The Happy Pill

Room with a view

Moved into a new place on Wednesday. I can afford it, but the lifestyle is going to be itemized and the receipts will be saved. I'm officially on a budget, which has never been the case before. Once upon a time, I'd look to my checking account the day before Pay Day, and if I had more than $100 in my account, I was winning. All the while, I was spending spending spending on all the things I didn't need -- like food, booze, and hair care products.

Family, friends, co-workers, and other networks expressed concern in my decision to upgrade. Perhaps this is because my record with money is not stable, but it started to get on my nerves when I realized that I've lived in quasi to full-on shady neighborhoods since my move to Chicago for the purpose of pleasing others. I've always been able to afford to be in a place with both safe surroundings and social offerings, but it was my fear of criticism that kept me in worse-off locations to appear humbled and fiscally responsible.

When in reality, my rental frugality only further enabled my social excess. And in the great scheme of things, how long will I be this free and this single? Or this able to control the means by which I stay thin, cool, and in the know? Each year I pull my tank top down a bit lower than the year before to protect my middle section. Each year I get more sleep. Each year I increase homemade meals. Why? Because I am growing up. I used to run around with as much skin showing as possible, stay up until three o'clock in the morning most nights, and I ate fast food like the Dickens. But, what seemed like the young thing to do (live in an inexpensive apartment) was really turning me into an old lady - renting in an area far from friends, centers of social activity, and increasing the need to order Dominos Pizza due to inactivity.

It just stopped making sense to pretend I was saving any cents in a place so far removed from the life I wanted to be living. To which I said, "No more." So, I decided to buckle down on the small purchases that have added up to my low account balances and be where I'm the happiest. And that's where other people are. I can now ride my bike to any of my closest friend's places in five minutes or less. I'm a wink from the bike path on Lake Shore, within a block of my absolute favorite cafe, and when I leave my apartment at night, I don't feel like I have to grip tightly onto my pepper spray (even though I do still keep it handy, Dad).

This is going to cost me. I've already downgraded my cell phone plan. Cancelled my gym membership (don't worry, there's a kick ass workout room in my apartment building). Put the kabbash on my Greenpeace membship (sorry environment). And I even opted out of Internet Service in my new place for the time being.

But what does all this sacrifice really mean?

I suppose my strategy for upgraded living comes from the first semester of my sophomore year of college. I was a frail and green Resident Assistant in Cobeen Hall, taking 19 credits, attending over six extracurricular meetings per week. While one might assume this was the most overwhelming period of my life, being that I'd just switched to a new area of study (advertising), was managing a wing of over 30 young women, tackling credits over capacity, and trying to maintain a social life -- they would be wrong. Quite wrong, actually.

Guess when I was the most physically fit? My first semester sophomore year. Guess the only semester I almost got straight As? My first semester sophomore year. Guess when I was happiest as a person and most pleased with not only my friendships but with my social life? You know, that one semester when I had so much going on I could tell you without looking at a calendar what day of the week January 9 would be on.

The relevance being? Forced conditions require more effort to succeed. And while this might be a backwards way of viewing my financial situation, I know it will work. Before I didn't care about my rent, and even forgot it a few times because it was so inconsequential. Now, I know I have to be more careful, and I will not spend as frivolously so I may continue to live in my Belmont Harbor studio. With my $100 per week of fun money, I will not eat out during the week, and I will not waste it on ridiculous things like a fourth foot scrub. I will probably lose weight from this change, which will of course make me happier - every pound lost is a smile doubled. I will party nearer to where I live, decreasing cab fares. I will not be able to afford those expensive places I used to dress up to attend, which will save me a lot of self-hate and douchebaguette behavior.

And I will of course find fun in the thrift of my new life. Riding my bike more, visiting free events throughout the city, making fresh lunches to eat outside on the grass rather than to be ordered and beastly eaten indoors. It seems only appropriate that in this new living environment I am challenging old habits and reintroducing creativity into daily decision-making. This is the crux of how I have always found entertainment, but unfortunately, up until this point - I suffocated my wants with my need to seem like a person with no concern for her living environment. And now, in my room with a view, it's no mystery that a weight is lifted off my shoulders.

Because I have to organize, plan, and observe my life in order to stay afloat. I guess I like living close to the edge - it's a constant reminder to stay sharp, focused, and to not fuck up. And it's just what I need right now.

love affair

vicki lynn had a hysterectomy done 15 years ago today.
i remember it and think of it consistently after my first visual of the
number 26.
i wonder if she does too.
because really - it marks a hugely significant turn in our lives.
    nothing was the same after this event.
    thank god for that baby boy - the only savior in what was certainly
    our living hell.
        but was it really that bad?
        i don't remember how bad it was.
            i just understand the implications of how bad it was.
        i remember how close we were on our long car rides.
        it was the closest i would ever be to her.
            even though she was so far away in her mind.
            and has been departed ever since.
        every inch of progress i make in healing is another inch farther
        apart we are.
            because i forget my fear and have grown into blame.
                in the place of ghosts and eerie twists of fate is a woman
                    with a history of irresponsible use
                    with a history of hormone therapy rejection, despite its
                    necessity for sanity
                    with a history of abuse and depression played out for the kids   
                        illicitly medicated, undermedicated.
                we were victims of her abusers, too.
                    we followed her and believed her, the voices and i.
                the baby doesn't remember, the eldest doesn't care,
                and the husband never believed.
                    i believed.
                    and listened.
                    and got to live in her world.

                   

                    and then i didn't.
                        and now i can't have her back.
                        or take back what i never actually saw.
                        because what i saw wasn't bad.
                            it was her.
                            this woman i love
                            who had the mommy sucked right out of her
                                then lost her mind
                                then found me
                                and loved me fully
                                dragged me mercilessly
                                forgave me not.
                           

                and even though it hurt
                and i hurt           
                she held me tight on the nights of our first, last and only love affair.

The Law of Sexy Underwear

If you want to hear a sad story, talk to the sexy underwear compartment of my rolling Ikea storage bin. Boy, do they have a lot to whine and complain about. As far as clothing meeting its ultimate purpose, my next-to-nude companions need some life coaching. A lot of Close But No Cigar tales to tell from the lace and bow section, only rivaled perhaps by the silky vintage boycut variety. So many purchases dropped into this bin of hopeful disrobing, so many sitting on the bench for every game of every possible season of sexual gaming. It's hard to break it to a new pair that its greatest contribution would be by making a typical Tuesday even more glamorous. Or to continue to encourage a veteran matching set in red or polka-dot that its day will come, and when it does, we'll treat ourselves to some new fabric softener from Victoria's Secret.

It'd be a treat for us all if my from the bottom up method of becoming sexy was as successful as Cosmo makes it out to be. See, I'm a self-starter. A believer in making my own destiny and the power of self-visualization. You want to feel good? Look good. You want to pave the way for a great makeout? Bring a breath mint or two. Need some bootay? Wear something bootaylicious. And I follow these rules. So imagine my surprise when I recount the most notable of encounters and realize the dire state of underthings in those instances. Nothing matching, no rhyme to the color schemes, no previous preparation. When I think of the Best Of list, it doesn't add up to all the money I spent trying to look sexy. Actually, it lies somewhere on the Last Pair Before Laundry Day end of the spectrum.

Did my trying behavior derail my efforts? Is it not a coincidence that when I dust myself with body powders, paint my toes and spend a week's worth of groceries on underthings - I go home empty handed? A panel of experts chimed in regarding this topic confirming my greatest fear and greatest comfort: It's not just me. But, in this real world where people are impulsive, my idealistic almost naked look is compromised. I guess I'm just like every other girl, having my own nutty way of viewing romance, intimacy and perfect firsts - but are my principles again too overbearing? Appears so.

Because now, more than ever, with this new Law of Sexy Underwear - I'm seeing the poorest results. See, I've hopped back into the dating scene, and I hate going out on a Saturday night without having every possible scenario covered. Apartment clean? Check. Ear plugs ready on nightstand just in case he snores? Check. Kitchen stocked with brunch foods? Check. Sexy underwear combination prepared for takeoff? OF COURSE. These are all good things - that I care how I look and how I am perceived. But then I take a mental inventory and find that I have few friends who follow this type of protocol and who take their dates home. To dirty apartments, dirty sheets and whatever kind of mess might be under all those clothes.

I care too much. I listen too much. I absorb one person's bad opinion of a woman and develop another disaster recovery plan. I use his likes and dislikes to coordinate colors, hairstyles and percent milk that will be in my fridge. Because I'm trying to help my final score reach as close to 100 points as I can get. That would make me more keepable, right? That my room smells of something earthy rather than floral and that before you see me undressed, I've added one particular layer of Something Naughty? Is that important to you, boy/Man?

Seems not to be. Despite my intimate section scheming, que sera sera. Chemistry is deep in the body or hard on the surface. It doesn't wait for a green light. Or this one particular green lace set that I threw away this weekend on account of its almost lethal impact on my prospects. EVERY time I wore this get-up, I ended up getting none. Zero success rate. Straight to the garbage. Call me superstitious. I just couldn't take them any longer. Just like I can't imagine how letting my guard down might be the key to whatever I seek. If being prepared means I've created some kind of overbearing expectation barrier, it must also mean that by never expecting anything and always feeling comfortable - I will see better results.

Perhaps I sound like some deranged Search and Destroy robot. Like I set my sights on a target and inch away at its defenses until it's eating chocolate chip cookies on my couch and asks if it can just go to bed with me. I'm not an illusionist, drawing up a fantasy woman - wearing outfits completely uncharacteristic of my style, eating foods I hate or watching sports that I'd choose second to another semester of Geometry. I'm just trying to be the best version of myself - the one that has her shit together and looks like a million bucks all the time (but really doesn't in either case). Trying to build the best case in anticipation of a ruthless prosecution. And maybe I take it too far by thinking that if on some whim, a guy I'm dating wants to come home with me - he'd walk out if I wasn't wearing silks and satins under all the rest of my facade.

Deep down I am a romantic who wants to offer up something amazing. I want to be wanted and want to show someone that I want them badly enough to go through all the trouble I'd go through. I'm a confident woman when it comes to speaking my mind and showing my affection, but I've some strange rule that nothing good can happen to a girl with unshaven legs. And cannot function in a sexual frame of mind if my legs are even a couple days past due. After he falls asleep, if by some miracle he makes it to bed, I have a hard time sleeping because I know I may (a) snore, (b) drool or (c) sleep with my mouth open. I try to avoid any route that might lead someone I like in a direction that might cause them to go away. Perhaps this is because I think they will see me the way I see them: itemized. I dock points for bad behavior, bad breath, bad taste in music. Seems fair that he'd use the same criteria about the chunk on my thighs, the bags under my eyes, my unwaxed bits?

I suppose this isn't even the Law of Sexy Underwear as much as it is the Law of Sara Pellicori. Where control is the catalyst for confidence but also the detonator of any kind of explosive attraction. I need a new school of thought. Or to be reborn as a hair-loving, natural-craving, cotton-breathing hippie.

A lesson about neighbors, gay or otherwise

The gays who live downstairs can't sing. God, they are hot. They can dress, are fit and are probably choice meat over in Boystown. But here, at 4450, they're AWFUL singers. Better insulation -- or something -- is what I prayed for repeatedly last night, as the neighbors with the toy terrier wailed out the hits: Beyonce, Carrie Underwood, the CLASSIC Kelly Clarkson "Since U Been Gone" remix. A smoke cloud seeped through their ceiling and into my room, triggering my inner hate weapon. And, as the night grew, so did the volume, as a girl aiming to sleep would fear. Several events could be heard clearly, one being a "I'm not fucking afraid of you you fuhhhhhkingggg beeeeetch!!!!" screaming match between two guys, who from the sound of them were skinnier than Mary Kate, wearing tight denim and little white t-shirts with something sexually provocative but ambiguous on the front. This segwayed into another partygoer saying "I'm afraid!" and the slam of a door. Argument closes, the increased volume and screech-karaoke of Britney Spears' "Circus". How fucking appropriate.

Despite my usual urge to knock down the door of a person in any vicinity of me who has no consideration or manners and tell them to stop doing what they're doing, I just searched for some ear plugs. My best ones. They didn't work. So my heart started to pound in the way one's heart pounds when they're filling up with anger. Faster, faster, louder, louder. Ache in my jaw from the clenching of my jittery teeth. My eyes started to fill with tears because I knew the outcome of what would be my typical response to this. Louder music more regularly, bitchy attitudes and possible consequences for those attending the party I so desperately wanted to silence that I didn't actually want. Some whiffs were marijuana - the urge to call the police for this disturbance of the peace would either be unfulfilled or would cause arrests. And, in the future, any time I wanted to have a party, I couldn't. Then again, my party wouldn't be so loud or so late. Or smoky - no one can smoke in this apartment.

I felt so annoyed that my neighbors could be so unfair to those around them. A little Mexican family lives next door and has small children. People could want to sleep. Then again, their nearest neighbors are hipsters who seem carefree, although judgmental and totally too stylish. I confuse their good looks and Chrome bag coolness for snobbery, some might say. Once, walking out the door, knowing I was behind her, Hipster One didn't even hold the gate for me, but instead swung it quickly without shame. Closing me off, and in fact, almost hitting me in the process with the gate. I checked a couple times to see if she had headphones in - no. So, maybe these snobby hipster neighbors would call the cops for me. Indie rock poky-elbow types hate Britney Spears and her posse of pop artists, anyways. If I was wanting to kill someone for this extreme act of rudeness, surely they would. But then I thought, no. If anything, the Broken Social Scene over here is probably down there smoking pot and making conversation. Gays and hipsters go hand-in-hand. It's like anything goes meets Project Runway meets Pitchfork Music Festival.

So there I was - crying in bed (PMS ALERT) and hungry from a night of not eating as much as the skinny people around me. Feeling sudden bursts of courage that led nowhere but another brisk roll and pillow punch. I never went down there to tell them to turn it down, even at 2:36 a.m. when it would have been most appropriate to step up for the local community and demand some decency. I just transcribed a very kind, cursive letter in my head to be penned on yellow legal paper in the morning for their notice. I needed them to know that while I understand we are young and want to have a good time, that there is nothing that says it means being young and having fun should be at the expense of others' sleep or sanity. I also imagined waking up at 7:00 a.m. (exhausted from a lack of sleep myself) to blast my music and get a war going so I could at least get a niblet of revenge. As their night started to die down more, the music would stop abruptly for a party meeting of screams and shouts about what everyone was doing next. Then, as my heart would start to settle, like the monster was finally dead, it'd go back up. The volume, the drama, the shameless disruptions.

I started talking to myself, telling myself to just go to sleep. "Stop worrying about them, go to bed." But I couldn't. Even though my mood was truly a four year old napless exhaustion tantrum. An internal tantrum, but one that punched at my organs and made me want to get a broom and pound the floor until a hole was between us. I'd yell down into the hole or pour water in it and act like a crazy old witch. That'd really go over well. They'd just turn it up louder and taunt me more often. After a night of hearing the party's duals, dance-offs and riot-like singing (to totally shallow and meaningless club mixes), I knew what would happen to me if I pretended to have any say whatsoever in what was going on. How DARE I have the fucking nerve to ask THEM to turn their music down. Right? And I suspect any person of this age and having this kind of drinking, smoking (pot) and dancing party would feel the same. "What a bitch - who the hell does she think she is? Fucking heffer!!" I hated myself for being the kind of person who is okay with stopping a party so she can go to sleep. I hated that I didn't just knock on the door with a bottle of cheap Trader Joe's wine and demand to be let in. I hated that I couldn't fall asleep and get over the noise like most people could. I hated it that I knew I wouldn't do anything - fearing their judgment of me the most.

This week I am going to set a goal for myself. I am going to knock on that door and say hi. To my stranger neighbors who have since last night continued to blast their music and squeal high notes into my heating vents. Two people and their dog - whom I've been pissed off at since about 12:00 a.m. this morning. I will knock on that door, I will introduce myself and we will be friends. We will cook dinners, and I will feed their dog when they're not home. And, the next time they have a party, I'll know and I'll be invited, and I won't lay in bed wanting to kill these strange people I don't know for having no concern whatsoever for me or my night of sleep. I'll be at the party, and even if it keeps going, I'll come upstairs drunk, pass out and have no clue how loud it is. Because that would be so much better than the ulcer that has surely formed in the past 19 hours.

Hunger

Hunger is an intriguing feeling. I've completed the second full day of my 14 day detox, and I can admit shamefully that what I used to consume was astronomical. This measurement comes not only from the notable difference in quantity of food, but the notable difference in feeling.

Before two days ago, I know for a fact that on several occasions each day I would tell myself "I'm hungry." Or, I'd tell someone else who'd want to go to Fat Town with me that I was hungry, and they'd say the same. Then, in no time, I would be comatose with a Beef 'n' Cheddar meal inching its way towards my stomach. Full up to my esophagus, fearful of the slightest case of hiccups or a cough.

And that was delicious, but it was a routine of absolutely disgusting behavior. After two days of cowering under the harsh pang of hunger, I am quite certain that I was never hungry at all. I wasn't even running on half empty. I was bored, that's what I was. Either bored or exhausted, trying to fill whatever void was out there dangling in front of me. But I wasn't chasing a carrot on a stick. I was chasing McDonald's 10-piece meals and dozens of unclaimed cookies left in the work kitchen.

And I shouldn't even have to remind you about the pasta binge. A girl who burns very few calories should never treat carbohydrates in the same manner as Michael Phelps. Which I practically was until I honestly felt too full to go on. This is possible. Just as possible as it is to eat heaping piles of green vegetables and still feel so hungry that napping is the only way to avoid eating everything in sight.

After a lovely weekend home for Christmas, I returned to work - almost afraid of food. My sodium levels and insane volume of cheese consumption alone were enough. But the cookies and cakes and sweets that were just staring me down wherever I went go to show that the body wraps itself around these habits and sucks at them until there is nothing left but destruction. Taste buds and kidneys alike have their own strange way of holding on dearly to these daily injections of artificial sugars, sodium-infested seasonings and sauces and the robust filling that is fettuccine. While none of it was good - and my body knew that - it wanted what it was used to having.

And then, after a long engagement, the body and the food it's so accustomed to loving, parted ways. Last week, I came home after work one day, having just put myself through another food montage of McDonald's, Taco Bell and a decent handful of raw Snickerdoodle cookie dough - and I felt sick. A sick that is so deep and painful, that I couldn't eat dinner because there simply was not enough room left to breathe. I came in the door, stripped down from the clothes constricting me and laid down. And stayed there. Then went to bed early ill from not only the thought of food, but even the idea that I'd have to eat it again.

I woke up the next morning. not hungry at all. But, I proceeded to feed myself silly. Having never felt hungry or ravenous in any way. Just continued to enlarge the area needing to be filled with each bite and swallow of my almost decade of demise. And now, I take pleasure in the delight of six raw almonds or the slight tang of balsamic on a bed of baby field greens and small cubes of tofu. I take tiny bites and eat slowly, so slowly that I had to reheat the half head of cabbage I had for dinner tonight because it got cold as I was savoring it. Instead of living to eat like I usually do, I've been eating to live. Although this sparingly rabbit-food-like diet is only until January 14, its foundation is strong enough to carry on for the rest of my life.

What we put in really does have a reciprocal output. The crap food and even delicious homemade food I used to covet anchored my energy to the couch. Slow digestion, synthetic caffeinated energy, a feeling of fullness but a lack of nutrition. These past two days are a testament to self-awareness and observation of habits on the whole. My skin, hair and even the whiteness in my eyes have changed. I've been able to sleep more easily, I do have more energy and I feel lighter. All the while, battling a hunger that I haven't known in my entire life.

Because I never let myself feel hungry for fear I'd stop being full. Of what? Joy? Happiness? Occupation? Friendship? Sexual encounters? Music? Fun? Whatever I was lacking severely made itself up at Jewel-Osco. Now that I am starving, I am doing everything in my power to not only distract the hunger as my body readjusts its appetite - but to replace what used to be food time with life time. To sleep earlier so I don't binge or need to binge the morning after to revive energy. To dance or move after I've already browsed all 1,000,000 sites I visit daily. To be satisfied instead of full. With nutrients instead of crap. Everyday, from now on.

2009: The List

Alright, folks. 2008 is gone. I hope yours was as eventful as mine. Saw the windmills of Don Quijote fame, ate a crepe at the foot of Notre Dame, delighted in the neon lights of Radiohead's phenomenal Lollapalooza performance, digested a big bowl of literature, got this delectable MacBook for Christmas, dated a handful of interesting men. 

I learned the lessons of 2007's horror. I sewed up the friendships I'd torn, worked harder to maintain family relationships and cleaned up my act at work. Big time. The Fallout of Kent back in 2007 had many consequences and painful realizations, so my emotional attachment to reality solidified itself after the ball dropped on that scary year I'll always remember and wish to forget. (Except for the subsequent lessons learned.) 

It can be written that Sara Pellicori regained the ability to act her age in 2008. Many drunken nights dancing, cheering on teams, out watching Movies in the Park - and tons of productive bike rides on Lakeshore. Steamy teas in cafes, live shows in small venues, kisses at my front door. 

Sure, I didn't do everything right. I kept using that damn credit card. I used food when I should have been using a treadmill. I cried about dumb shit and put priorities on the back burner. But at this point, I'm sitting on another shot at another year. And can look back at mistakes, lost Blackberries, petty fights and shirts that don't fit anymore with a bit of perspective. A resolution is an occasion meant to be risen to. Any other day, it's just a goal. I did what I wanted, not what I could. That's what living is about sometimes; and hopefully, I'll take advantage of my health, youth, education and opportunity for all its worth this year. Because a resolution is just a goal with bonus points backing it up.

I hope my bonus points rack up in 2009. God knows I've got all the tools to make 'em happen.

1. Ace statistics.

2. Study at least two days a week for the GMAT.

3. Get a GMAT score good enough to get into DePaul's MBA program.

4. Go camping.

5. Do a two week detox.

6. Volunteer at least once a month.

7. Do laundry every other week.

8. Cut debt in half.

9. Make at least $1,000 doing freelance work.

10. Reach goal weight. (140 lbs.)

11. Run a half marathon.

 

Some words about this weekend

Took heavy doses of pain relievers while drinking on Friday night. Not out of some strange addiction, but to neutralize an unyielding back pain that was keeping me from being able to act my age and go out. Felt the affects but hid them fairly well while dancing and laughing and trying not to appear too pathetic or self-abusing. Had a hint of guilt for the drug abuse (one which I do not have nor have ever indulged in), but did not stop the drinking. Was certainly dehydrated from the lack of water and surplus of liquor, then put myself in a cab for home at bar close. Slept like shit from the severe awkwardness of trying to adjust to a back pain that interrupted breathing itself.

Woke up late Saturday morning damning the possibility of leaving the apartment before 9:00 p.m. Back felt a bit better, but head felt a bit worse. Even though I knew that the largest part of my lack of motivation came from the filth of my surroundings, I merely swept whatever items would be in the way of where I wanted to sit or rest and had myself an afternoon of sloth delight. Task one was to fuel the day with a brunch pasta. Made a spicy meat sauce, got some noodles boiling up an al dente storm, filled up a big bowl with one third of the day's helping, then decided eff that and put all the noodles in the bowl, then watched Dirty Dancing again. I guess something about "I carried a watermelon?" will always be entertaining to me, even if it was already entertaining two other times this week. Followed that up with an annoyed feeling of thirst, which was solved by adding ice cubes to the Brita and transporting it to my coffee table with the Super Size cup. Then I watched a hot little number called Conversations with Other Women, which was thoughtful and well put together, but not without a sense of tragedy - being that Helena Bonham Carter was one of the leads. Then I napped even though one might think after only spending 20 minutes off of one's ass there should be a desire to shower, go or do anything other than lay around. Untrue. I rummaged through a mess on the love seat to hunt for my dear, semi-sweet dark chocolate covered raisins, readjusted my afghan, put my pillows into a more reclined setup and proceeded to lose four hours of my life at hulu.com. Caught up on some 30 Rock, a little House, saw the first episode of a shitty show called Legend of the Seeker (but who am I to judge, I love teen vampire love sagas), then luckily, I was called upon to leave my apartment and party.

[Insert montage of girl dancing and singing Justin Timberlake in the shower then drying her hair in a sexy-like fashion, then some type of swirling motion which suddenly shows her dressed up leaving her apartment and hailing a cab. Fast forward to girl sitting with friend and his friend laughing about film noir, the arrival of two hot sisters, free drinks at a preppy bar and its Christmas lights flashing, then to three drunk people laughing into the ceiling of a new cab heading to a club, then to blurrier frames of people dancing and bumping into each other and glazed looks and each new frame with a new person approaching, a round of vodka tonics in hand. End scene with three friends eating at IHOP, surrounded by trannies and slouched over women playing with their scrambled eggs.]
  
Got home damn well near six this morning without my Blackberry or a good chunk of my measly checking account. Slept for a few hours and woke up with a feeling or urgency that wasn't vomit, but instead thirst. Water, water, water. By 9:00 a.m., I'd been up two times to drink the Super Size cup dry, then I had to refill the Brita. My shaking, clammy hands and crusty mascara crunching with each blink made standing or being awake feel like full exposure to the coldest cold ever. So I mentally wrapped myself up in the security that I would not need anymore water and made a hangover blanket burrito commitment to my shitty Ikea bed. Then I woke up at 2:00 p.m. starving and wanting a flavor in my mouth other than water, mint or Squirt. So I made cocoa and a dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies while continuing to incubate in the fleece bath robe that stayed with me throughout the morning. My teeth felt so grimy. And my face like a mask of sweat and makeup had fuzed into my pores. Whattamess. Then, once more, a day of hulu.com, intermediate napping, contemplations of a day spent productively and the consumption of all cookies earlier baked. Watched The Office, Eddie Murphy's Raw, brushed my teeth, thought about showering but didn't, and then Ha came home. I hate being on the couch in the middle of my mess when she arrives after being gone for the weekend, but it's what I am, and she knows it. So she chatted me off the couch to the kitchen where we recapped our weekends and I made more pasta, but this time the creamy garlic and red pepper alfredo kind. We finished our conversation after I slurped up the last noodle, on a queue that almost said Okay, we both know you won't leave the couch unless you have a reason to, and now that reason is gone, so go back to where you came from, Potato Girl. Then I listened to Ingrid Michaelson's "The Way I Am" like 20 or so times, and here I am.

Broke, phoneless, clean out of internet media to discover, stuffed with my weight in noodles and cookie dough and just on the brink of admitting that acting my age is one of the most exhausting tasks I've ever taken on. Partying is rough, expensive and bad for the circles under my eyes. How people survive doing these types of things every weekend is beyond me. Beyond me, my wallet or my strength of character to face Monday with full knowledge that my weekend's greatest accomplishment was a free shot of SoCo and lime.

factors

Factors change. I hate it when they do, mostly because they cause a pattern of hypocrisy and heighten complications. Sometimes the factor is a winter hat. Appearances, attitudes, atmosphere. What looked regular can become extraordinary in the blink of an eye or the rise of someone else’s power. And then you see a window of what was lost, missed or misunderstood. Standing in front of you like a reminder that you always knew a good man. Cried yourself to sleep wishing for one while a short walk requiring little more than a pair of slippers could take you to the appropriate residence of one. Then, the factors cause the feelings – to change. And you can’t take it back, but you push it back until it’s a jittery bug in your throat. Hi becomes h-h-huh-hi. Touch becomes meaningful. You pray no one notices even a small bit of the great big electrocution covering your skin. What you thought you knew, you never did. Because that’s not what it was about then and not what it is about now. When the factors were trivial, jovial – you imbecile – you were too busy having fun to get it. Now the theme is deeper, the conversation softer – you stalker – and you’re hooked to a drug you’ve been taking for years without side effects. Shit.

Four Star

I exposed my neuroses to the crude bloggings of Tucker Max at a delicate age. At 18, my perspective of beauty was even farther skewed than its current sick angle. I'd just arrived at college, and I'd just learned that when you leave your residence at night between Thursday and Saturday, it must be in a tube or halter top. Heels became a wardrobe regular. But I acknowledged my plainness. And I started to feel unwatched. A woman can learn a lot from Mr. Max. Mean, honest and brilliant at the same time. But mostly distracting and awful. In a humorous way. When I fell into his world of follies and stunts, my heart became exposed to how cold and objective men can really be. But mostly, I was driven mad by his Dating Application, which allowed him the strict critique of a potential hook-up (he later dubbed it his Hook-Up Application, being that dating was never the optimal target - guiltless sex was). One stipulation being this: To submit full-length photographs (since head-only is a sham and can hide the true fat) upon receiving an application approval rating. Since I read and mostly delighted the level of exposure he was willing to submit his victims as well as himself to for the sake of reality, I decided I should challenge his application to humor his project, at the very least. I rummaged around in My Photos for a couple of my hottest shots, accepted their potential for mockery and started filling out the monster test Tucker had promised to deliver to any woman willing to take her chances. Two versions appeared - one with multiple choice radial buttons and another with short answer. I chose the blue pill and went further down the rabbit hole, so far that I was giggling incessantly in my dorm room at the level of "player" spin I was putting on myself. My responses were sharp and witty, but not too slutty for fear of false advertisement. Once my words were sufficiently smithed, I sent my artfully wrapped, grammar-reviewed and innocent self to the Asshole. 

Then I waited.

I just wanted validation - a response of any affirmation would be enough to say that a jerk hot-chicks-only man(boy) found a glimmer of attractiveness in me. I guess that's the habit of women. Not all, but a good portion. The worst portion, maybe. I went to bed that night imagining how fruitless any response would be, anyways. Even though he was in Chicago at the time, I still hadn't even seen a penis in person before. The playing field may have been level in Internet Land, but my bark was way bigger (and sexier) than my bite. If this guy decided to communicate that he was willing to dismantle my long-constructed dignity with a one night stand of his drunken slurs and hateful man love, I'd have to swiftly expose him to the truth. Those photos were taken in very specific lighting and I'm a virgin writer with a clever, sexually-frustrated mind. Apologies, Your Douchebagness. I idolized his harshness. In fact, I worshipped it. Before him, I lived in a world where I made excuses for myself and held grudges against guys who didn't reciprocate feelings/attraction for me. "I'm a great catch," I'd tell myself after no-date dances and makeout-less nights. "You're pretty, Sara. Really. Guys are just dumb," the Best Friend Love Squad would repeat over and over and over again. But not Tucker Max. TM defines, and even rates, attractiveness on his website. Of course the rubric is based upon looks, and when he manages to make room for the personality/intellect portion, he clarifies that Miss Applicant need not apply for banter, since her odds of amusing him are still improbable. Viewing all of these things as the perfect layout for Judgment, I set out to achieve a real, measurable answer. 

And then I got it.

"You've piqued my interest. Send photos."  

Then I did. And this was one of them:

A photo of my floormate Marie and I at some Jungle-themed student government-hosted freshman dance. A time when I actually wore short skirts and high heels and thought I had at least a good portion of IT going on. I picked this photo based on two things: (1) Boobs, and (2) Shininess of Hair. And sadly, because it was the skinniest image of me on record at the time. Creepy to think I hated the way I looked then. I'd pay good money to go back to then. Anyways, this was the glory shot, added to another that I cannot locate at the moment. These two 18 year old photos earned me a decent, if not surprising rating. I don't have the exact e-mail (to prove), but his Simon Cowell-esque comeback was something very close to the following: You're a 3. Lose 15 pounds and you'd be a 4. I did, for an instant, suck up the suckiness of his weight loss remark, but took it knowing it was a part of the gig. If not the part of the gig, as far as my teasing ass was concerned. Please, let me give you the descriptions of my range:

"3-star (aka Decent or attractive): Acceptable to be seen with in public. She is average when sober, but looks MUCH better after only about three beers. You'll admit to your friends that you're fucking her, but you still make fun of her behind her back, and tell them lies about her sexual prowess and bi-sexual tendencies to justify your dealings with her. She's not bad overall, and will do if nothing better comes along, but could be left in a heartbeat if the opportunity for a hot chick comes along. Sadly, most guys end up having to settle for a 3-star, as these are the most prevalent type of women.

4-star (aka Girlfriend material): This is the girl that is very attractive, but not super hot. You will be seen with her in public at any point in the day, even before drinking. You think twice before ditching this girl for a hot chick, especially if she has special powers (tongue ring, double jointed, etc.). Ascension to the 4-star level can only be attained through use of a petition. The candidate must secure 75% of the vote from those polled. (NOTE: Bonus points only make a candidate petition eligible. She still must garner 75% of the vote.)"

Some may read material like this coming from an intelligent and selective woman like myself and go "Uhhh, Sara? You don't want to be with a guy like that, so why does it matter? Guys like that are JERKS." But they are who is out there. That's my answer. I don't hold it against men that they are seeking genetically beneficial and socially stratifiable traits in women. (Psst. Ladies, we do it, too.) I suppose I can attribute a lot of my self-loathing to my delayed and often lazy methods of arriving to the Four Star status Tucker laid out for me six years ago. Between you and I, Internet - I always secretly knew and have known that first-glance meetings are a matter of the eye, not the heart. And I also always felt and do feel a sense of pride in the fact that I can date attractive and good men at this weight but could kick down doors and step all over hot guys at my Four Star weight. Somewhere inside my Cheesy Gordita Crunch exterior (that's the soft chalupa tortilla part), there is prowess possibility, and unleashing it is my longest standing project - ever. It's easy to step back and blame oneself for not attracting the right kind of people or to point fingers at the wrong kind of people for missing out on a good thing, but that route is a dead end. Now that I've truly come to terms with this collective rubric, I want to stay as high on the scale as I can. And if my objective bar-hopping male-perspective peak was over 15 pounds ago, it's time to increase my odds. One of the greatest compliments of my life was the subtle flattery and simultaneous rejection from this Internet icon. It did teach me early on that the un-bridled male affection leans toward immature pleasures and unsubstantial women. And it taught me that while jerk guys have a hotness rubric, Real Men just want someone who loves her body, is confident, has a sense of humor and is intelligent. We all have a rubric, but that doesn't mean we all have good standards. I see the value in being hot, and how much hotter it is to be more than that at the end of the day.

I think that's who I am. Somewhere inside here. 

What a Difference Four Years Make

At this time four years ago, I:

Didn't have a cell phone.
Had never been drunk.
Lived in an all girls dorm.
Wasn't on birth control.
Ate almost every meal in a cafeteria.
Had no idea who Kent was. Or what he'd do.
Didn't pay monthly bills.
Was a rising star in my Media Writing class.
Wore a size 10.
Had never been on a date.
Used a discman and envied people with iPods.
Did not have this laptop, or any computer at all. (R.I.P. Gigantar the Monitor)
Had never gotten my eyebrows waxed.
Didn't have any type of credit card.
Wasn't yet friends with Chad.
Had never left the country.
Made $72.00 every two weeks. And that was it.
Had just started reading Stephanie Klein's website.
Had never eaten sushi.
Was Eugenia's fearful pupil in Spanish Lit.
Still hadn't read Atlas Shrugged.
Electronically logged my life at Xanga.
Lived by the acronym NRHH. Blech. Don't even bother looking it up.
Wasn't close friends with anyone who was engaged or married.
Thought I was perfect material for the agency world.
Watched Dawson's Creek with Jess on a regular basis.
Didn't know a wink about the financial world.
Told Erin Lechner I wanted her to be my roommate in Campus Town.
Fell in love with Ben Folds at his live Marquette show.
Learned that I was agnostic.
Wore a pair of Doc Martins. Ick.
Didn't have bangs.
Saw John Kerry in Milwaukee on a very rainy day. And got my umbrella taken away.
Was not shy around new people.
Didn't have wireless access or a digital camera.
Had no feelings about the show LOST.
Lived 15 minutes from home.
Did my laundry for free.
Kept my life in a daily planner and color coordinated subjects.
Had no clue who Barack Obama was.

Oh, how times have changed.