Ho Hum

I don't mean to end NaBloPoMo on a lame note, but I'm a little out of sorts today. We found out first thing this morning that a family friend died last night. He was diagnosed with cancer only a month or two ago, and we knew then that he may not have a long time to live. Nevertheless, I'm a little thrown off for a couple of reasons. For one, he wasn't "old." He was maybe a decade older than my parents. For another, he was the kind of person whose personality took up a whole room. He wasn't someone that I could easily imagine being ill or sick or weak or anything like that. And for finally, I've always had this idea that when people are diagnosed with some serious disease, they usually hang on for quite awhile after that. There's an awful lot that doctors can do to slow a natural decline and give people as much time as possible. When they said he may only have 3 months to live, I assumed that that must be a conservative estimate, that we'd all have plenty of time to become accustomed to the idea, an for him to get everything wrapped up. Obviously, I was terribly wrong, and so I was probably more shocked than I should have been when we got the news today.

Even though I'm well-aware that I'm still young and naive and so on and so forth, I'm always a little surprised when I learn something new about life, one of those indisputable truths that my elders probably already know well. Cliches like, "College is one of the best times of your life," and "There are plenty of fish in the sea." And now I have another one to add to it: People can and will die, whenever Fate decides, whether any of us are ready for it or not. How utterly ridiculous that truth looks when it's printed flatly on a computer screen, in impotent words that can't do it justice.

Thanks for allowing me this silly, overly dramatic moment. Tomorrow: back to frivolity!

In The Home Stretch!

I just got an email from Eden of fussy.org, who is the mastermind behind NaBloPoMo. Here's an excerpt:

"Just two more days until we cross the finish line, and what have you learned this month? Have you managed to post something thought-provoking every day, or do you feel like you clogged up the Internet with less-than-satisfying content for the sake of endurance?"

I think that, without question, I fall into the latter category. But I think that's also OK. One of the things that I've been learning about life here lately is the fact that sometimes it's a lot better to just get something done than it is to agonize over getting it done perfectly. Most people have trouble with procrastination, I think, and I am no exception. (And if you never procrastinate, then OH HOW NICE FOR YOU, YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.)

(OK, sorry, I overreacted a little bit there in that last set of parentheses. Regardless of how perfect you are, I'm glad to have you here, and you're welcome to stay as long as you can stand it.)

Anyway, I think that for me, the main reason to procrastinate is because I'm determined that everything has to be perfect: my room/office has to be spotless, I have to be well-rested and clear-headed, the end product has to be flawless, and so on and so on. But I've decided that that's nonsense. My new life motto is, "Screw quality! Let's just get it over with!" ... Well, it doesn't sound very noble when I put it quite that way, but lemme tell ya, I've gotten a lot more done a lot more quickly ever since I started looking at it that way.

And for your information, I don't think that all of my posts this month have been junk. I'd say that at least 30% of them have been worth reading.

A Recipe for You!

In honor of Day After Thanksgiving Day, here is my favorite Thanksgiving leftovers recipe, just for you, for FREE.

Ingredients:
2 slices bread
handful of leftover turkey
handful of leftover dressing
2 tbsp leftover gravy

Directions:
Lay out 2 slices of bread on the counter
(If you like, you may mayonnaise your bread)
On one piece of bread, layer turkey and dressing
Drizzle with gravy
Salt and pepper to taste
Place second piece of bread on top of the first
Heat the whole shebang in the microwave for 15-30 seconds

And enjoy!

I love this sandwich so much that I had a minor breakdown this morning when I woke up to find that there was NO LEFTOVER GRAVY. I had no idea what to do. I was going to have to re-think my entire sandwich. I was devastated. But then my mom suggested that I heat up another can of gravy, and then I did, and the day was saved. It was a Day After Thanksgiving Day miracle!

Holidays Are About Nothing If Not Cliches

Because America is a heterogeneous nation, filled with diverse people, there are also a wide variety holiday traditions. Nevertheless, each holiday has its own defining characteristics, experienced by everyone, regardless of their family's tradition. Thanksgiving, for example, is generally about eating until you're sick, passing out, throwing up, and then eating some more. But it's also about two other things: making lists of things you're thankful for, and being driven crazy at the hands of your family. (The latter is also a defining characteristic of Christmas/Hanukkah/Winter Solstice, etc.) All of this is just my way of saying that I'm about to make some lists for you, internet. First:

Things My Family Has Done To Drive Me Crazy, So Far
1) I got up early this morning and went downstairs to see if anyone else was up, and happened to notice that something was in the oven. I was a little alarmed at first, until I looked in and realized that they were just rolls that had been put in there to rise over night, apparently. But they were all rising into each other, and 3 of them are trying to come off the pan. So I went upstairs to notify my mom, "Hey, your rolls are rising off the pan." Her response: "Well they'll just have to stay that way for a little while. Snore."
2) When my dad came downstairs, I said, "Mom's rolls are rising off the pan... should we take off these 3 before they get out of hand?" "Nah."
3) My brother keeps saying racist and misogynistic things, not because he's racist or a misogynist, but because he likes to hear me indignantly yell, "Matthew!"
4) My dad has a habit of sitting in one room while I'm in another, and yelling things at me. When I inevitably can't understand what he's saying and end up yelling with "What?!?" he always responds with something weird, like "That's what I thought, too." I think he's somehow tricking me into agreeing to things, and I don't know what they are.

And then of course, we have the companion list, of:

Things For Which I'm Thankful*
1) My family. They're nuts, but they understand me.
2) Lee. (Awwwww. Gag.)
3) Over the past few months, finally feeling comfortable with where my life is now. (Side note: if it takes me a year to become accustomed to a big change, and grad school will only last 2 years, what does that mean for my sanity?)
4) Pretty great coworkers who have become pretty great friends.
5) Old school friends that I've managed to keep in touch with, in spite of the distance between us.
6) The chocolate pie my mom made last night.
7) The fact that my car is still running just fine, in spite of the fact that it now makes no less than two strange noises, and I have a burnt-out headlight.
8) Free packets of instant hot chocolate in the break room at work.
9) Cereal.
10) That one pair of perfect-fitting pants I found at Target last month. (Dear Target, Let's get married. Love, me.)
And finally...
11) You, internet! Sure, you very seldom reply to all my love letters and overtures, but you've shared so much with me, and you have no idea how much good this here blog does me, in spite of the fact that all I'm writing is drivel.

*Who didn't end her list title with a preposition?? Me! High five!

Also internet, if you get a chance, why don't you tell me what you're thankful for, and/or what it is about your family that makes you crazy? And be sure and have a happy Thanksgiving!

No More Plastic Sporks, I've Been Cleared to Use REAL SILVERWARE

I just wanted to let the internet know that I had my last visit with my Mental Health Professional this morning, and I am inordinately proud of myself. This isn't the same as saying, "The cancer is gone!" or "That gash in my head has healed!", since technically no one ever told me that I must go see the Mental Health Professional for x number of visits. I made the choice to go, and I have now made the choice to stop going. Plus, I would never go so far as to say that I am completely un-crazy forever and ever. Nevertheless, I feel (and my Mental Health Professional agrees) that I have made some serious progress as far as coping with life and the Uninvited Asshole Voice in my Head and generally just trying to stay in touch with reality, rather than Chicken Little-ing all over the place all the time. So to myself I say, Congratulations, you sassy thing, you! It only took you a couple of months to achieve a level of functioning that most people come by naturally!

Also, I crunched some numbers (no seriously, I can show you my work if you want), and I've determined that as a result of my talking with the Mental Health Professional, I am now 84% less crazy than I was a few months ago. Kickass! Accordingly, I have updated my blog's motto.

Looks Like It's Time to Head to the Grocery Store

Today: Worked from 10 to 5:30, volunteered from 6 to 10. Would like to sleep now.

But! I owe you guys a post, and I would never let you down. So, without further ado, here's my half-assed post about how I need to go to the grocery store. (Alternate title: You Know Things Are Bad When You Can't Even Find a Midnight Snack.)

Here we see my freezer.

That chicken has been there a long time, and the vegetables possibly longer. In other words, this freezer really may as well be empty.

Furthermore, my fridge proper!

As you can see, I endorse Tostito's salsa, and I enjoy an icy cold bottle of water from time to time.

Tune in again tomorrow, when I'll be posting pictures of the area underneath my bed, and also my desk drawer. Riveting stuff.

(My mom is going to be so upset when she realizes I'm starving to death.)

Some Observations

All last week at work, I was plagued by headaches and fatigue. But over the weekend, I felt great! I had Japanese food! And some naps! It was fantastic! But today is Monday. And once again: headaches and sleepiness. Hm. It's pretty clear that work is killing me, and if you know of a doctor that will write me a letter to that effect, I would really appreciate it.

On another note, I've noticed that sometimes when I make a new friend, I start thinking that they're REALLY GREAT and OH MAN I'M SO GLAD I KNOW THIS REALLY GREAT PERSON. And then of course I'm a little disappointed when I find out about their inevitable flaws. What is that about? Does everyone go through this, or is it just another facet of The Crazy? I'm just wondering.

Product Review: Drano Max Gel

Yesterday I meant to work on grad school applications, but I had one of those freakouts where I decided that NOTHING was going to get done until I cleaned my damn apartment. It was warranted, I think, because it had been a slightly embarrassing length of time since I had last cleaned. For example, I don't think that I should mention in public how long it had been since I had washed the dishes... how long they had lingered in the sink, waiting for someone to pay attention to them, and how when I finally washed them, I was not even sure what I had eaten off of them in the first place, because that's how long it had been since I did the dishes.

Anyway, one of my major goals yesterday was to take care of the clogged drain in my bathroom sink. This is simultaneously very exciting (because I've never had a clogged drain to call my own!) and extremely boring (because ew, clogged drain). I'm not entirely sure how the sink drain got clogged in the first place. I'm thinking that part of the problem might be that I blow-dry my hair right over the sink, and maybe while I'm distracted by my reflection in the mirror (shiny!), some individual strands of my hair jump ship and make for the sewers.

Lest you think that I am so kind of martyr for cleanliness, I want you to know that by no means did I go sticking my hands in that gross drain, or dismantling pipes, or any of that nonsense. No. What I did do was, I went and bought a $7 bottle of Drano Max Gel*, poured it down the drain, and let it do my dirty work.

*Drano is not paying me to write this post. Don't worry, I haven't sold out!

I'm very appreciative toward the Drano for saving me from having to get my hands all icky. On the other hand, I now also have a new-found respect, bordering on fear, for Drano Max Gel. For one thing, there are notices all over that bottle, warning you not to ever let the gel touch you, or any of your loved ones, or any of your possessions. It even goes so far as to suggest that you really shouldn't look at it directly.

Given that it's "professional-strength" (i.e., it will burn the skin off of your child's face if you're not careful), I don't understand why it instructs you to use HALF OF THE BOTTLE all at one time. (That's $3.50, right down the drain! And for once, I mean that literally!) It also says that you should slowly pour your half of the bottle into the clogged drain. Even if it hadn't said to do it "slowly," I would have had to anyway because, um, Drano? My drain is clogged. Where is the Drano Max Gel supposed to go, exactly?

So I stood in my bathroom for 20 minutes, pouring a little of the Drano Uranium Derivative into my sink, waiting for it to sink down the drain, and then pouring again. I don't know if the bathroom was maybe not as well-ventilated as it should have been, but it started to feel kind of trippy. Watching that stuff sloooowly drain is kind of like watching an egg yolk slip through a colander. Also, every once in awhile there would be a bubble in the gel, which I guess indicated that it was making some progress down there. But the bubble wouldn't pop, because that gel is hardcore, and I couldn't reach down and pop it, because I was afraid I'd lose a finger to the Professional Strength, so I had to just sit there and will it to pop with my eyes. And then on top of everything else, all this time spent standing over my sink really got me thinking about what must be down there, clogging everything up, and between that and the egg-yolk-iness and the weird smell, I started feeling sort of nauseous.

But, finally half of the bottle had been sent down the drain, and I was free to go do other things while I waited the recommended 15 minutes for it to do its thing. Then, as directed, I flushed it with hot water and I'LL BE DAMNED, that drain drains just like you'd expect it to (which is to say, in less than an hour). So, all in all, I'd say that I have to give Drano Max Gel a thumbs-up for effectiveness, but an F for consumer friendliness, since it kind of frightened me and made me feel sick. The worst part is, I still have half the bottle sitting under my kitchen sink with the rest of the cleaning supplies, and I'm kind of afraid to even open the cabinet, because I don't want it to feel like I'm challenging it and then charge me like an angry bull. If anyone out there has a clogged drain and needs some of this stuff, I'll give it to you for free, but you'll have to come get it yourself. I've taken too many risks already.

Down to the Wire

I almost forgot to post today! But I still have less than 20 minutes to get something up!

And so, as is my custom, I am half-assing it with a video from youtube. If you haven't seen this commercial yet, you're missing out, because it makes me giggle uncontrollably:



If you have seen it, well then... I'm so sorry to have wasted your time. Come back tomorrow and try again.

I Can't Tell You How Many Times I've Tried to Use Wikipedia to Win an Argument

I consider myself to be very lucky in that Lee and I have a lot of things in common. I've dated people in the past that I didn't have as much in common with, and it was kind of strange, because I always felt like I was holding back parts of myself. With Lee, I never feel that way, which is nice. But this entry isn't about how lucky I am, it's about one of the less attractive things that Lee and I have in common: we're both infuriating know-it-alls.

Usually this isn't too much of a problem, because, like I said, we tend to agree on most things. Either that, or the thing that one of us feels really strongly about is something the other one doesn't care too much about, so it's easy to just agree with the Lee's opinion when he gets started on a rant. (I, on the other hand, do not rant. I make passionate, well-thought-out arguments in favor of my beliefs, which people are more than happy to hear.)

Anyway, when we don't agree, it's like some kind of back-alley street-rules debate team competition. By way of example, here are some things Lee and I have debated in the past (some of them more than once):

1) Should a woman should take her husband's name?
2) Corporal punishment: necessary and harmless, or unnecessarily violent?
3) Does organized religion have any redeeming qualities?
4) Is an animal's life worth as much as a human life?

Argument #4 from the list above was the most fun so far, because we were both drunk, and at one point I was indignantly browsing the internet for pictures of whale brains and rat brains. It's important to note two things about these arguments: 1) None of the topics currently directly affect either of us, and 2) On all of these topics, Lee and I agree on more points than we disagree. But that doesn't stop us (me) from getting really worked up about it.

For example, last night, Lee and I were arguing again about corporal punishment, and it started getting a little heated, so we sensibly decided to just drop it, for the health of our relationship. There was a short pause in the conversation, after which I said, "So... what are you doing?"
Lee: "Looking up corporal punishment on the internet."
Me: "Oh no you're not, because I am!"

At a Loss

I tell ya, 19 straight days of blogging can really leave you without any inspiration.

What can I tell you? I've been having weird headaches and feeling really lethargic lately, and my coworker said she thinks that it's caused by "stress," whatever that means. She's currently applying to nursing programs, though, so she probably knows what she's talking about.

Also... Thanksgiving is coming up? I'm thinking about pretending to be an adult and making something for Thanksgiving dinner. Our family of four traditionally just keeps it low-key and eats at my parents' house. Usually my Mom cooks everything, but I'm thinking I might go crazy and make a dessert or a green bean casserole or something. You know, things I'm not very likely to screw up.

This post is terrible. Ooh! Ok, I know! Let me tell you about some things that I've recently discovered will exacerbate a headache, in case you ever have one...
1) Screaming toddlers
2) Screaming 10-year-old girls
3) Speed bumps
4) Looking at a computer screen for a very long time
5) Thinking
6) Being awake

There. Don't say I never did anything nice for you.

Microsoft Office is a Paradox, Wrapped in ARGH

Funny story:

On my computer at work, I have yet to figure out how to get Excel to STOP POPPING UP WITH THE DAMN CLIPBOARD EVERY TIME I COPY AND PASTE SOMETHING. I know what I just copied, ok Excel? I would like to now paste the thing that I just copied. I do not need to choose from the clipboard, I do not need to be reminded of everything I have ever copied, I do not need you to take up half my screen showing me this, I need you to GET OUT OF MY FACE I'M TRYING TO WORK.

Here at home, on my laptop, I have just spent 10 minutes trying to get Word to SHOW ME THE DAMN CLIPBOARD because I just realized that about 17 cuts ago, I cut something from my grad school essay that I kind of actually want to keep in there.

Why is one application trying to shove the clipboard down my throat, while the other application is holding the clipboard for ransom? I do not know. If I were smart enough to know the answer that question, I'd already be working for Microsoft.

Somehow I Dress Myself In Matching Clothing Every Day

The other day, I was out shopping with Lee. I was browsing, in my amped-up-hummingbird way, when something across the store caught my eye.
"Ooh!!" I said, and headed in that direction.
"What, that yellow coat?" Lee asked.
"How did you know?!?" I thought for sure this was a sign that we are soul mates, always and forever.
He shrugged.
"Because it's the tackiest thing over there."

----------------

I'd like to be offended, but I can't really be, because he's not the first person to say I'm attracted to tacky clothing. But if by 'tacky' you mean 'bright, colorful, and AWESOME,' then I am not offended at all. I EMBRACE your 'tacky' label. In fact, the real travesty here is the fact that I never purchase even a small percentage of the enticingly tacky things I see in the store, and instead end up wearing black 90% of the time. Internet, welcome to my multiple personality disorder.

Edit: I just realized that I really should have titled this, "Some People Just Can't Handle Pizzazz." I apologize for the oversight. It won't happen again.

I'm Pretty Much a Genius

On a lighter note, I was watching Jeopardy Teen Tournament this evening, and I gotta tell ya - if I could compete against high schoolers answering high school questions, I would totally clean up on Jeopardy.

Mental Health: A Tricky Thing

(Fair warning: this post is long as damn.)

Alright, so. Now's the time I tell everybody about how I'm crazy. (Every time I say that, Lee says, "You're not crazy," to the point that now every time I say it, even if he's not around, I hear his voice in my head saying, "You're not crazy." So, thanks a lot, Lee. I may not be crazy, but now I'm hearing voices.) I mentioned before that I've been seeing a Mental Health Professional, and I feel a need to elaborate on that for some reason. Partly just for the opportunity to be able to sort through things and look at it all from a different perspective. I think life is a lot easier if you can accept yourself, be honest about who you are, and laugh at yourself, so we'll consider this post an exercise in all of that.

My Mental Health Professional is actually a clinical psychologist. One of the hardest things about seeing a Mental Health Professional is the fact that it's hard to refer to her casually in conversation. My Mental Health Professional and I have had some good conversations, and she has often said things that I think might benefit other people I know. But, alas, I can't tell them, because I can't figure out that best way to refer to my Mental Health Professional, beyond the admittedly cumbersome phrase "Mental Health Professional." Talking about "my psychologist" makes it sound like I've been committed to a state hospital, I think. Other euphemisms I've considered are:
- 'counselor' (sounds too much like 'life coach' or 'person who helps you decide where to apply to college')
- 'therapist' (sounds too much like I lie on a couch and talk about how I wish I had a penis)
- 'shrink' (OK, I've never even actually considered this one, because I think it's actually kind of offensive to the MHP, and also doesn't make a lot of sense to me)

Ultimately, I decided just not to mention her at all. When I talk about her to Lee, I just call her by her name, which we will pretend is Cathy. Because I've been extensively educated about different types of mental health treatment and therapy and how effective it is and how it's a very good thing and not shameful in the least, I was honestly kind of surprised to find that I was sort of ... embarassed about it. I shouldn't have been surprised, I know, but I was. Which is another reason that I wanted to write about it. I've read a lot of things on the internet that left me feeling shocked and soothed by how similar they were to my own experiences, and if anyone feels that way after reading this, then I'll consider it worthwhile.

The real question is: why have I been seeing a MHP? I'm honestly not really all that crazy. I like to think of myself as Medium Crazy. I function well, I'm not a danger to myself or others, I don't need medication, hell, maybe I didn't even need therapy (or counseling or whateverthehell). But. I have this voice I hear sometimes. I guess you could call it 'insecurity' or 'anxiety,' but I prefer to think of it as Some Asshole Who is in My Head Without Permission. It's been there for as long as I can remember, and was probably exacerbated by a four-year tour in the great War of Dating a Mildly Emotionally Abusive Jerkface. But after I graduated from college and moved out on my own, the voice of the Asshole in My Head got really aggressive. It was particularly bad at night, and it would start telling me things like...

"You don't have any friends. What if you never make any more friends? What if you're always alone?"
"No one at work likes you, they only invite you along to be nice."
"Are your parents taking good enough care of themselves? What if they die? You'd be all alone. What would happen to your brother?"
"It's all your fault your ex treated you the way he did. Maybe if you had been a better girlfriend, things would have worked out."
"Lee probably wishes you were more like [insert random girl he knows]. You'd better figure out how to be more like that, or he's going to break up with you."
"You shouldn't have gotten into that argument with Lee, now he's going to think you're crazy/awful/a pain in the ass, and he's going to break up with you."

You know, the kinds of things that all happy, well-adjusted people think about.

It came to a head one day at earlier this year. It was Administrative Professionals' Day, and in the space of a few hours I: 1) accidentally went in and sat down on a meeting I wasn't supposed to be in, 2) realized I had forgotten to get a gift for our secretary, and that someone else had gotten her flowers, and 3) found out everyone was going out to lunch with our secretary to celebrate and I couldn't go because I had to interview a study participant. I left work to go to my appointment, and on the way I started crying, while the Asshole in my Head went on and on about what an idiot I was and how nobody at work liked me because they thought I was unfriendly and rude and not thoughtful.

Later that day (when I was calmer and more rational and the Asshole in my Head was out on a coffee break or something), I got to thinking... you know, I bet most people don't become inconsolably upset every other night about their family dying or their boyfriend leaving them. And possibly, it's not a normal occurrence for people to leave work in the middle of the day crying over, basically, nothing. If I remember correctly, it was at that point that the Asshole piped up and said, "Oh no, what if you're depressed? What if this is just the beginning of a long downward spiral into chronic depression, and you end up like those people you saw in the videos in Abnormal Psych, who are medicated and still can't ever be happy and make everyone around them miserable?" And that was when, for a change, my OWN voice spoke up against the Asshole and said, "ENOUGH. FUCK THIS."

Because, you know, it's not as if I haven't put a lot of effort over the years into trying to shut him up. I bargained with him in much the same way you'd talk to an embarrassing relative. "Just be quiet for a little while," I'd say. "Just stop talking to me when my boyfriend is around, and we'll talk later." "Please just lay off the weirdness for today." "Just don't let any of my friends see you." "What do I have to do to get you to act normally??" But the whole thing got overwhelming and I decided it was time to bring in an expert.

So. That's when I started seeing Cathy. And she's a very nice, intelligent woman in her 30s, and we talk things over, and mostly it's been all about recognizing when things are getting a little irrational and out of hand in my head. Cathy is the source of my recent interest in Buddhist psychology and meditation, because she suggested that maybe meditation would help with everything. And I think it does. I think part of the problem is that by just going on with life and trying to ignore the Asshole, I was implicitly accepting everything he said. Then, it would get entrenched in my mind and become a Belief and THEN eventually it becomes 'the Truth.' On the other hand, when I just sit down and listen to him and look at what he's saying objectively, without being distracted by everyday noise and busy-ness, it becomes much easier to see that the things he says are ridiculous. And I can confront him, and come right out and say, "You know, I highly doubt that it's true that everyone dislikes me, and that I'll never make another friend again. And even if you're right, so what, Asshole? Are they still making new episodes of House? Is the sunset still gorgeous from the hill behind my apartment? Can I still obtain Oreos at my local grocery store? If so, I think I'm gonna be all right."

And it's times like that when it becomes clear: It's not me that's crazy, it's the voice in my head.

Writing to You From Another Dimension!

I know you're all sick of my excuses, but I've been very busy today, working on grad school applications and volunteering, and before that, sleeping til noon. Anyway, now I'm at my parents' house, where I had planned to write you a beautiful, eloquent post, a treatise on the inherent goodness of man and how we can nurture it in order to achieve world peace. Unfortunately, all the computers in this place are down with some kind of cyber-flu, so I'm reduced to typing this out ONE LETTER AT A TIME on my brother's iphone. Do I sound more sophisticated than usual? Because it has taken me 9 decadent hours to type this all out. This is what luxury feels like, people. Like a thumb cramp.

9 Out of 10 Posts On This Blog Are About Things I Hear On the Radio

I'm hoping that today will be the day that I get to one of those substantive posts I keep teasing everyone with, but just in case it isn't, I'm going to go ahead and post this little baby one, so that I'm still in compliance with NaBloPoMo. Remember children: it is important to always cover one's ass in everything one does.

Anyway, today's Radio Station of Choice was the Spanish-language station, because I'm trying to bone up (heh) on my Spanish skills, which have languished a little since I returned from my semester abroad in Spain. I'm thinking about maybe possibly volunteering with this organization that works a lot with Spanish-speaking immigrants, so it would be nice if I could remember some vocabulary. As I was listening, this awesomely sappy love song came on, and the first line of it, roughly translated, was this...

Baby, I know you changed your phone number.

For some reason, that made me giggle uncontrollably. (I know! A song that didn't make me tear up and gaze wistfully off into the distance!) I think it's the really tender way he said it, and the moving (accordion?) music that was playing softly in the background at the time. The chorus wasn't quite as good, but it went something like this:

I love you, I love you, I'm an idiot, I lost you, but I love you.

Hell, I'd take him back. But then, I'm a sucker for a love song.



.....





(Ok, ok, we both knew I wouldn't be able to resist trying to find a video on YouTube.



I think it's time to admit I have a problem. Sigh.)

Once Again, Copping Out And Relying On Youtube

Ok, so today has been another hectic day, and you can see that I've just about missed my posting deadline. But don't fear! I do have something to share with you. First, I want you to know that this song (featured below in video form) keeps popping up on my Pandora station, and every time it does, I get choked up.



I've chosen this particular video in order to emphasize the fact that, yes, it's this specific version that I've been listening to over and over again, the cover done by Rufus Wainwright, especially for the Shrek soundtrack. And I get choked up every time.

On a weirder note, I happened upon a country station today and heard "The Devil Went Down To Georgia"... and got choked up. There's no story behind that, no special significance that The Charlie Daniels Band has in my life. So apparently it's just music, any music, that gets me all emotional. It's only a matter of time until Lindsay Lohan's little sister's Christmas album turns me into a sobbing, inconsolable mess.

Also, to make up for the fact that this post has pretty much no substance whatsoever, I'm including this video of squirrels dancing to Michael Jackson's 'Don't Stop Til You Get Enough.' You can thank Lee for this one.

Stay Tuned For My Special Guest Appearance

I can't believe I'm actually confessing this in a public forum, but the other night I had a dream about a man. A man that is not my significant other.

Specifically: Gregory House, M.D.

In this dream, I was part of House's diagnostic team, and he and I had a tender moment, where he was being uncharacteristically kind and thoughtful and sensitive. And then we made out. The next day, doing differential diagnoses, I was really afraid someone was going to find out, and mock our relationship, since I'm so much younger than him. And then he had to be rushed to the hospital because he passed some kind of vicious-looking tape worm. Then Wilson came to talk to me about how I had made out with House (because Wilson knows everything). And he was so nice and kind about the whole thing that I got to thinking that maybe I ought to make out with him, too. But then I decided against it, because I didn't want to give everybody at Princeton-Plainsboro the wrong idea about what kind of girl I am.

After this stuff happened, though, everything took a turn for the worse when we all realized that the weird tape worm that House had in his intestines was actually an EVIL MINDCONTROL TAPEWORM from another planet, and that a whole low-income apartment complex downtown was infected with them, and something had to be done! So after that everyone go real busy, and there was a lot less making out going on.

The best part about the whole thing, I think, was partway through the dream when I realized that I had never seen myself on the show, so none of the viewers would know that I was actually part of House's staff. I was outraged as I wondered, why had all my scenes been cut??

The Name Game

I know you're anxiously awaiting the expanded explanation of my post on Things I'm Often Afraid to Discuss (or whatever I called it). For one thing, you're probably really curious as to why I've been seeing a Mental Health Professional.* In particular, you may be wondering if that fact means that you should put some extra space between us as soon as possible. And I'll get to that, I really will, but I've got a lot going on right now so I really just need you to get off my back about it.

Anyway, what I'd like to briefly discuss right now is my name, specifically how it's pronounced. I don't mean my 'name,' which is 'Sass Pizzazz,' or 'hello dali,' or 'whateverthehelliwant.' I mean my In Real Life name, which is Jenna. It is a glorious name, a name worthy of angels and muses and queens and goddesses. It is short and poetic, yet it encompasses immeasurable meanings. It sounds good as part of The Name Game (Jenna Jenna bo benna, banana fanna fo fenna, Jenna!!). It is pronounced: Jen. Nuh.

And yet for some reason, throughout my lifetime, I have repeatedly encountered an unauthorized alternate pronunciation. Jeeeeeeeena. Long E. Gina. I would think that, to anyone reading it, my name's true pronunciation should be pretty evident, especially if the reader has any experience with phonics. Or reading in general. But, I'm willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. I guess I can see how you'd mispronounce it if you'd never heard it before.

BUT. There remains a tenacious subgroup of people who, immediately after I introduce myself to them as 'Jenna,' begins referring to me as 'Gina.' NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I CORRECT THEM. Why is this? WTF? How many times do I have to say JEN. NUH. before you will stop calling me Gina? HOW MANY???

The most interesting part of all this, I've noticed (whenever I take a break from silently seething about it), is that these people, these people who insist on calling me Gina EVEN THOUGH I've introduced myself as Jenna, repeatedly, these people who have probably never even see my name in print and therefore cannot use that as an excuse for butchering it, generally fall into 2 subgroups: elderly white women, and black men. I do not understand why this is, because I wouldn't think that there are too many things that those two groups have in common, beyond the inability to say my damn name. Maybe they can use this as a jumping-off point for some sort of political alliance in the future... "If neither of us can pronounce the name Jenna, what else might we have in common??"

Anyway, I found myself thinking this evening that I fear for the day when I make friends with an elderly black woman (or an elderly black man? I'm not sure which gender would take precedence). I don't know what would be the result of a double dose of Can't-Say-My-Damn-Name Disease. I'm afraid that they would take it to the next level and just have my name legally changed to Gina.

*Perhaps the answer to the question, "Why am I seeing a Mental Health Professional?" is made clear in this very blog entry.