Sticker Collection

Remember what it felt like to be tethered to a plastic rotary phone for HOURS while your best friend just talked and talked and talked?

And you didn't really care...you just wanted to get up and do something else, but all you could do was sit on your parents' bed and wrap the coiled cord around your finger over and over while your friend yammered on and on about jellies and Christmas presents and Nancy Drew books and new bicycles and then an hour would pass and your mom would FINALLY tell you to hang up and you were like THANK GOD! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE.

And then you'd go and pull out your Lisa Frank stationery and write a letter to your other friend, because you're feeling very fond of them all of a sudden, but you don't know if you should actually use any stickers on the letter because those stickers cost money, unlike the digital crap we have today. No, these are irreplaceable stickers that could actually die if you give them away. So, you send the letter and stash the stickers.

Twenty years pass. You find yourself at 30 years of age, having had moved the last of your items out of your parent's house a few years ago, and yet...and yet there sits that freaking box of stickers. Stickers that you never used.

Well, isn't this the WORST?

For the first time in your life you wish that you'd been more wasteful in your childhood. Or at the very least you wish that you could be more wasteful now.

But you can't! You can't do it! You can't part with the box of stickers that meant so much to you all those years ago. And so you pack them away in a box labeled "mementos," knowing you will most likely not open the box for another ten years and thus your stickers will live on.

And hopefully, 40-year-old you will finally have that thing called "common sense" that you've seemed to lack your entire life.

Bachelor of Arts in Awesomeness

So I'm in this process of creating an actual office for myself, which requires sifting through things and OH MAN, I REMEMBER THIS RANDOM THING FROM COLLEGE or high school or whatnot, because as I arrange this office area, I have to actually move stuff. Stuff that got tossed into this side room when we moved in a year ago and, well, there it's sat.

Anyway, I say this, because a moment ago I was poking around all of these boxes of good and bad memories, when I stumbled upon this envelope on the floor. Now I must say that this room isn't cluttered with stuff. So to stumble upon something without knowing it was there takes quite a bit of effort.

Especially when that something is your college diploma.

Alright, folks. Here's my big, bad confession. I've only looked at my diploma like twice in my life. I mean I'm pretty sure I checked it after receiving it to make sure it had my name spelled correctly. And I probably glanced at it after I pulled it out of my trunk (where it had lived for roughly a year post-graduation...because yes, I was that kid who left college with nothing but a car of possessions and $500 to my name...oh, and a diploma in the trunk. Quite Hallmark, wouldn't you say?). But other than those two probable events, I haven't looked at the thing.

Until now.

Am I the only one concerned by the fact that it nowhere states what my major was? I mean what happened to Bachelor of Arts in Dance or Bachelor of Arts in History or Bachelor of Arts in Guitar-Making? I mean this makes me look as though I had no major at all!! Just one of those "general studies" types, who end up working pottery studios where fifth grade birthday parties are held while the workers smoke pot in the back room!!!!!!

Okay, breathe. BREATHE, I SAY!!!!

But the school could so eeeeasily afford the stupid little protecitve tissue paper. Couldn't they afford ink for three more words? Three more simple, clarifying....

SNAP OUT OF IT!!!!!!

There has to be an upside--a way to turn this into a positive...

Like telling people I have a Bachelor of Arts in Medicine or Neurology or World Peace or ... SUPER MODELING.

You think they'll fall for it?

The Funny Side of PTL

There is a certain Internet acronym called:

PTL

This fun, little guy is short for something very, very serious among us religious folk.

It means:

PRAISE THE LORD

But for the life of me, I can never seem to remember this when I run across it in an email or FB post. Instead, my mind translates it to mean:

PAIN IN THE ASS

Now, you may think that such a flub would result in endless laughter and hilarity! Because when your brain translates PTL to mean “pain in the ass,” what could possibly be funnier than reading:

Henry is out of the hospital, PTL, and back home!

Or:

PTL!! My in-laws made it here in time for Christmas!!!

Or:

PTL Amy is going to be assisting me at work!

But eventually, it gets annoying. Because there are some people that just PTL all over the place. It’s PTL this and PTL that, and despite my attempts to consciously switch the term to mean the RIGHT thing in my brain, there's no hope for the misread connotation. It sticks with me and refuses to change to the positive and hopeful. So in a nutshell, an email or note of extreme YAY-JESUS celebration becomes one, gigantic piece of angry that annoys me to death.

In other words, the PTLs still become PITAs.

And I’m back where I started.

The Trouble with Facebook

So remember the time the Internet came to the world and it was awesome? And then remember when MySpace showed up and that was even better, and then Facebook came and WOW SO AWESOME? Remember that?

And then remember how something horrible happened when you started realizing that some of your friends are terrible at things like, oh, I don’t know, grammar and punctuation? Remember that?

Remember how it annoyed you, but you were able to move past it?

And then remember when Facebook changed their rules and all of a sudden adults joined in and started sending you friend requests and you’re like “ok, cool” but then suddenly you realize it’s not just your friends that suck at spelling, but adults suck at it, too? And not just regular “who cares” adults, but adults that you used to think of as being really smart and savvy and awesome? Remember how these “do-no-wrong” adults would flaunt their inability to spell all over the Internet? And remember how your world came crashing down? Remember that?

And you tried to ignore it. You tried to tell yourself “hey, it’s not THAT big of a deal that this 50-year-old man whom I greatly admire has the spelling chops of a second grader. It doesn’t matter, because not everyone has to be great at grammar. Some people are gifted in different ways.”

But then on top of the really bad spelling, these people, who used to be so epic in your mind, begin to forget to use periods, resulting in endless run-on sentences without any conjunctions. And again you tell yourself it’s not a big deal. You tell yourself they’re still the same people they were before Facebook. Before the Internet. Before the world advertised their educational missteps. And you try to not feel like you’re smarter than they are, but you can’t help it. Because doesn’t poor grammar equal not-as-smart?

And then just when you’re feeling badly about looking down upon others in such a villain-in-a-Dickens-novel way, you realize there’s no way for someone to write THAT poorly. For someone to be THAT bad at grammar, yet still so well spoken and awesome. And then it hits you. 

This issue has nothing to do with poor education, but everything to do with laziness.

And you get really angry, because to YOU punctuation and grammar are very important. After all, if we all spoke in brocken english how would we ever take each otherr seriusly huh tell me what wuld come of the world

And so you grit your teeth as you read status update after run-on status update and your blood starts to boil and you shake your head at their laziness.

And then, after double checking your punctuation and looking up the meaning of a word before you plaster it on Facebook for all the world to see, you hit “post” only to realize you’ve made a stupid error and NOW EVERYONE IS GOING TO SEE IT AND THINK THAT YOU’RE DUMB.

And suddenly you envy those free spirits. Those run-on beatniks. Those syntax hippies. Those alphabet nonconformists.

They have what you don’t. What you will never have. The ability to speak without spellcheck. To type without the thesaurus. To post ... to post without remorse.

So maybe these adults that were so awesome and amazing before the Internet are still awesome and amazing because they aren't bound by the rules of the English language. They're free.

And you realize that even online, you are still the lowly padawan and they, all-knowing Jedi masters.

And once again, they are awesome in your mind.

Emo Batman

If I were any good at making those spliced-up vids that make fun of huge blockbuster movies, I'd make one called "Emo Batman." Because as I sit here, Tad is blaring Dark Knight Rises in the adjoining room, and I cannot help but think about how Batman is really just a poster child for the emo lifestyle.

Here we have a rich, good looking guy, who despite some unfortunate events in life, has really turned things around for himself. But is that enough? Is that ever enough? No. Somehow, he always finds a reason to brood. To be sad and introspective.

Batman always finds a reason to go out and get punched in the face. It's as if he wants to get the crap beat out of him. He wants this so that he can feel sad and have a Bella Swan-sized depression montage so he can get an Alfred pep talk (who doesn't want one of those?) so that he can be angry at the fact that yet again, the old man is right, so that he can mope some more, only to rally himself at the last moment to get his act together, come out of his emo slump and do what normal people would have done from the get-go.

In Dark Knight Rises, that "thing that normal people would have done long from the get-go" is to actually train before a fight.

Brilliant, emo Batman. Glad you figured that one out.

Now maybe I'm remembering the movies incorrectly. Maybe he's far less emo in the other movies than he is in the third. I can't really remember them clearly, considering the first one I saw in a Turkish movie theater, and the second, well, I was one of those people who were unjustifiably sad about Heath Ledger's death.

So please, correct me if my memory is failing me and emo-ing things way up when in reality they maybe weren't that emo. At which point I will retract these statements and instead talk about how much I want to put together a video splice that shows Tom Hardy as I originally knew him...as Heathcliff.

Yep. Totally made Tad suffer through this movie.


Also, I think the guy who plays Linton is the main cop from Walking Dead!!

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

So once upon a time, I played guitar. I've mentioned this before, though I've never really gone in depth with my former rock star days. I mean, what goes on in Vegas, right?

But what I will discuss is all of the annoyances that came with being a left-handed guitar player. You think I'm kidding, I'm sure. You think "Oh, here's sweet Amanda, blowing things out of proportion and hyperbolizing hyperbole as usual."

How I wish you were right.

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

1. Really dumb right-handed people will ask you "Is it hard to play left-handed like that?" causing you to mentally smack them. (This has happened to me on multiple occasions. And here they say blondes are dumb...)
2. You leaf through a guitar magazine and your heart skips a beat at all the beautiful guitars there are in the world. Then, you go to buy one and you realize the one you want isn't available for lefties. And furthermore, you only have like 10 models to choose from because guitar manufacturers find it too expensive to offer every model in a lefty version. Grrrrr....
3. When you do settle on one of those 10 guitars, it will cost you like $200 more than what they'd charge for the very same guitar built for a right-handed player. (And people think I'm kidding when I say I'm going to march for Lefty's Rights!)
4. Slightly-less-so-but-still-very-dumb right-handed people will hear you griping about lefty discrimination and say "Why don't you just learn to play it right-handed?" in a tone that tells you they feel they've solved your problem and are expecting you to give them a kiss and go "You are so smart!" (Again, blondes are the  dumb ones??)
5. Right-handed guitarists will pick up your guitar and look at you with the most confused expression when they try to play it and it doesn't sound right. Then they berate you for not having a guitar on hand that they can play.
6. People will exclaim things like "You're the best left-handed guitar player I've ever heard!" As though the left-handed guitar is a different instrument than the right-handed one.
7. You will be more attractive to some guys because you play left-handed. Not because you have actual talent, mind you. But because you play "backwards."
8. You'll be at church and the worship pastor will be MIA and suddenly everyone will turn to you and expect you to pick up his right-handed guitar and lead worship. And when you try to explain that you can't, they suddenly think you're a less-talented guitar player and say things like "Can't you just figure it out?"
9. You want to punch the makers of Beatles Rock Band for designing Sir Paul's bass controller as a right-handed bass, when clearly he played a left-handed bass. It's this kind of discrimination that makes you want to scream and lead rallies and give speeches.

And lastly,

10. Famous left-handed guitarists become your idols for no reason other than you know that they went through what you're going through. Mind you, most of these idols are barely "idol" matieral: Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, etc.

So there you have it. The horrors of being a left-handed guitar player.

Anyone else have any instrument-related horrors to add? Like the assumption that tuba-players are overweight or that only girls play flutes?

Come on, your confessions are safe with me. Because you know the saying...What's said on Swedish Pankakes, stays on Swedish Pankakes. For the entire world to read.

nubbin' : living a life with nubs

Imagine how much you enjoy and/or tolerate talking to me.

Now imagine how much worse that experience could be if I had little nubs for teeth.

Ladies and gentlemen, that is the fate we all may face if my teeth do not start cooperating.

Almost a year ago, I had some cavities filled. Shortly after, I realized that one of the teeth that had been worked on hurt every time I bit down. I went back to the dentist, and he said that it wasn’t anything alarming. My bite just needed to be adjusted.

No prob, right? Wrong.

I’ve been back THREE times in the past year TO GET MY TOOTH FILED. Yes, filed like a fingernail.

And each time I go, I swear I come out of there with what can only be described as a phantom tooth -- a tooth that I imagine is larger than it really is (because it has in fact been whittled down). Three times this has happened. Which means THRICE my tooth has shrunken in size. And this time was the worst of them all ... I swear I'm beginning to feel an opening where my teeth aren't even pressing together anymore. The nub is on its way.

Needless to say, I am so ready for this madness to end ... for all of our sakes. 

Because I'm pretty sure we'd all prefer that I NOT look like Gollum in the near future. 

P.S. If this post title results in a ton of search engine hits I'm going to laugh so very hard it just may re-set my bite.

P.P.S.S. Points to the person who can come up with the best vampire joke!

Est. 1983

I really hate including my graduation year in my literary agent bio.

I mean I really really hate it.

It makes me sound as though my college degree is one of my top credentials. As though I'm one of those "Class of '06, baby!" losers who wants every single person to know exactly where I studied and who I graduated with.

And I didn't even go to Princeton or Harvard or Yale. I went to a tiny school in Indiana.
Doesn't really scream prestigious academia, does it.

The truth of the matter is just the other day, someone asked me if I was still in school ... a question I get far too often. And everytime, I just want to scream "No, I'm not still in school. In fact, THERE ARE PEOPLE MY EXACT AGE RUNNING BILLION DOLLAR BUSINESSES AND LEADING NFL TEAMS THROUGH THE PLAYOFFS."

Do you think anyone would ask Jay Cutler or Aaron Rodgers to have their dad contact the service station if their car broke down? Of course not! In fact, they probably don't even get carded at restricted movies or have to tell their insurance guy that they don't qualify for the "good student program". And they're 1983 babies just like me.

So with a heavy sigh, I'll send my bio off to the conference organizers, my 2006 grad date in big, bold letters.

And maybe while I'm there, I'll walk around with a Jimmy John's Est. 1983 t-shirt. Sure, I'll still be one of the young-uns. I'm ok with that. I'm just trying to avoid people asking if I'm agenting as part of an internship (true story).

Any other ideas? BTW, mom jeans, lipstick and a darker hair color are out of the question.

Sidenote: I realize the Jay Cutler/Aaron Rodgers reference was random ... but I'm SO excited for Sunday's game that I couldn't resist. Go Bears!

5 things to expect after the first Midwestern snowfall … aside from absolute chaos

1.People will have forgotten that snow is slippery. They will insist on going through life as though the ground is perfectly dry and the weather is 70-degrees. Expect many car accidents. Many people walking dangerously close to the side of the road. Many bodies going down in parking lots and on sidewalks. And a general disinterest in salting public walkways.

2. The snow plowing team will have forgotten where they put their keys. They will look out the window and think, “Hmm … I should get out there and start to plow and salt the roads. Now where did those blasted keys go?” Expect them to look for their keys for a bit and then go to sleep. This will result in a ten-hour delay before the salt trucks and plows begin doing their thing.

3. Ice scrapers will be MIA. People will go out to their cars and see that they have some snow on them. Or perhaps a layer of ice. They will look for their scrapers and brushes only to remember that they’re stored elsewhere. Expect snow-covered cars with only tiny cleared circles on the windshield through which the driver will peer. Expect the snow to fly off of these cars when they reach speeds in excess of 20 miles per hour and land on your clean windshield as you travel behind them.

4. Some people will freak out about the weather, while others will care less. Expect some of your acquaintances to give hourly updates with such bothersome facts as expected accumulation and temperature lows and snowfall duration. Expect others to go about their lives as though snow is their be-yotch. Expect to swear to yourself that you will never participate in either extreme because both are equally annoying.

5. The snow will be gone within 24 hours. Yup. You heard me. It will melt and disappear. Expect this process to repeat with point #1.

Welcome to the Midwest.

twelve

Have I had my share of bad haircuts? Yes. Even though I’ve gotten my hair cut far fewer times than the average person, the ratio, I assume is bad. Very bad.

It must have started when I was five and thought it would be a good idea if my hair came to a perfect point in the back. Like a reverse devil’s tail or something. Thankfully, my parents secretly told the stylist that it should be rounded, as opposed to a perfect point.

But that experience sparked what I can only assume to be a complete inability to properly explain what I want done. Because even though I break my ‘wants’ down into the simplest of terms, I end up with something wackadoodle.

Like the time I told the stylist I wanted layers.

“Layers?” she asked, her tone betraying her confusion.

“Yes, like where one layer of hair is shorter than the other … it’s quite popular.”

“Um … o …. k…”.

I ended up with a cut that looked as though my 5 year old brother had attacked me with a scissors in my sleep. Like seriously, I had one chunk of hair that hit my shoulder, while the chunk underneath it hit me mid-back. (Apparently, the layered look hadn’t yet reached Elk Grove Village, IL …?)

Then, there was the time I brought an issue of Vogue that had Ashlee Simpson on the cover and said, “That. I want that.”

Forty minutes and $55 later, I came out looking like some mini van-driving mom who had cut off all her hair in an attempt to make life with a million children just a bit easier.

And the most recent offender?

I was running behind in life, so I decided instead of trying to schedule something with my regular girl (who is usually book 3 weeks out), I’d just drop by the Regis Hair Salon in the mall. I mean it was the same price point, after all. And since my usual stylist seemed to understand my current language when explaining what I wanted done, I figured this new girl would, too.

Wrong.

Sure, it looked great when she styled it, but now, I’ve noticed a sudden rise in people saying that I look 12 years old.

12 years old.

Ok, maybe that one person assumed I was 17.

And then there was that other person who guessed me at around 22.

Look, I know I look young. What can I say? GOOD GENES.

But 12?

Excuse me while I visit the local vitamin store in search of some sort of hair-growing supplement.

A Lot of Rambling Just to Say I DON'T WANT TO DO MY TAXES

There is no easy way to broach this subject. No way of getting around looking like an irresponsible freak. Yet, I believe this is something we need to discuss. Because I have only recently uncovered my fear of filling out forms, and I'd just like to take some time to talk about it. It's only after talking that the healing can begin, right?

So a few months back Tad and I bought a KitchenAid Mixer. It was a big purchase, but we knew it would get used (a lot) and we ran into a very nice deal. Something like a 20% off coupon plus a $30 mail-in rebate. Score! So, we bought it.

And the days turned to weeks and suddenly the rebate had expired without us cashing in. I, of course, get blamed for this (though I am not the only one who knows how to address an envelope), but pshhh. What does it matter. It's just $30, right?

Then, at the end of last year, we were to use up all the money in our Flexible Spending Account, otherwise it would be eaten by the mean and evil insurance company. So, I stocked up on ibuprofen and Maalox and even bought a brace for Tad's wrist (for work).

And the days turned to weeks which turned to months and now I'm not sure if my claims notice will get there in time.

Most recently, tax season looms. Now, I have been historically terrible at taxes. I swear if I ever get promoted to some big-time government position, WATCH OUT TABLOIDS AND FOX NEWS, because I will definitely cause some hefty scandal with all my tax evasions and form FAILS and lies! Oh, the lies I will tell as I deny that I know anything about messing up my taxes...oh, the lies.

But anyway, the days will turn to weeks and before we know it it will be April 14 and I'll be scrambling to make copies of our W2's and figure out how in the world I'm supposed to PAY TAXES ON MY BUSINESS (????), and I'll get it in just before the Post Office closes on April 15 with my fingers crossed and my prayer going something like, "God, please make it just as hard for the IRS people to get a hold of us in our apartment as it is for the UPS guy to deliver a package. Amen."

So all this to say that I believe I have a deep-seated fear of forms and form-filling-out-ness. ESPECIALLY when it involves numbers. There's just something about it...something about how you have to be exactly right. No room for error. No chance you can just 'make it up'. That totally irks me. Because I was not a math/science kid in school. I didn't know the perfectly right answers. I just knew answers that sounded good. Knew how to make them sound good.

Which is how I got 6 out of 8 points on this one Physical Geography question in college that had like three different things you were supposed to do to indicate air and wind and high pressure on a US map and all I did was put an "H" on Chicago. Didn't even touch the other components of the question.

My reasoning? It was my favorite city.
The truth? Chicago happens to be a main area of high pressure air currents (or something like that).

See? I prefer flying by the seat of my pants. None of this black and white/right and wrong garbage. None of these forms with numbers.

Why can't taxes include a written essay?

Gym Rat

The only thing worse than being surrounded by sweaty, farty guys is when the treadmill beside you is suddenly occupied by some chick who just spent the past five minutes outside with Mr. Marlboro.

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It's rude to be judgemental at the gym. Everyone is there for the same reason, pretty much. But going five minutes super fast on the elliptical at a resistance level so low I can hear the wheel inside loosely clanking as it spins isn't going to get you ahead of the pack.

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I may or may not have used a blow dryer in the locker room to rid myself of some of my head sweat before heading to IHOP for free pancake day.

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I may or may not have accidentally been looking at some guy's butt sweat when he happened to catch me in the action thanks to the gym's bazillion mirrors. Oops. (This guy was also wearing a garbage bag shirt...why oh why wasn't I looking at THAT?)

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I may or may not have a fear of butt sweat.

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What would YOU say if you were sweating it out on the elliptical, while totally enamored by this History Channel special on Adolph Hitler's charisma (and how he may or may not have had magic devil powers of persuasion), and out of nowhere some guy comes bustling up, ready to change the channel, and says:

"Are you watching this?"

How do you answer that? Is there any acceptible way of owning up to actually ENJOYING a special on Hitler? Is that even allowed?

"Nein....Uh, I mean no. No. No, I'm not watching that at all. You may change the channel to whatever you like."

(He was unable to find a worker to help him change it, so I had to spend the rest of the workout sneaking glances at the subtitles...because I felt that guy's eyes on me...as if he was saying "Yeah, I knew you were watching that. You horrible, horrible person. You should be ashamed.")

A Gold Medal for Reading

Every Olympics, I go through a sort of funk. The type of funk that is typically reserved for a 50-year old male who's facing a sort of mid-life crisis (complete with a yacht, motorcycle and pair of deerskin chaps).

Don't get me wrong. I completely enjoyed the Nancy Kerrigan/Tonya Harding saga. (My fingers were crossed for Tonya--I found her to be prettier), and watched EVERY MINUTE of the 1996 US Women's Gymnastics team competing in Georgia (and kicking butt!), feeling nothing short of happiness and pride.

But I also felt something else.

The funk officially hit during the 1998 Winter Olympics when Tara Lipinski blew everyone's mind and took home the women's figure skating gold.

And I wanted to die.

Here was this tiny girl, only a year or so older than I, wearing an Olympic gold medal around her neck BECAUSE SHE WAS THE BEST FIGURE SKATER IN THE WORLD.

And me? The most I ever had to show for my efforts was a free personal pan pizza coupon from Pizza Hut that I won because I was able to read 20 books over the summer.

Leave me alone. I'm pacing myself. I mean, there has to be something wrong with achieving your life's goal at eighteen years of age.

Ask any high school basketball team captain.

Or Evgeni Plushenko*.


*At 19 he won the silver medal in men's figure skating at the 2002 olympics in Salt Lake. At 23 he won the gold. He then retired.

But now he's back. And 27 years old.

Two medals? At least I've never retired.

An Opinion on Opinions and Idea on Ideas

Let's take a moment to consider the people who ask for your opinion but don't really want to hear it.

How is it that these sorts of people exist? It's quite baffling. They do, after all, ask for your opinion out of their own free will. And one would assume, then, that they understand the issue of tomato, tomahto. Potato, potahto. And yet your opinion comes as a total surprise.

Why I had no idea you thought I looked fat at all, let alone in this dress!

How could you possibly think my novel needs work? I've been toiling away for three months!

And, of course . . .

But the rest of the world has nationalized health care!

The truth with these people, I have found, is they aren't asking for your opinion at all. They're asking for your assurance.

That dress looks P-H-A-T!

I couldn't put your book down. Really. It was that good.

And . . .

Of course I want hospitals to run like DMVs! I LOVE re-newing my license and was hoping to have a similar experience when my leg is falling off!!

They ask for your assurance, because deep down, they don't believe there is any sort of problem. If there WAS a problem, they wouldn't ask. They wouldn't need to. They'd know. And they'd fix it. And try the dress thats a size bigger. Or take a second stab at editing the novel. Or step back and re-evaluate government's role in health care.

But it's a vicious circle. Because once they've done this and gotten to the point where they feel victorious, they'll ask for your opinion. Expecting rave reviews.

And pout when you disagree.

But maybe one day, instead of asking for opinions, people will ask for ideas.

How would this dress look even better on me?

What can be done to make this book more marketable?

And, the winner . . .

Share your ideas on how we can improve the current health care bill.

There is power in ideas. And death in opinions.

Putting 26 in Perspective

As if I'm not having a hard enough time dealing with my entrance into the middle ages, Facebook seems to have taken it upon themselves to remind me.

Every click. Every ad. 26. I guess these days only 26 year-olds are eligible for car insurance. And Victoria's Secret shopping sprees. And Mac products. And enrollment at the University of Phoenix.

I suppose I should be thankful. Glad that I just so happen to be at the perfect age. But I'm not glad. I'm not thankful. Because I'm getting old.

To put my age in perspective, I though I'd compile a list of individuals with whom I would have gone to high school had we been in the same school zone (and social status):

Sasha Cohen -
Born: October 26, 1984
Difference: Younger than I by 10 months
Translation: She's already proven people my age do retire (and then pretend it never happened) . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Lady Gaga -
Born: March 28, 1986
Difference: Younger than I by 2 years, 3 months.
Translation: We would never have even been present at the same prom . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Prince William of Wales -
Born: June 21, 1982
Difference: Older than I by 1 year, 6 months
Translation: If I were British and certain royalty dead, I could be Queen . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Britney Spears -
Born: December 2, 1981
Difference: Older than I by 2 years
Translation: She's been divorced twice and has two kids . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Jay Cutler -
Born: April 29, 1983
Difference: Older than I by 8 months
Translation: If I had my act together I could be quarterback of a so-so pro football team. (This just may be the saddest of all)


Beyonce. Justin Timberlake. Jodie Sweetin. The list goes on. And on. And the only good part about it is the small satisfaction one gets out of knowing that we all could have chilled in study hall or suffered through PE together (except for Sasha, of course).

I won't even get into the list of peeps who are too young to have gone to High School with me . . .

Taylor Swift, Taylor Lautner (he's like 9 years younger than I, by the way) . . .

No "L"

An example of white trash Christmas decor:

It was propped up in someone's yard, lit like a marquee by thousands of appropriately colored lights.

And I struggled to understand its meaning. Come, follow my thought process:

What? Bad "L"? Wrong "L"?

No, it has to be No "L". No . . . no Leh, leh, lesbians?

That doesn't make sense. Why would someone say no to lesbians and not gays?

Then maybe it's No LGBTs?

No. People aren't that cruel . . . are they?

No . . . No Lawyers?

Why would someone say that?

Good point. Maybe they hate a certain family whose last name starts with "L". Like No Linderman's Allowed!

No?

No Loitering? That one is at least plausible.

Or maybe it's not a letter thing at all. Maybe that "L" is really a right angle. Like No 90 Degrees! As though they're cheering for the cold.

. . .

I cannot be this stupid. Think, think, THINK!

No "L"
No "L"
No "el"
No el

Noel.

Dumb.

A Bit About Health and Care and What Happens When the Two Become One

My doctor’s name is Michael Scott. I have never known anything to be as equally awesome and unawesome.

I’ve only visited Michael Scott once. Long, long ago. So, fittingly, I had a freak out moment when I realized that the current calendar year was quickly coming to a close, meaning only one thing:

All that money I had put into health insurance was about to go to waste. Not literally. But figuratively. I had spent an entire year throwing money into a system without taking advantage of its offerings.

So, I scheduled an appointment.

But the thought would not leave me. All that money. And here I am as fit as a fiddle.

And I became enraged. Enraged because the system trapped me. I, along with millions of other policy-holding Americans, throw hundreds if not thousands of dollars into the health insurance pool every year. We do this because we’re terrified not to. We’re terrified that the minute we pass on the offered insurance plan, we’ll find ourselves with purple eyes or a foot growing out of our hand and won’t have the money to get it taken care of let alone the chance to skirt the “preexisting condition” crap.

I got even more angry, thinking about how the relationship is totally one-sided. How I throw money at the insurance companies, trusting that it’s a good investment whether I cash in or not. But do you think they’d take a chance on me in a similar respect? Nope.

So there was my frustration. Knowing I was trapped (and I HATE feeling trapped) in a system that was just screwing me over.

But then I went to see Michael Scott.

Michael Scott is part of a network of clinics all over Fort Wayne called Women’s Health Advantage. And here is what happened….

I showed up at the wrong location. But before you draw any conclusions about me being tossed around from doctor to doctor, parking lot to parking lot, I’ll have you know that it ended up being a wonderful experience.

Women’s Health Advantage has all their files set up ELECTRONICALLY (!). So, when I found out I was in the wrong place, the lady behind the counter simply looked up my file and set me up to meet with a nurse practitioner person (as long as I was okay with that, of course), because she feared that redirecting me to Michael Scott would result in me having to wait a LONG time to see him. He’s a busy man.

So, I accepted the nurse practitioner person. . .

. . . And was done and out of the building in thirty-five minutes.

They didn’t have to go over my past experiences, my family history, my health history. They didn't throw a ton of paperwork at me or roll their eyes or act like I was a bother. They didn’t even have to re-scan my hand to make sure a foot wasn’t there. No, they just handled me as though I had originally scheduled my appointment at THAT location instead of the other one.

All this to say, there are some definite problems with health care. And reform may be the solution. But Tad said something to me a few months ago that I hadn’t experienced until yesterday:

The health care system is fixing itself. We just need to give it time.

I’m okay with that. So long as a foot doesn’t grow out of my hand and I find myself without a Blue Cross or a Blue Shield. (or an Anthem, considering that technically is my provider…not BC/BS).

Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Gestures

My dreams of starring in a musical have been crushed. The bad news came this afternoon. Sometime between 2 and 3. In the form of an emailed audition announcement.

Allow me to share the part that dashed my dreams:

AUDITIONS: Auditions will be held at the Arts United Center building on Sunday, January 3rd from 6:00 pm until 10:00 pm. with possible call-backs on Monday, January 4^th from 7:00 pm until 10:00 pm. Please call 422-8641 Ext. 226 to sign up to audition. Enter from the back of the A.U.C. to check in. All people auditioning should arrive no later than 6:00 pm and be prepared to dance first. Those auditioning should be prepared to perform a song (16 bars) and provide sheet music in the proper key for the pianist. Everyone should be prepared to dance and sing at the initial audition. Be prepared to stay the entire times listed above.

Emphasis mine.

I don't know what I was thinking. Did I really expect to be in a musical that didn't have dancing? Did I really expect to get off the hook that easily? For decades, local music theatre participants have humiliated themselves at the hand of silly arm gestures and synchronized twirling.Why did I ever think that the Fort Wayne Civic Theatre was the exception?

Aside from the fact that I don't have the slightest when it comes to dance preparation, the annoying truth is that because I'm the new kid, I'd be judged as though I'm supposed to be impressive. As though I'm supposed to run around like those breakdancers on GAP's Christmas commercials. While the house favorites slide by with nothing more than an exaggerated jump accompanied by a rhythmically appropriate shrug.

But they're good enough. Because they've worked with us before.

And thus the circle starts over again. Because some other unsuspecting, big-dreaming soul in the audience will think to themselves, upon seeing the Christmas production-esque choreography, I want to do that! I want to sing the lead role and walk across stage with authority and storm away in disgust only to return in absolute splendor as I'm lowered from the rafters . . . and I can. Oh yes, I definitely can.

And then they'll see the audition notice and realize that they're no Justin Timberlake. And even though they're assuming that, considering the dancing they saw on stage, the JT test mustn't be that daunting, the thought of going up there and accompanying their song with a little jig is just too much.

And the dream will die. Even if they know that they can exaggeratedly jump and rhythmically shrug and synchronically spin with the best of them, the dream will certainly die.

Farewell, dream.

I suppose I'll just stick to acting.

Making Fun of Stephen King.

After listening to approximately six hours worth of Stephen King's short stories on audio tape on a road trip to and from Peoria, llinois, at the beginning of the month, and after adding another two hours worth of a novella that Tad and I turn on sporadically as we commute to and from work every day and also as we go about our business during the evening, I've developed a certain disdain for his minute detail, excessive use of commas and inability to create dialog that is in any way believable, unless, of course you live in a world in which every living person precedes or confirms their thoughts with lengthy descriptions, explanations and backgrounds, like a teenager, trying to convince his overly-skeptical father that it was necessary to leave his bedroom light on the night before, not because he had sneaked out, forgetting to turn it off, but because he needed it to sleep.

In short, I'd like to know how many words can Stephen King cram into one sentence?

The answer: We're still counting.

*Yes, I am prepared to receive hate comments from S. King fans.
**Yes, I realize my simile was terrible and not nearly as creative as the time S. King described the popping sound in someone's knees as "twin pistol shots".
***Yes, I am fully aware that my entire sentence is wretched and possibly full of errors.
****My sentence is 155 words long.
*****No, I do not believe this is an accurate portrayal of S. King. Truth be told, he is much worse.

Here's an Idea!

I am convinced that there should be warning labels on certain food items. Imagine how helpful it would be to know:

WARNING (ACHTUNG!): SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK IS NOT RUNNY. IT IS GLOOPY. GLOOPY, GLOOPY, GLOOPY. ALL PRECONCEIVED NOTIONS THAT THE SUBSTANCE WILL PERFORM AS MILK DOES SHOULD BE DISREGARDED.
POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS FROM SMELLING SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK INCLUDE BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO A LOSS OF APPETITE, CONSTANT GAGGING, THOUGHTS OF PROJECT ABORTION, A FEAR OF DIRECT CONTACT WITH THE SUBSTANCE, AND A COMPLETE INABILITY TO ENJOY THE FINAL PRODUCT.

Knowing these things would have helped immensely. We can only hope to stomach the Lemon Poppyseed Pie.