. Then, with a clever and well-written response, I'd say "Yes, I saw you, Mr. Blue Shirt, Sport Coat, Shiny Watch, Relatively Styled Yet Messy Haired Man." We'd meet again. Me well-fit and tidy. Him in whatever fashion and shape matched his excitement.

We'd be two people following the path of the versions of themselves that exist in a static, unrealistic environment. Me, the work outfit and face. Him, a stranger with physical qualities and nothing more to sense without my eyeglasses on. So, meeting would be like a blind date for two people who need to try the personality of another on, rather than their physical beauty. And this is where I'd purchase an outfit I couldn't afford, rehearse what a lady is in a mirror, research the news and investigate game scores or stock options. Show up, dominant and certain. Overtalk, overdot the Is and bleed ink across the Ts. Convince him of my best qualities, laugh and smile with the right tilt of my head, sit up straight and well-trained like a good little woman. I'd feel petite and light, from the wine and the conversation I'd planned ahead of time and was successfully executing.

But then, he'd talk about him. Be him. Get to the raw, bare and honest confession of a girl friend who broke his heart. A car accident that led to a year off of school. He'd edge pectorals closer to his plate, the symmetrical face nearer the center of the table. Up closer, I'd notice a wrinkle in his forehead, a twitch in his eye, a mole on his neck. The room would suddenly get as heavy as the gravity of learning more about my Prince Charming's normalities, and I'd look to my watch. Smell a whiff of my clean and soft perfume as I drew my hand closer and would resent him for consuming this time I spent looking and feeling wonderful. All for what? Not Prince Charming. This regular guy with the deformity of affection for me.

No slip, freudian or otherwise. I'd despise whatever I once adored. The one who came to the table clean when I was actually at it hours earlier, setting up prompters and the perfect lighting. Setting up for the perfect me. So I could be perfect for him. The un-perfect him. And there I would sit - in my silk, satin, heels, manicured and pedicured fingers and toes - too high to come down. Too angelic to let the devilish flaws come through. Dismiss him without much thought or care for his feelings, only with false blame. Anger at the failed screening, the vulnerable feeling of a stranger being attracted to my standing body. Whose standing body was also an item of interest. Fixation. Manipulation. I'll show him. I'll show up looking amazing, being the girl I wish I was and win him. He'll be in awe. He'll wish he could take me home. He'll confess more than he should, come over with emotion. I'll be in control. I'll decide. I'll be safe to go without being left. I could walk away. He won't reject me.

During my short membership to match.com, each date ended this way. Using the wrong verb - MAKING men show up out of true but strategic profiling. Making myself the rarely dressed version of a relaxed and typically neutral woman. The type to put on a pair of jeans with a favorite tee, flip-flops, hair in some standard pony tail or dried and unstyled. But no - on a date, I'm in a dress. I spend an hour on my hair. My eyelashes practically touch my eyebrows from intense curling and application of mascara. I'm this robot, trying to make men fall in love with me. With my rehearsed and researched wit. My empty flirtations and innuendos. All of these things I wanted to control and command. They become a guard rail, keeping him at the other side of the table. Afraid that he's not good enough, dishing out the compliments and the long list of his personal bests. Willing to reveal more than I have, even though I've said quite a bit. Unfolds into someone I can't lower myself to see or date again. Because he's not good enough or because by wanting to be with me I abhor his words and expressions? All the esteem in the world can't be conjured up amidst a bunch of fake steam.

When you (ahem, me) try to make someone fall in love with you, you mess up big time. I messed up over and over again. Taking compliments like breaths, dispelling myths I'd only written in journals or diaries, as if each new suitor would prove even more that I wasn't completely vile and intolerable. But, on a date, being some version I'd projected in standing, in a profile or with a seductive e-mail, doesn't make me less vile or intolerable. It makes me a woman I am not, a woman who could be loved, but not trusted. One wearing the make-up until he falls asleep, plotting ways to never reveal who she really is. It makes me wish, sitting in a dress, that I was at home, sitting next to a guy I met through a friend, whose attraction to me came from that time I was being myself - laughing and snorting at some ridiculous joke, waiting to do laundry until after I'd already had to buy more underwear, the one that forgets to brush her teeth sometimes because she is just too tired and believes in false teeth. I yearn for this normal stuff. The husbands who are now my wife-friend's forever companions. All over coincidence and timid unraveling. All a part of that new verb, Allow. To stop looking down at the paper and to look around, instead. Smiling at someone instead of sneaking a peek at him to see if he is sneaking a peek at me. Hoping he'll post a missed connection about me so I can respond to it and plan our life together. Instead, smiling, saying hi and being the me that didn't put make-up on yet because she slept in.

The me that doesn't miss connections on purpose, making it possible to run home and select who she will be in order to win love. The me that allows love, in all the unpredictable places it's proven to show up in the past. Everywhere.    

an american in paris (and everywhere else)

don't travel to europe without these things:

1 - bathing suit
2 - rain jacket
3 - better shoes
4 - a great sense of humility

p.s. northern europe is not hot. wore pants and sweaters throughout the netherlands and northern germany. was certifiably confused when no one else around me looked totally pissed about the sub-par wisconsin april/may weather. haven't worn a tank top yet, despite wanting to show off some skin and qualify for some sort of amateur stint at le moulin rouge. paris is not heaven on earth, but instead a condo on the beach in heaven on earth.

i have two to three cups of coffee (scene: sara receiving a very small cup of coffee and looking at le waiter as though he is crazy and wants two small packets of sugar shoved up his nose but taking one sip and seeing le waiter guffawing in her peripheral as she tip-toes through le small cup of kick ass blend) a day, followed by some type of white wine with grandma or a glass of water with "gas". yes people, that means mineral water. unbelievable. these people have magnificent ways of doing stuff.

got a weird rash on my upper lip in the netherlands, possibly from the fresh air or the obscenely clean environment, or, better yet - the advanced and delicious way they present bratwurst on a plate. ah, wait - just remembered - it could be my allergy to VERY SKINNY PEOPLE EVERYWHERE. ohmygawwwd. note to self: lose at least 30 pounds before attempting to move to europe. i feel like a walking burrito compared to these twigs in their funky shoes and choppy haircuts. could be that society has advanced to car-less travel and transports by bike with a basket, causing weight loss. OR... they just want to continue manifesting the euro-stereotype that europeans are skinnier than americans just to spite me?

on vacation, and still delusional. someone buy me a drink because i'm broke. spent it all on postcards and macarons (macaroons). the pistachio ice cream in paris (my current city) is delightful. so is chicken, being that i do not eat duck, rabbit, snails or fish. have been on both boat and bus tours of the city (with grandma, who has been a real trooper), which was nice. while we waved at the people waving at us on the river banks, probably flipping us off in locale unison as our boats passed them completely. le matriarch went to bed last night and i snuck away to a cute little beatnik-esque cafe/bar/book store in the gay/jewish/bohemian neighborhood nearby. drank some red wine, flirted with the possibility of flirting with a cute (and pretentiously gaunt) frenchman, drank some red wine.

then walked the bridges and on the riverbank of the seine until late. made my way to notre dame and sat in front of it in amazement for half an hour. cried, accidentally prayed to s(S)omething and wondered if i could possibly sustain such a feeling of gratitude for my silly little life outside the magical confines of paris. the walk home was accompanied by parisians on bikes ringing their bells in passing or couples kissing each other dramatically (no, those postcards/calendars/movies/photographs of paris folk kissing on bridges and everywhere else is no lie). such a hauntingly beautiful city at night. saw two grown men each carrying a bottle of wine frolick down the walkway and stop at a bush, look left and right (and at me), then hop into the bush together. somehow, in some way - i was jealous. not of the bush, the wine or the upcoming male on male activity.

but of living in a place where you can look directly at an american walking down the street alone at night in her walking shoes and practical sweatshirt and victornox slingpack, smile earnestly, then hop into a bush with your boyfriend/one night stand/clientele. unashamed. being totally parisian.

so far, this trip has been unreal. so incredibly unreal - so so so much to say; it's killing me that only these small notes i jotted down have made it here. this trip has only just begun - tomorrow i arrive in a country whose language i actually speak - where i will be for the next 10 days. spain! time to take a bath, re-pack and crash in a dingy old bed in paris. in the morning i will steal my last three travel-sized bundles of nutella and head to madrid with so much fulfilled and the disbelief that there could be more in life to gain.

More Cooks in the kitchen, please***

David Cook is better than David Archuleta. Readers, especially my indie music fan readers, please forgive this change of pace, but I have an interest in this season of American Idol. Just like I picked up on the LOST bandwagon after die-hards called it retired from those Hay Days. Never, not once, had I ever put an ounce of energy into this quasi-legitimate craze. I remember specifically setting out to detest those contestants who'd won based on how ridiculously stupid it was in the first place for them to sell their image over a however-many-week span of time and claim that because they could do a range-full performance of "Respect" - they were America's... Idol? Lame lame lame. That's how I felt before.

Befooore David Cook.

I haven't even the slighted reception via television, so every bit of A.I. knowledge I gain comes from a reputable source called YOUTUBE. (I used to say "What did people do before the Internet," and now I say "What the HELL did people do before YOUTUBE?!?!?") Only clicking on those performances which include commentary from judges, getting chills when Simon is compelled to use the ever-british word "brilliant" once more, re-watching the ones I really like. It all started because of those damn people at work. David sang this, Carly did a smashing performance of that, I can't believe Simon said this, I have no idea how Paula is still in the business that. I needed to connect, at least to be in touch with the DRAMA of television. Just like I started watching baseball after the workthink got to me and stole away my un-sportsy soul. Now I know what the bottom or top of an inning means, which is cool if I ever need to be less impressive than the really impressive sporty girls. I digress.

To return to the topic of the night - David Cook. You know, the Dark Horse, the guy with the Flock of Seagulls haircut. Him. He sings somewhere between Seal and Chris Cornell, dresses like a gay emo, likes crossword puzzles (wait, word nerd? I love it!) and ahem - strums mean rifts on his Les Paul on air. To me, and to the women like me, this is a combination of metromusicianemotionalhottie. I mean - before the top 10 (or eight) - his hair was funked up. Like that emo Care Bear t-shirt I hate so much. But he sang sweet tunes and brought some sweet rock and roll to the otherwise (and traditionally) BAHORRRING competition. I remember being subject to floormates listening to songs they downloaded offline, sung by contestants. A) Why would you want to listen to some karaoke version of some already pretty overplayed song? and B) Most American Idol covers are worse than listening to freaking musicals. I hated it. So incredibly much.

But then - oh, but then - David Cook.

His renditions and interpretations of such songs as "Hello," "You will always be my baby," (Chris Cornell's) "Billie Jean," Dolly Parton's "Little Sparrow" - to name a few - chilled mama to the bone. Hell, if my computer could stand the C Drive squeeze, I'd be slammin' iTunes like mad for his songs. He has reformed my faith in America's perception of talent, but then again, whoever is voting for him is a combination of lust-filled older women trying to counter their younger daughter's bubble gum crush vote on David Barfuleta. He's a good combination of quiet nice guy and black t-shirt bad rocker. Vocally, I think he is more marketable and could sell millions more than his mmmbop counterpart. However, I am an intelligent consumer sponge and from history could say that he probably already has a record deal. And, as someone who has actually watched this season, I feel like he won't be winning the title of AMERICAN IDOL, based on last night's judging and the crowd's cheers for GuineaPigHairuleta. (Boo hoo.)

But this is probably the better route for the un-poppy runner-up of this prevalently pop set-up. Because his voice isn't just marshmallows and sweet cream. There's a bit of unrehearsed and very real wisdom in his tone and performance. He's an adult, for one. Secondly, he's a musician - not a singing puppet like most former winners of the show. (How do I know who won? Well, that's because even though I didn't watch the show, I followed it.) So, naturally, his affect and general defect in judging is that he's not top shelf vocal liquor. To which, of course, I disagree - but then again, I find solace in the vocals of Thom Yorke. All relative, but in a singing competition, I guess there's validity in designating the floral wreath for a SINGER. (Typically less talented overall, less likely to write own songs, etc. etc.) But he's more than that, and more complex than a dimply smiling face, so my bet is that David Cook takes second, which in my world, means the best.

Especially in this scenario, in which he hopefully dodges the Miss America pressure of being numero uno and can go off to the studio in peace to produce an album that I will most certainly purchase and praise, unless he ends up like that Daughtry character, whom I shall despise 'til the end of musical time. Really, America, you are doing him a favor by voting for Brownnoserchuleta. Because if he was number one, then he'd have to sell some less awesome and more artificially flavored type stuff to keep with the fan base. David Crappuleta may be a good singer, but the only people who will buy his CD are pee pants Dora the Explorer fans and anyone who purchased any albums released by the formerly talented but totally underexposed Charlotte Church. BORING.

D. Cook, folks.

*** Yay! Even though my bitter tooshie was trying to act like he'd be better off the loser, D. Cook took a 56% win, which means he BETTER not disappoint me, his future wife, by going off and releasing an album I hate. Read about it here! And, after reading the results, you may be interested to hear my theory about the Simon Cowell Reverse Voting strategy used by compassionate Americans. Stop by for coffee sometime.

The drunk way in which I am myself*

8:00pm - A couple shots and a beer or two.

9:00pm - A couple shots and a beer or two or three or four and a shot of Patron from some dude claiming to be an All Star volleyball player. Oh, and a soft taco.

11:00pm - Stopped keeping count but got kicked out of a bar, chased a bus in heels, ran to a bar to make the drink special deadline in heels, then got there just in time to throw up gang signs with dudes.

12:00pm or sometime thereafter but before bar close - Loss of control in the neck region results in strong gravitational pull towards the chest region of innocent bystanders.

There's something about a sombrero that makes everything so much more fun. What's a headache when you've got the quasi memories of wrestling strangers, dancing like a white person to Mexican techno-salsa and acting your age?

* Photos courtesy of Allison and Jillian

the [platonic] men [boys] in my life*

some guys you might want to meet:

there's TYLER. a guy who's sister dresses him in j. crew even though his soul is more comfortable in a black tee shirt with some obscure death metal band's dragon breathing on the front. the uncool to the general public type. he is passionately loyal to his friends, calls women "gals" and eats roast beef sandwiches while reading books most political wanna-bes could only hope to be caught reading. a beer snob who'd only stick his nose in it if it got a score above 80 on ratebeer.com. but one who doesn't notice if girls wear make-up and was once heard cackling in response to a friend putting "that stuff" on her face. why? "she's engaged!" never remembers to hold the door open but always walks me home. listens as well as a leg-bouncing, ADD-ridden boy can. has a fascination with penguins. refuses to read ayn rand, claiming he's already a libertarian so he'll read 3,000 pages of something he doesn't already know. recently came back from pagan fest (yes, pagan fest) with a crazy folk metal rift stuck in his head and refused to take the train with me so he could listen to it on his ipod the whole way home. writes his own music and walks to the beat of his own drum.

there's MICK. the mack. not just with women, but in situations. the guy with the new sneaks, the latest jam, the big show. artsy with the arts kids, political with the political kids, genius with the genius kids, sportsy with the sports-bots. a guy's guy, but a girl's best friend. raised by a loving and open mother, within reach of strong, proud, hard-working grandparents. wears his keys on a loophole and rides his bike dusk til dawn when weather and time permit. rare case of a guy who can dance, and who is known for bringing the party without bringing assholes with him. befriends good, genuine people. thrives amidst schedules and activities. lives by clever nicknames and phrases. was once the permanent assmark on my college couch, lounging and avoiding the day whilst curing evil hangovers. enjoys brunch and house parties. always smells like fresh laundry, never like douchebag cologne. best head of hair on i've ever seen on a dude. except when he cuts it really short. always wears his glasses and usually needs to cancel. a case of someone whose priority to pursue his purpose in life comes second to none. plans adventures, day trips and missions to achieve real experiences in the world. calls when he can. wears a track jacket like nobody's business. someone i miss. but with the knowledge that he's onto something good.

there's LEN. always trying to be half the man. thinking that who he used to be is too much man. not enough of the other guy (the asshole). that being miraculous and enlightened is the curse of his life, the enduring thorn in his academic side. entertains snobbery with a kind of honesty that turns most common-brained twits off. the oldest child amongst his friends and the biggest baby when it comes to women. the kind of guy who wants to smear his heart on his sleeve like blackberry preserves on a good, crisp piece of wheat toast. but, because of logical reasoning, chooses to be methodic. baking risottos, crumpling up intricate amounts of something or other on top of a delicately constructed dessert, driving for hours to squeeze apples into a cider that could be bought at the store. my LOST cohort, one who i feel comfortable taking an uneducated position around. being that he's an educator and that competing with him is a losing battle. replaced sweaters with blazers when his calling phoned from socal. realistically, this man in my life spent little in it before he migrated towards graduate school, but he became my kindred destructionite. puffs cigarettes like the movies and professes every word. lives in blacks and whites, forgetting that grey is his best asset.

there's GEOFF. the rookie. his ambition never fades. he roots for the yankees and tells sexist joke despite his vegetarian feminist matriarch. mama's boy. what you'd call an ass man. what he'd call himself, too. all talk, but also all action. aces exams, studies like a dog to be the best. nothing is more important than being at the head of the line that waits at each of life's benchmarks. he was once a runner and is now the survivor of general college laziness. the guy i challenge in e-mail to improve. mr. objectivity. plays his cards until he's left with the guys who never go home but to sleep and shower. internalizes his frustrations but tells the truth when asked. values intellectuals, hard workers and would throw both away for someone who'd love and care for him, make him babies and also would just so happen to be hot. he likes that word. he wears baby blue. has shared elaborate aches, breaks and victories with me since the days when he chased the blond nurse around like a lost puppy.  always calls back. always makes time, despite having very little of it. raps like a white boy trying to be a black rapper. really hard. if i could give him a word, it would be provocation.

there's OWEN. damn kid can't get that iphone out of his hand. or out of that high profile pocket in the breast of his jacket. he wears the best fabrics and his hair transcends time. always polished and poised, until the dirty words and raunchy suggestions come shooting from his sly mouth. the opinionated one. even if the opinion comes off as/is republican. carried a man bag before joey tribiani. has a strong scent and appearance of an authentic metrosexual, but eats and exists like a burly, crude man. calls when he's already at your door to say he got your call. fun as hell. guaranteed night out to close the bar and dance until death of the toes. makes up his own words when all else fails. loves and cares for family more than any other man or woman i know. a good (typical) catholic. the kind of guy who has 20 minute conversations with a fast-food worker in the drive-thru at three o'clock in the morning. uses his hands a lot, and his keys always look like a bulge in his tight man pants. first man to ever match my vain penmanship. likes going for car rides to chat. a good date for any occasion.

then there's WALT. the poet who didn't know it. the fickle friend with an inkling for chinese. one to walk with his shoulders back like this land is his land. pulls out his hair, leaving blood and unresolved philosophy at the root. he's my backasswards amigo with his very own breed of everything. character is his trademark, even though his encrypted humor might indicate that insanity is. he can pick up heavy things and make people do what he wants them to do with certainty. like pick up heavy things for him. even though he can. one couldn't pick his type or his town. every face, brand and idea is at his leisure, once he gets to it. a doctor one day, an astronaut the next, and maybe a delusional circus act the next. can't answer a lot of questions, but attempts to with eloquent bullshit that most find endearing. knows how smart and capable he is but doubts it in public to save face. he often looks like he's just woken up from a nap, and probably has after a sleepless night of frantically putting 110% into nothing. doesn't pick his battles. learned to love then learned how to use love to pass the time. good for a trip to wal-mart in the middle of the night, even if it's hours away and the trip is just for a broom. once said i wasn't an "everest". for him, it's all about the climb.

*names were changed to protect friends i care about. thanks for being there, guys.

since March 21 - the briefer version

I ate a brick of rice krispie treat for dinner while running on a treadmill in my mind. Who needs a commercial break when you've got the Unlimited-three Netflix plan and streaming HD on abc.com? I've been scarfing snacks that were forbidden even in dreams, and where the 12 pounds I recently lost once were forgotten, a strange bloatedness has returned. My lust for LOST is almost dirty - I've gotten down to the underwear that scare and my living room looks like someone's setting up camp. Obsession is hardly the word when I spend most recent nights with my jaw resting on the pillow I grip onto while it sits on my jittering lap. I need to go back to the gym. Badly.

Three weeks ago I was sacrificially admitted to a poorly attended blood drive, resulting in hours of the "letting blood rush back to your head" position and a couple of follow-up days of not feeling so hot. On top of feeling like that theory about being an organ donor with a hot ticket whilst dying on an operating table. Clearly paranoia, but slightly justifiable considering how few people donated blood and how brave I tend to look when everyone has needles and pins that say "Today you saved three lives." To say the least.

Two weeks ago, I woke up with a swollen mouth and a hereditary abscess in the back of my jaw. Apparently, babies cry for a reason when their teeth come in. Even worse, grown girls don't cry while their teeth come in sideways or infected. Never got a Nuk, but got a few shots of local anesthesia and a $32 bill for a wisdom tooth extraction. Then some vicodin. And then some more until I saw the beginning of a dark and perilous tunnel that I've never delved before. Some people are addicts by nature - I am. When the narcotic haze separated, I ended up at a cold and wet baseball game. I don't bring the great American sport any luck or spine. I should stay away from the big diamond. It leaves me drunk or dull. I blame the carbs.

When I woke up Friday morning, after a night of stenchy wetness and a proud and cold jaunt home, my throat felt sore. My body ached, and congestion rolled into the former haze. Domenic made his last middle school performance as a parrot and something resembling a pet allergy infiltrated my breathing mechanisms. I fell under the spell of what felt like the croup Friday night and saw Baby Mama at Mayfair Mall on Saturday to heal the pain. Tina Fey is hot for a smart chick, and that Amy Poehler person still reminds me of the bug that has Woody Allen's voice in A Bug's Life. More coughing and pain Saturday night and a day spent building a Heavy Duty Hose Reel with Markus T. I had a chicken breast for dinner that was previously deemed in a Friday night conversation to be stuffed with hormones and the cause of cancer in women. We eat a lot of chicken, apparently. I also like artificial sweetener, tanning and living in smog-infested metropolitan areas. It was delicious.

Have been hitting home runs at work despite the previously mentioned bad luck with baseball. Learning fast that the real world isn't about making yourself look good, it's about making other people look good. The rules don't really say anything about the boss scratching your back. I've learned I'm entitled to little more than I've ever claimed in the past. At the end of the day, the people who pay me decide how much they want to pay me. The past few months have been spent learning how to make that decision easier for them. So that the question doesn't become a matter of figures but a matter of propriety. Eventually, hard work is recognized - if its done right. This is my longest streak yet.

I haven't grocery shopped in weeks. I haven't spent as irresponsibly as this month since my rent was $250 cheaper. Phlegm is forming in the spot where my cough suppressant was working diligently to keep me from blowing Little Red's house down. Never taking that shit again. Delsym. Don't trust it - it even says No Alcohol on the bottle. Clearly the wrong direction to go when every muscle between your pelvis and your cheek bones feel strained from the effort of coughing for hours on end. Life Lesson About Phlegm or Anything Like It: When something feeling unnatural finds its way into your throat, do yourself a favor and spit it out. It's not classy, but it's worthy. Reminds me of the old days when I'd keep a red Solo spit cup on my desk with a Kleenex on top and a note on the side "Spit Cup - Don't Look". Poor Erin - she had to live with that. She had to live with lots of things. Seeing her recently also reminded me of the depth of her patience and humility. I'm a handful. Haven't bought Mucinex because I can't afford Mucinex. Have re-established a spit cup, being that I have my own room now. The idea bothers me more than it used to. I need my stimulus check.

Annie Proux is my new favorite writer. The Shipping News is not the best book I've read, but I think after reading it I see what my style would be if I ever had one publicly. I'd write like her - but now, I can't. Because if I did write, and it sounded like her - it would be like her, not me. And quite frankly, it's been the cause of my recent dry spell. Other than my daily journal, I have not been able to write or think an original thought without feeling like it tastes like her brand of prose. Then again, words have been around too long for original to mean much of anything anymore, and the last episode of LOST I watched tonight closed with a Damien Rice song. If I had a tally of the pieces I've written right after a Damien Rice song, it'd alarm you. I don't know why. Ray Lamontagne is so much better. But I guess I like what's not the best for that reason. Annie, Damien, guys who waste my time - they're inspiring. The best isn't because it inflames hopelessness in me. I had heartburn for the first time recently, and I can see why people look so miserable in those commercials.

I've never lost or gained weight quickly. I think this recent food binge has caused a slight stretch mark in my left boob. When I saw it, I stood in the mirror and cried. A girl can't catch a break. She loses 12 pounds, feels great, gets a birthday kiss, goes out and has fun, then all of a sudden she falls off the treadmill, leaves the gym, passes out, loses a tooth, coughs up a lung, eats a 600 calorie hunk of marshmallow cereal, opens the hatch and falls back into her old self. Right before bathing suit season.