Diary-ah

Barbara. The Woman.

2009-12-18T08:14:00.001-08:00

Barbara, the Woman from sarah pappalardo on Vimeo.

Terrorist Threats: The Innocent Kind

2009-03-01T11:24:00.000-08:00

There is a fair share of crazies on my ride from the northeast edge of Brooklyn to downtown. Most of them are picked up on a long ride through Bed-Stuy, which seems to be gentrification-averse and charmingly violent in the evening.

I know I’m in for a treat when I hear the grovelly voice of a woman in gold or silver sweatpants talking to the closest stranger. She rides to her “meetings” in downtown Brooklyn once a week, and has an uncanny ability to tell her life story to anyone within five feet of her, in 40 minutes or less.

After hearing the standard “I-was-a –junkie-and-now-I’ve-found-the-Lord” story (cliché) over a handful of bus rides, I overheard her in the rear of the bus this morning while I was reading. “No, I’m not suicidal, I’m homicidal. Some days I could kill this whole fuckin’ bus!” she tells the bus. And just in case the people with iPods didn’t hear, she says, “I think about it every day! Do you know how hard it is to think about killing a whole fuckin’ bus every day?”

That’s when I realized that her meetings were of the psychiatric variety. And I seriously wondered how many weapons could be stored in a pair of gold sweatpants.

An Open Letter to My Google Twins, Sarah Pappalardo and Sarah Pappalardo

2008-07-24T08:02:00.001-07:00

I used to own the Google landscape. Well, at least for two searches-- Sarah Pappalardo and "Sarah Pappalardo." I even had a good chunk of "Pappalardo" until a whole lot of other Pappalardos joined the world of the Internet. My internet existence has been compromised by only two Pappalardos, though. This is my open letter to them:

Dear Sarah Pappalardo and Sarah Pappalardo,

I like what you've done with your lives. I enjoy your articles on Associated Content, Sarah. And Sarah, you've obviously done a great job in Real Estate down in the Jacksonville area. The only problem is that we all share at least a few things in common: our first names, our last names, and our jobs. I, too, am a freelance writer. And guess what, I've worked in real estate marketing for the past year. I know more about Florida real estate than my mom knows about Florida bingo locations and Florida early bird specials. I'm just worried that people from high school think I've moved to Florida. That'd be strange.

The issue here is that we are too close. We are not so different to be seen as separate Sarah Pappalardo entities, but just close enough to potentially be the same Google person. Maybe if one of us took up a career in taxidermy or applied science (there's a Pappalardo fellowship at MIT, if anyone's interested), we wouldn't be so Google-merged.

Don't think that I'm going to be the one to switch careers, just because I'm the youngest.

One option would be to add a middle initial to our Google Personas. I already snagged Sarah J. Pappalardo on Associated Content, but the initial thing never quite stuck. I don't know your middle initials yet, but I sure hope that they aren't the letter J. This would take a lot of effort, anyway, and I'm not sure if anyone is up for changing their business cards right now.

I'm sure you, Sarah Pappalardo 2 and 3, don't want people thinking you are an actor, or that you write snarky comments on other people's blogs, or that you can't really hit the high notes in "Suddenly Seymour". It's time to start making a separation between us, for the good of us all. May we hire the best Google surgeon to do this.

Sincerely,
Sarah Pappalardo 1
Brown-haired freelance writer in real estate
Chicago, IL

Birthday Suit

2008-04-14T07:04:00.001-07:00

Putting on a new age is like trying on a new suit.

No, not a slinky dress. A suit. Age covers your arms and ankles, too.

I put on a new age today, powder blue and sort of cold-looking. It replaced the reddish-yellow getup of age 22. It takes awhile before you get used to that new suit; some people prepare for it a few days ahead, ready to slip it on before the date on their license matches their outfit. Other people are breaking in their "40" suit before they hit their thirties. One year. It's not a big change. Just the "I'm age so-and-so" instead of "I'm age such-and-such." But it's a different colored suit that takes some time before it's broken in.

Twenty-three is powder blue, and I'm still feeling fiery red.

It's Not Like I'm Not Trying

2008-02-10T18:27:00.001-08:00

I've spent the past three of five classes with a woman who sits in the corner and never talks. She's quite a bit older; you can tell by her constant tense physical state that she's working ten times harder than everyone else, and with half the success. She used to be in the army, and has a difficult time asserting herself. And she smells like diapers all the time.

If I were a bit younger and a bit less mature, I would have named her Smelly Lady by now and would have told you how it's weird when she starts rocking back and forth for the entire three hours of class and only makes really oblique comments that never make any sense ever. I'm beyond that. Way beyond that. In fact, I developed a tremendous respect for her over a course of months, realizing how much I take my own situation for granted, and that she's probably worked ten times as hard for everything she achieved in life, even if it all came out to a C average in the end. She's the American Dream. If I were feeling especially hormonal, I might even shed a tear for her.

In spite of the many classes we've had together, we hadn't actually spoken until I ran into her at the Newberry library, searching for special collections that were mysteriously unavailable at the time. I found her hidden behind a wheeling bookshelf next to her working table, and she happened to be using every British periodical that I needed to begin our final paper.

That's when I asked if I could share with her.

That's also when I found out she smelled like diapers.

She seemed distressed about me using her materials, as if they weren't part of a public library or as if we weren't doing the same research paper. She asked me all about my topic later that week as she grabbed my annotated bibliography out of my hands before class. She seemed obsessively interested in my ideas, and I wasn't really willing to share. Something about this seemed familiar, but it didn't seem right. She was far too eager take ideas that I neither gave a crap about (Victorian literature) nor wanted to share with the world, nevermind her.

Two weeks later, I went to class hormonal, bloated, and ready to cry on someone. I also realized my research was completely wrong. For some reason, I never got the verbal memo about its specific research guidelines, and nobody let me know that I was doing anything incorrectly. The professor handed us back a response to our topics, with a grade; mine was below excellent. Lady Previously Mentioned was sitting next to me, and kept looking over my shoulder as I was reading my back page. This wasn't surprising considering our last encounter, so I put it away before she saw any of the information she was looking for.

Let me take you back to school for a moment, to remind you of the unspoken code of honor between classmates. There are certain things you never ask a classmate, especially in a class of ten students, all sitting around the same rectangular table.

She wasn't looking at anyone else's but mine. And she asked the question:

"WHAT DID YOU GET?" As if this annotated bibliography was a testament to all our intellectual, moral, and spiritual merits and faults and the single defining moment of our lives.

I narrowly avoided having to give an answer, since class had started. Nevertheless, three hours later, the same thing came out of her mouth. "WHAT DID YOU GET? I GOT A B-PLUS" without a breath in between, and with a satisfied smirk on her face. As if she beat me at a game that I didn't know I was competing in. I was losing the B-plus game, big time.

As I said, I was feeling very, very bloated and hormonal. I could have bitten the head off of a kitten if it looked at me cross-eyed. But, I am a rational person. I can step back and say, "Sarah, it's not you talking, it's the estrogen." And so I thought about how proud Smelly Lady must have been for achieving the best grade she's had in her entire career. Even though it was a small victory, she could cherish it forever, because it was a testament to her hard work and uncompromising character. I should just bite my tongue and be happy for her, in spite of the spiteful comparison she was trying to make with my only-slightly-above-average grade on a project that is only worth one-tenth of a grade for a class that is in a graduate program where grades don't really matter anyway. No, I'm not bitter. I'm gracious. I'm a gracious human being full of grace.

I'm pretty happy with myself, regardless. At least I don't smell like diapers.

I'm Taking the Goddamn Train

2007-11-14T18:45:00.001-08:00

It seems like people will never be satisfied with the fact that transportation is, and always will be, a bitch.

In the midst of a CTA apocalypse, people are afraid that they may never get to work on time, or that they can’t afford inevitable price hikes, or that city taxes are going to all the wrong places instead of the CTA itself. Right now, the CTA is like a dream to me. A prix fixe, maintenance-free dream.

I have owned a car for two-and-a-half months, and have managed to get towed, booted, and ticketed within 50 feet of my front door. Every morning I sit in an hour of traffic and listen to the NPR morning news, which reminds me, as I’m driving, that oil prices are rising again. I also have a slow leak in my tire, which I would easily fix by myself if this wheel happened to be on a bicycle. But fixing big motorized things is complicated and costs money, and as you may know, I am a female. My mother still insists I take a man to the repair shop with me. To protect me from myself, I imagine.

Aside from the obvious absurdities of owning a car in the city, there are plenty of benefits. I never have to wait for a bus, I can transport large objects, and take road trips to reclaim my reckless youth. But I can do all of these things while leaving my car parked for most of the week. Unfortunately, it is as much of a liability when it is parked as it is when it is actively combusting and destroying the environment.

I don’t regret acquiring a car as much as I regret actually using it, anyway.

For a few days a week, I’m switching to the Blue Line and PACE buses to get to my lovely job, situated in No-man’s land, IL. I get to read, or sleep without worrying that I might kill a cyclist, and I save at least two dollars a day (which will inevitably increase as oil prices rise due to rising oil production costs due to rising oil prices) . It might take an extra half an hour, but I get to do absolutely nothing on the way.

For those of you complaining about the CTA: try driving. It’s ridiculous.

Shoe-Gentrification

2007-10-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

My neighborhood is evolving!

The Aldo shoe outlet is being replaced by....an Aldo.

Now I can go to the same store and pay more for the same product!

Soon enough, Village Discount Outlet wll be replaced by...Village Discount.

This will inevitably phase into Village, which will only sell the designer-thrift "look."

Vitamin Water

2007-10-04T20:25:00.000-07:00

Walking around campus, I think I'm keeping a low profile. As I try to hide that I'm fighting off a miserable cold, tired, and hungover, I look at the beverage I'm drinking and realize that my current state of being is written in bold on a plastic bottle.

Vitamin Water: Rescue.

I drink Coke because I want a Coke. I drink water because I should be drinking more water. But the process that goes into buying a Vitamin water is much different: I am getting sick, so I'm going to buy Power-C. I'm tired; I'm going to buy Energy. I'm unfocused; I buy Focus. I can't rap as well as I used to; I need Formula 50.

I feel terribly exposed when I'm thinking I've got my game face on, ready to take on the world, but my beverage is crying, "Rescue me."

Not only do beverages cater to our thirst, but now they can solve our problems. And now my employers and professors can know exactly whats wrong with me, and that I'm trying to fix it with colored water.

"Just Go!"

2007-08-30T14:33:00.000-07:00

Two high schools in my neighborhood are littered with signs for a new, Please-don't-make-our-district-look-bad-again campaign. It's called "Just Go!" As in, just fucking go to school, you fucking street urchins. Love, Chicago Public Schools. Sponsored by Jewel-Osco.

This is reminiscent of the "Just Say No" campaign back in the eighties. Give kids a mantra so adults don't have to explain their reasons for imposing rules. Clearly, kids do stuff if you "Just" say "Just."

It's as if your parents explained to you why it's important to work hard in life, stopped in mid-sentence, and said, "Nevermind--just do it." All of their life experience got them to that tight and trite conclusion, formed by their own poor judgement and warped reflection of their youth. But it remains as the mantra of discipline. And sometimes, the disciplinarian is right.

Obeying the disciplinarian, however, is easier said than done.

Last summer, I discovered I could get away with murder. This summer, I realized that getting away with murder doesn't make up for the fact that there's a dead body on the floor. Just because I decided to have some accountability didn't mean that I'd actually live up to my own standards. I didn't "Just Go." I stayed at home to watch daytime television, so to speak. And as I was sitting on that couch waiting for the new Netflix to come in the mail, I really cursed myself for not having "Just Gone." But that's enough metaphor for one day.

I don't have parents or the law forcing me to "Just Go!" anywhere (Unfortunately! It's just so darn catchy). Now I need to have reasons and justification for doing things. September is around the corner, though, and I'm feeling the itch to "Just Go." To not ask questions. To do what I ask of myself. I've told myself to "Just Go" and, in theory, I am on track to actually accomplish what I've set for myself. Blindly.

Despite the catchy mantra, I still need to write a novella worth of argument to figure it all out.

I just feel bad for the children.

I Eat Shit for Breakfast

2007-08-23T07:44:00.001-07:00

Wendy's is in my front yard. Starbucks is in my back alley. Both have comparable breakfast food, coffee, and calorie content. But this morning, despite the coupons that would've given me a full Wendy's breakfast for about a dollar, I swung a hard left and stood in a long line for a spinach florentine breakfast sandwich at Starbucks. I admit it. I am as addicted to deceiving marketing campaigns as I am to sugar, fat, and preservatives: I want to pay more for my food.

I gave myself permission to eat a disgusting breakfast on account of my triumphant return to slacks, ironed shirts, and shoes that aren't sneakers. I deserved an artificial egg on a piece of fatty meat and cheese product sandwiched between two slices of simple carbohydrates; but my outfit suggested that I pay more for my meal. If I were in my dirty running shorts and tank top, I could accept a "fast food" atmosphere long enough to order a cheaper breakfast. But I was wearing expensive pants, and expensive pants must be paired with expensive, similarly marketed food and beverage product.

There is a second motive: I want to spend more for my disgusting food because it makes me feel like it's healthier. Something inside me told me this. And someone is doing a very good job at their job to make me feel this way.

Not to say that Wendy's didn't give it their best effort; they call their breakfast sandwiches "frescuits." Implying freshness. Somehow freshness corresponds to health: Panera's been riding that train for years. Lean Cuisine paninis were flying off the shelves since their inception. Even White Hen Pantry has a "Tuscan turkey sandwich" (one of the many Pantry Select items you can choose from) that is "just a little more selective" than the filthy, pedestrian "turkey sandwich." My roommates scoff at me for eating at Wendy's, but they don't see how much mayonnaise, oil, and salt I put on their paninis when they visit me at my bourgie cafe job. Oh no, Americans have it all wrong. Anything vaguely European is fresh and HEALTHY. And bourgeois.

I mean, everybody knows that the best turkey sandwiches come from Tuscany. It's what made Tuscany famous!

So White Hen has Tuscany pinned, and Starbucks copped Florence with their "florentine" breakfast sandwich. Oh, but "florentine" sounds so light! And the leaves of spinach in between my egg and sauce that is reminiscent of cheese...that's healthy! Soon enough, all the major Italian cities and villages will be covered.

Case in point:

Sammich: $2.00
Fresh Baked florentine frescata italian word italian word word ending in a vowel panini: $7.00

The only way we can separate ourselves from poor people is to make it harder to pronounce.

The Kindness of Gay Men

2007-08-12T19:19:00.000-07:00

I had a moment in the porta potty line at Market Days today.

After running on two hours of sleep, nearly getting run over this morning, and within inches of bursting into tears somewhere in the middle of Halsted, I was standing by an older couple. They were tan, wearing cute matching athletic shirts and wore designer sunglasses. I said "hi" because I really enjoy older gay men and they really enjoy me.

One of them was from Kansas. He kept brushing my hair out of my face and telling me how nice I was. He invited me to go to Crobar with them, so I took his number. For some reason, the beer I was drinking had fallen out of my hand, and I just said, "oh, bummer."

Then the man from Kansas shoved a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket and said "happy market days." Then he brushed the hair out of my face again, and so did his partner, and I walked away.

I was stuck on the fact that they kept touching my hair. That was weird.

But, I don't see how I can't be ecstatic about life when strangers give me twenty-dollar bills for dropping fifty-cent beers.

The Downside to Unemployment

2007-07-11T12:04:00.000-07:00

About an hour ago, I was sitting in my bed, drinking coffee, and playing The White Album (which I've never bothered to listen to in its entirety) and reading some essays. I paused for a moment and thought, as my laundry is waiting to be dried, and about twenty-seven fruitless projects of mine are waiting to be finished, that "I am experiencing pleasure."

There is something about being unemployed that urges me to do all the things I wished I were doing when I was sitting in the office with two unfinished contracts and a Myspace survey open on my computer. Now that I have the time and opportunity to do all those things (most of which are written on post-its on my bedroom wall), I find little inspiration to actually work on them, despite that bug inside me telling me that this is the only time I will ever have the freedom to finish them. Instead, I sit in my bed, reading, caffeinating, and self-defiantly enjoying myself.

Let me remind you that if this were late in the evening on a quiet night, I would be telling myself that I should be reading. I would pick up a book, read a paragraph, start staring into space and then call my mom, or clean my bathroom, or organize my sneakers. I can only take pleasure in the things I think I shouldn't be doing.

But right now, at this moment, I feel as though I should be finishing a novel, a musical, or at least putting my laundry in the dryer. I'm not doing any of those things, because I'm having a fucking ball listening to the postal workers next door, blogging, and staying inside on a beautiful day (let's not forget what our mothers drilled into our heads: "It's a nice day; go play outside. You won't be able to when you're older and stuck in an office from nine to five.")

If this is the secret to pleasure, then I may lead a blissfully unproductive life.

My Roommates Bought a Party Bus

2007-06-05T07:12:00.000-07:00

At first I thought I had smoked far too much that night, locked out of my apartment, when I called Derek and he said, "Oh, we're buying a party bus, we'll be home in ten minutes."

I know what a party bus is, but I just assumed is was a toy bus, or an edible bus, or an imaginary bus. No; Derek, Finny, James, and others saw a man fixing a short bus somewhere off of Division and they made him an offer. 500 dollars for a summer of Party Bus.

When I go home, there will be a short bus in my parking lot. Soon it will be painted, stripped, redecorated, and given soul. We will take thirty people on road trips. We will trip on the wires of our ghetto external sound system that will probably run on double-D batteries. Let me emphasize that this is a short bus, and is handicap-accessible.

This is going to be another surreal summer.

My Biggest Pet Peeve

2007-05-07T20:49:00.000-07:00

My biggest pet peeve is getting chased by crack addicts! I hate it when crackheads do that!

Actually I haven't had a good, long conversation with a crack addict. I should get to know them better, really learn how they tick, because there are a lot of them at Clark and Division. A lot. I'm not really sure which ones are crack addicts, though. I'm naiive. Almost suburban.

I got off the bus around 11 pm and stopped in the Jewel to pee and get some money. I cut through the aisle and swung a left to find the most forgotten-about bathroom in the Gold Coast. I thought I had serious dibs on the Jewel potty. Nope. I opened the unlocked door to find a near-toothless, pregnant woman sitting on the toilet and asking me for a hospital and a telephone. First I said "oh fuck" and then I walked around the corner and stood by the frozen meats until I figured she'd left. I go back in the bathroom and find her still there and saying something else about a hospital.

After deciding that I didn't have to pee so badly after all, I went to the front of the store to get money. Here comes the lady, touching my shoulder and asking me for my phone to call her doctor. She even showed me her hospital bracelet. I told her I'd dial the number and call him myself...yada yada yada

Next thing I know, she's threatening to kill me in front of a security guard and chasing me as I'm running to the nearest cab. I almost shut the door on her fingers, and if I didn't, she probably would have beat my ass inside of the cab.

I'm simply relaying information to you.

The Culmination -ation

2007-04-23T19:19:00.000-07:00

As I was making my short-list of people to invite to my graduation party in the summer, I realized how many people I DON'T want to invite. Not in the "I hate you" way; just in the "There are too many of you out there, and I am only capable of properly knowing about thirty-two of you" way.

It's no mystery. I know too many people. We all know too many people. We don't have any barriers left to knowing a double-digited percentile of the civilized world. There's no way to appreciate anyone for an appropriate amount of time and with a reasonable level of effort if you have seven hundred sixty-nine other people clamoring for you to be their own underappreciated friend.

What happened to the days when you knew sixteen people in the world, and seven of them were related to you, and another two of them had Tuberculosis? You couldn't be picky. You had to devote your time to the remaining seventeen people, or else you would die of lonlieness and despair. That would be stupid. You might as well hang out with the guy coughing blood.

But now we know seven-hundred and three perfectly unrelated people who don't cough blood, and most of them have college degrees and mid-size cars. All of a sudden, everyone is cool. Then what? We start forgetting our own family because we know forty-two Stevens and thirty-seven Julies and one hundred seventy-two Matt F.'s and four Jesus's, so our sixth-cousins will fall out of our mind and we'll have to Google them or call our third-cousins just to find out their proper names.

Maybe there is absolutely nothing wrong with this.

Maybe I don't want to make a ziti casserole for more than thirty-two people.

Farmitage

2007-02-08T09:24:00.000-08:00

I noticed that I always sit on the same side of the bus.

Going North/South, I sit on the East side. Going East/West, I sit on the South side.

The Clark bus was packed yesterday, and I had to sit on the West side of the bus. Going past Armitage, I noticed that there was a farm just beyond the park area of the intersection. A farm with a silo. It was red.

There's a farm in the middle of the city and I never knew it.

Toilets and Things

2007-01-25T09:30:00.000-08:00

People seem to treat public bathrooms less kindly than their own. I've seen more atrocious scenes in public bathrooms than anything that I have ever produced. It's as if the anonymity of the public bathroom allows us to make an even bigger mark than we'd ever bother to make in a private, personal bathroom.

It's as if people are marking their territory like dogs on trees and cats on walls.

Of course, nobody is consciously marking proof of their existence with bodily excretions and a gross misuse of toilet paper. But some bathroom stalls seem so atrocious, so disgusting, that you think that someone put an honest effort into fucking it all up. You may never know the name of that person, or which part of the office they work in, but you will know, by default, that they exist. And that they had Mexican for lunch.

It's funny how we mask the marking of territory in our home bathrooms with potpourri, candles, soaps, and lotions, but the same "neat" people are probably the ones who smile knowingly as they leave the bathroom as you enter, finding blood on the walls and three rolls of wet toilet paper and "Kathy is a fat bitch" written in Sharpie on the door.

Broken window theory then applies to the situation: if someone leaves a roll of toilet paper on the floor, then the next person "forgets" to flush. The person after that...so on and so forth. The nicer the bathroom is, the less likely you are to leave your mark on it, and the more responsible you are for your own actions. Maybe there is some merit to crummy public bathrooms, after all.

The bathroom is the last great expression of the self, isn't it?

Poop.

I Bought My Son a Shotgun Today

2007-01-22T19:13:00.000-08:00

I really, really hate how workshops begin with a forced get-to-know-you segment. I hate them because I can't help judging people. The get-to-know-you format is fertile ground for the seeds of prejudice, and for someone who scorns strangers for buying 52" plasma TV's and Hummers, this is tough for me. Getting to know you is a real roadblock between me and me liking you.

At the start of one of my classes, an earnest-looking, balding, morbidly obese young man tells the class that his life's passion is hunting; all he wants to do is to hunt, and his goal is to write for a hunting magazine.

If this doesn't trip my wire enough, he then tells the class that he's in an "improv band." A band. Like Van Halen.

Tonight at the break of this class, my professor says, "I bought my son a shotgun today!" excitedly trying to make conversation with Deer Hunter, who is the 'quiet one' in class.

You can imagine my thoughts when I hear two people eagerly talking about automatic rifles. I can paraphrase rather easily: Picture me waving my arms at you and yelling, "Why? Why? Why why why?" as they continue to discuss the most absurd medieval sport that ever survived the Middle Ages.

But, here I am, judging away. I'll stop, for your sake and mine.

My opinions on hunting, like my scorn for all things excessive, is just another piece of that good ol' liberal platform which passively accepts abortion and actively poo-poohs war. It's funny how we lefties and them right-wingers are all killers in one way or another; we are just selective about who and what we choose to kill.

But people don't abort fetuses for pleasure.

A student next to me gave me a look, almost instinctively, after my professor said that he "bought his son a shotgun!" It was reassuring to know that I wasn't the only person who gets the opposite of excited when I buy a shotgun. That's right; the opposite of excited. If, for whatever reason, I acquired a shotgun, I would probably throw it out, like I did to the video that my weird Uncle George made of my father's funeral. In similar ways, they are celebrations, maybe even glorifications, of death. Give me one good reason to purchase a hunting rifle and I'll make some popcorn and start rummaging through the trash.

Am I just a lame pacifist? Why can't I begin to understand the thrill of the kill? Is it some kind of exercise in realizing our mortality? Maybe if Deer Hunter could spit out some existential reason for hunting, I could give him some respect. But to be so fascinated with destruction....well, I guess that's pretty existential, no matter how you cut it. Maybe each time he goes into the woods, he realizes how fragile his own life is when he spots a happy-go-lucky moose. Maybe when he sends his moose corpse to the taxidermist, it will serve as a constant reminder that he, too, will die.

No, I wouldn't judge him for that.

I just think he's fucking crazy.

Slumming It

2006-12-20T20:02:00.000-08:00

There are a few words that are best to avoid in writing: interesting, weird, and funny. If you find yourself using them, you might not get your point across as succinctly as you could. Other vague words and phrases that are easy to dismiss are "a real learning experience," "that was really something," and "it sucked." My past six months have been all of these things wrapped up in one trite personal essay, waiting to be written.

These words are like blanket statements that can apply to any situation with a hint of complexity. I say them, in the speaking world, to avoid saying what I really mean, or if a situation is too difficult to process and judge while I'm in it. They are like void-fillers in my cute little life narrative that I claim I'll fill in later. Sometimes I do. But most of my experiences remain interesting, weird, or funny. They are inevitable "learning experiences" that often "suck," and involve people who are "really something," in lots of ways that are "good" and "bad."

It's "hard" to break these words apart and find the zillion synonyms and paragraph-long explications for these divine gifts to the English language. It can be "problematic" when you can't find the perspective, or the proverbial balls, to explain your reasoning, or your actions, or your emotions regarding an experience.

It is also "hard" to write an essay when you are unwilling to give an illustration of your point.

But it is "easy" to give it a trite conclusion because it's "funny."

Dear Boystown:

2006-12-19T16:18:00.000-08:00

In about two months, I am leaving you. I am moving West, to a place where the rent is cheap and love is free.

This is a massive live change.

After living on the northside for three and a half years, I have to face the scary symbolic shift out of college and into paying bills and working for a living. The move was prompted by my fervent desire not to pay $800 a month on shelter (cable and internet is shelter, in a way), but for other reasons as well:

Boystown is convenient. And when I say convenient, I mean I can walk to my favorite bar and walk home. While bar life is an integral part of the college experience, it has neither enriched my life, nor has it found me a mate. With the exception of my close friends, most people I've met at these bars are vapid, uninteresting, or annoying. If I were to stay in Boystown for the bars, I don't think I'd be doing myself a favor.

Boystown is close to school. It's a quick ride to DePaul from here, but I easily forget that I won't be spending more than two nights a week there ever again. The time when I needed to live close to school is no more. I have to separate myself from the college experience.

Outside of the improv hub, the creative community in Boystown is disappearing. I constantly find myself going to other neighborhoods to collaborate with anyone on anything. This is like having my gym being on the opposite side of the city. I'm usually too lazy to commute. And if anything has to be right under my nose for me to do it, it's working out and working on my projects.

Boystown wouldn't mean all that much to me if it weren't where my best friends happen to be (one of whom lives in this apartment). I felt this way when I moved away from MA a few years ago, but signs were pointing to move on. Signs are now pointing to move on and meet different people. Knowing this doesn't ease that gnawing feeling in my stomach, but the gnawing feeling is nothing but a petty fear of change. A bigger fear of mine is the fear of becoming stagnant, of not moving anywhere creatively. I need a year to figure things out and see what it's like to sow what I reap, not what daddy reaped in the 90's when Intel stock was splitting three times a year. This doesn't mean I'm not a Luppie; don't get me wrong, I still like nice things. I just want to be in an environment where the nice things I buy come secondary to the nice things I create for myself.

It's very American, if you think about it. Kinda romantic. I love romanticizing things.

"My Childhood" gets a B

2006-11-27T08:17:00.001-08:00

I was looking through my box 'o memories this morning and found a poem I was forced to write in my sophomore year of high school. I never wrote poetry, nor did I care about poetry, but Mrs. Vanderbeken gave me a B. I was really pissed. How can you judge the poetry of a 15-year-old? Anyway, I thought it was pretty awesome and I will give it to you now:

(there are numbers in the right margin where I was adding and dividing my grades for the semester, and it looks like they average out to a B+.)

My Childhood

When I was a child, I remember puppies and kitties (Mrs. V. crossed out the first phrase)
Soft bunnies and birdies

I remember friendly foxes and well-trained bears
Squirmy ferrets and hamsters and mice

I remember screaming monkeys contained in a cage
And Mommy and Daddy taking me to the big zoo.

The signs at the zoo said the animals won't eat me
I liked the animals because they were funny
And they didn't eat me

My animals were nice to me (Mrs. V. said I should've used all caps on "my")
I never got a scratch on me (Mrs. V. crossed out "on me")

But that is not my story.
I remember getting mauled by a dog
then going unconscious
I said, "Hi, doggy"
Then everything went black.
Next I remember a plastic surgeon
Stitching my face back together

Mommy wouldn't let me look in the mirror for a week
And my puppies and kitties weren't allowed to lick my stitches

Mrs. V. said that there "needs to be some point to be made at the end." There's not enough of a point at the end of this poem. I was thoroughly offended. Not that it matters that the poem sucks; but who are you to ruin my attempt at meter and repetition at such a tender age?! Oh, Mrs. Vanderbeken, you were the only English teacher I've ever hated.

Let's Stick a New Meaning to Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T08:46:00.000-08:00

Nobody seems to buy into Thanksgiving anymore. While teachers and parents have adopted a different approach to the story of Thanksgiving (mostly involving blood and the spent lives of Indians, or the Pilgrims digging up their graves to steal food they buried with the corpses), conservatives are boo-hooing them for "hating America" as usual (while they've consequently stopped celebrating Halloween because they are "hating paganism").

We can celebrate that one day that Agnakis and the Pilgrims could actually eat a meal together without eating each other, or we can mourn everything that happened in the thirty to three-hundred years afterward. Or, we could scrap both ideas and apply an entirely different excuse to the only non-sectarian eating holiday we have.

We usually don't celebrate sad stories, but most of our happy stories seem to always be full of lies. We need to find a compromise where a story is both happy AND verifiable.

Unfortunately, Santa's on TV right now, and I can't think of a damn thing. Maybe we should just leave our holidays void of meaning so that nobody has to argue whether it's a 'good' holiday or a 'bad' holiday. Let's celebrate happy, empty traditions!

Happy futile Thanksgiving everyone!

"I don't know" - Yes, of course I was forced to write this

2006-11-20T10:10:00.000-08:00

Sarah Pappalardo
Sitting in the kitchen in our house on Cape Cod on Christmas day, I slice a block of Muenster cheese for the ten relatives wandering idly around my house. My aunt watches me slice cheese for a long moment, and to break the silence, she asks me what I’m going to do with my proposed college majors. “They are just for fun,” I answer, with an over-confident smirk. “I’m going to be an actor.” Seemingly satisfied, my aunt walks away.
One week later, I’m folding a mountain of wool sweaters at the Gap, when I hear a woman call me an idiot for ignoring her request for help. I take a sweater and fold it into a perfect square as I grit my teeth and look at her, muttering, “I’m going to be a writer,” as I shove my arms back into the pile. I stubbornly write script ideas on receipt tape as I curse all retail shoppers who pass through the Hyannis Mall.
One year after that, I’m putting a box of frozen spinach dip in the oven in my mother’s condo in Hull, Massachusetts, when the nurses in my family gather around to ask me when I’m graduating. “Actually, ladies, I’m graduating early so that I can get my Master’s Degree in a year, and eventually get my PhD in English.” I sip my tea and stare at my cousin Brian, who had recently been expelled from the small Christian college he attended in Ohio. “I’m going to do some serious research about serious literature.”
Never, ever have I told a friend or relative the phrase, “I don’t know.” The idea horrifies me. It signifies a lack of structure, poor planning, and inevitable crash-and-burn failure. Our culture is obsessed with the idea of knowing who we are. We take long trips to Europe to “find ourselves” and we drop out of school to “find what we really want out of life”. We all have a friend who is too old to be working at a Giordano’s and we shake our heads, saying they are “lost.” In knowing ourselves, we are supposed to know exactly what we are doing, where we are going, and how we are going to accomplish the details of our masterfully crafted lives.
There is a stigma attached to those who do very little in our generation. If we don’t have the answers to basic cocktail-hour questions as “What are you going to do with your degree?” or “Where do you see yourself in two years?” we consider it a personality flaw, a sign of weakness, or a lack of confidence. If you aren’t capable of making a decision, there must be something wrong with you. We pity those whose lips tremble as they look at the ground and scratch their heads, saying, “I don’t know.” Yet this is a phrase we say so often that it is beyond words; we know precisely what it means when a friend hums a three-note “uhh uh uh” and shrugs his shoulders. The phrase “I don’t know” is so inherently human that it need not be said. It can be stated, peculiarly, in that brief song and dance.
While the phrase is so overused, I still can’t bring myself to admit “not knowing” anything more significant than sports scores or primetime television. Most of my life choices are made so that I have something definitive to say rather than the desire to follow through with those choices. The appearance of control in the face of my peers and relatives is necessary to my survival. A direction—any direction—seems better than no direction at all.
While I am approaching the subject in a critical manner, I don’t believe it is a horrible idea to pick a direction and simply go. In improvisation, we make a choice and justify its meaning later; this is a necessary part of the art form. Any powerful choice has to be some integrity in it; it is a small representation of the self as a human being, no matter how meaning is formed in its execution. If life choices are made with integrity rather than the many dreadful reasons we tend to do things, we will be truer to ourselves and more human than most of the world.
Making a bold choice, however, does not tell me what I want, or how I define myself. The important factor is admitting, powerfully, that I don’t know. I do not know what I want. There is as meaning to be found in the admittance itself, and there is a tremendous difference between the weak, fear-full “I don’t know” and the one stated with power. Its three-note “I don’t know” song can be performed in a number of ways: there is the stiff, horrified, defensive “uhh uhh uhh!” with a high-pitched ending note, signifying worry. There is the calm, indifferent “mm mm mm” that says, “I really don’t care.” The statement “I don’t know” can be as powerful a choice as “I’m going to be a doctor” or “I’m joining the clergy.” It can have power if you make it a powerful choice. I find power in the faith that I look at my interrogator and say, “I don’t know, but I will soon.”
After making several audacious statements throughout my college career, I confidently summarize my undergraduate experience in these words: I don’t know, but I will soon. I say this phrase with a confident smile, knowing that what I do know is quietly and humbly stored as pure potential. While I’ve started approximately five different career paths in three years (and held about twice as many jobs), I have experience that will take me somewhere, someday, when that thing I want, however ill-defined, will someday become clear. I will continue writing, making films, improvising, creating music, and creeping down a vaguely academic career path, but these will be choices made out of power, not out of the fear of having done nothing. The fear of not knowing and of doing nothing is only a momentary lack of faith. I have a growing faith that I will process my adolescent angst and create meaning within it. This is the faith of a nihilist; this is how I turn a weakness into strength.
When I was fourteen years old, I wrote my autobiography as if my entire career had already happened. I saw myself in New York or LA working on an HBO series, or a small-budget film, traveling from film festival to film festival, and churning out the occasional essay for the New Yorker while slowly crafting the great American novel. In the off-season, I put up my one-woman show off-Broadway, and would eventually produce other people’s work. I would put out an album that nobody would buy, and laugh resignedly about it in my Manhattan loft. I was writing the myth of my own life, and everything I’ve done since then has forced me to ask if this myth is only a story, or if this is some work of ultimate truth. I realize now that whether or not the myth, or the prophecy of that autobiography is fulfilled, it is an honest representation of myself. Like the great myths of the world, belief in the story fades over time, but the power it has as a window into humanity makes an enduring piece of literature. While my pink spiral notebook from high school may lack such endurance, it is valuable as a representation of myself more than a prophecy to be fulfilled. That autobiography, that myth, is the myth of myself.

I am still intimidated by the veracity of my life plan at such a young age, and am even more irked that it hasn’t changed much since. While the natural disaster of adolescence reshaped my sense of self, the framework of my life remained consistent. More so, the ability to plan may have always been both my strength and my weakness. While planning has always been a natural inclination of mine (Type-A personalities, commiserate with me), I can be satisfied by spontaneous discovery along that path I can’t help but to set for myself. Those career goals haven’t left my mind, but the direction I take to getting there can be full of “I don’t knows” and “maybes” and “I’ll figure it outs.” It is okay, Sarah. Take a proverbial cigarette break. Wait for the train and embrace the cold weather while it lasts.

Backdrifting

2006-10-21T21:24:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson was my introduction to the world.

Back in the 1980's, the world consisted of dark alleys, gangs, smoke machines, geri curls, and dancing zombies; black cats on piano keys, red roller skates, lighted beds, and dark sunglasses. People either wore fedoras and cream-colored suits or leather pants and suspenders. Michael could always get with a woman if he just danced hard enough. Gangs still had a considerable number of white people.

My wee brain was shaped by "Thriller" and "Bad," the two albums I acquired before my first real album purchase (which was "Dangerous"). I had seen his videos more than any seven-year-old ought to, and tonight I discovered that the tome of 1980's Michael Jackson was On Demand. Nothing was going to stop me before I watched every video he made from 1982 to 1997. And I did. And now I think it's best I stay home tonight before I am asked what I've been doing all evening.

There are significant trends that I never noticed about his videos at age seven: Every video takes place in a dark alley or abandoned industrial site. Most plots revolve around the seedy underbelly of the streets, whether through organized crime, breakdancing rabblerousers, or the buried dead. Michael's character is always involved with said underbelly.

Dancing always solves conflict. All conflict leads to dancing.

I still can't figure out how these images were such an integral part of my growth into adulthood. Dark alleys, gangs, Reagan--all came before my time. I caught up with most of it, though, and I still can't find the irony in his videos that can be found so easily in everything else of the eighties.

Michael saved his irony for the nineties.

Bitch/Moan

2006-10-11T12:28:00.001-07:00

Trying to decide whether I'm happy with what I'm doing, or if I'm just waiting for this next 5 weeks to pass for something equally mundane and academic to take over my life.

While I can't say that I mind spending hours in a coffee shop rereading classic literature, biking down to the Gold Coast with a tuxedo on my back, getting hit on by married men, serving myself drinks, or going to see as many foreign films as I can shove into my schedule, it is wearing on me. It is becoming a set schedule. And as long as a schedule is set, I don't like it.

Come November 18th, I can take six weeks to do whatever I want. Wait to see if Depaul will pay for my continued education, work on some filmy projects, and worry about things that I cannot change. Note that 2/3rds of this vacation involves "waiting" and "worrying" and only 1/3 is spent "working."

Similarly, the beginning of 2007 will involve about 2/3 "working" and 1/3 of the continued "worrying."

"Enjoying the present" takes a negligible chunk of the action-word pie chart right now. I blame certain factors:

1) I loathe the winter.
2) I am in college/real world limbo.

I can't quite enjoy the college life since I spend more time working on other things. I can't quite enjoy the benefits of the real world, because I work weekends and nights. And I know this will persist until March 17th, when I will have a degree in my hands and an option to take several months off. I can enjoy senior year when I am finished with senior year. I can enjoy the real world as soon as Depaul tells me they're paying for eight months of my postgraduate life.

Worrying is the most useless activity that we humans ever engage in. But I will stubbornly continue to worry, because I see no better option except to enjoy myself.

And that's stupid.

Lookin' Good

2006-09-20T08:27:00.000-07:00

Do you ever catch someone who is "adjusting" their appearance, when there is some massive aesthetic issue that they are ignoring?

Like brushing the dust off of a dirt pile.

I was on the train this morning, and noticed a woman with large hair and an oversized laptop in front of me. Her desktop had a picture of roses. Before the train stopped, she stood up and looked in her reflection in the window. She was fixing her collar, buttoning her shirt just right (so that the buttons are aligned when she tucks it in), folding over her leather jacket, wiping her eyeliner...the things you usually don't do when other people are watching.

One thing she couldn't fix was the bad dye job atop her head. This woman had jet-black hair dyed blonde (poorly) so that there was a fade from black roots to a puke orange/brown. Oh, she was "put together" alright. But she seemed to ignore the "big" problem in lieu of the little ones.

Nobody will look at her, smile approvingly, and say, "Wow, she has a very neat collar today."

I only say this because I am equally guilty. Rich will catch me checking if my belt matches while I'm wearing a flannel and feathered bangs.

This is why we have friends.

This woman needed a friend very badly.

"Research"

2006-09-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

When I have to look up biographical information on foreign directors, oftentimes their bios and articles are exlusively in foreign languages. Thank goodness, Google translates for me, to make my day so much easier.

SYNTHESIS ARGUMENTAL

“I had the small privilege from traveling much, because my father, Rodolfo Stavenhagen, (the UN) has worked for the United Nations, and that gives horizons you.

“I water of German grandfathers who were collector of pre-Columbian art from which he arrived at Mexico; a man very opened to the culture, friend of painters and literatos. My mother, Maria Eugenia Vargas, are anthropologist, of tie family to the teaching. His grandfathers, Daniel Delgadillo, were a prominent teacher, pillar of the Superior Normal School.

“I have a sister of the first marriage of my father, Andrea, who dedicates itself to the cinematographic promotion, as well as two average very small brothers who aim at the cultural thing, to those who no matter how hard I say to them that they look for something truely interesting do not do it. Then, this of the culture in the family is like karma: a semillita of badly that stood there.”

Fail Salon

2006-09-07T14:33:00.000-07:00

I haven't kept a legitimate, over-the-table job in Chicago for 3 years. I should probably start sometime soon, but frankly, right now, I work for a boss who never comes into his own store. I come in whenever I feel, I close the store when I want to leave, and in the meantime, I listen to my music and do whatever I want, with all of the free coffee and espresso I could ever make.

Granted, this is a ghetto coffee shop. A conundrum, considering how the coffee culture has blown up over the past decade. It didn't quite reach my first-generation Vietnamese boss, though. It's mostly just the little things--no fresh baked goods, no milk for coffee, mismatched thrift-store furniture, an unusual number of asian plants, graffiti on the window leftover from the three-year period of vacancy, fuses blowing every other day-- it doesn't add up. This is not a coffee shop. This is a Nail Salon. Funny, because it faintly smells of chemicals.

My boss is busy running his family's nail salon in the suburbs, leaving his own business to three college students: myself and two others. Great for me, but I sincerely wonder why this man is on a financial kamikaze mission, or if he really is this stupid.

Put simply: people want ghetto fried chicken, ghetto malt liquor, ghetto General Tsao's chicken, ghetto music, and ghetto cars, but nobody wants ghetto coffee. I think it's because the "authentic" coffee culture originated somewhere just outside of the ghetto. If the best fried chicken comes through a bullet-proof lazy susan somewhere on 95th, then fine. But there is something ass-backwards about a cafe with packaged muffins that cost a quarter. Things can emerge from the ghetto and become popular, but to descend from Starbucks to Harold's Chicken status doesn't appeal to our friendly, yuppie Lakeview clientele.

But, here I am, working at a ghetto coffee shop, watching a poor Vietnamese man financially rape himself.

Major Life Change

2006-09-03T15:20:00.000-07:00

Today I decided to pronounce my last name correctly, for good.

For the past 21 years, I've mispronounced my last name. Partly because my mom mispronouces it similarly, but mostly because the proper pronunciation (poppa) leads to frequent misspelling (poppalardo) which sounds just as silly as the incorrect pronunciation anyway. Long story short, it makes sense to go with the correct pronunciation.

I'm an accomodating person who has misrepresented myself for your spelling convenience. Looking into it, though, it seems awful strange that I've said my name wrong for my entire life. I can understand why my anglo-riffic, semi-literate mum would mispronounce Pappalardo; she adopted it in her late 30's. But I was born a Pappalardo, and you'd think I'd have enough sense not to say "pap" a thousand times more than a seasoned gynecologist.

My great-grandma (my mother's mother's mother)'s maiden name was Allen, and she married a man with the last name of Allan. I'd imagine that that she felt the same way I do when she adopted his last name. Not completely thrown off, like being told you're adopted, but feeling just a little bit different on the inside, like losing your virginity. It was a bittersweet goodbye. I'm Sarah Pappa-with-a-soft-A-Pappalardo. I'm a grown-up now. I've finally accepted my own name.

There was a girl I grew up with who had the last name Frizzell. Everyone wanted to put the accent on the first syllable, like the teacher from Magic School Bus, but she would always pout, toss her hair back, and exclaim, "It's FrizELL," on the first day of school. I probably would've given up by fourth grade.

What bothers me the most is that I never really had a good reason to mispronounce it, other than that I am a creature of many bad habits. I think this might be worse than most, since people shouldn't be wishy-washy about their identity. Extrapolate that, apply it to other aspects of life, and you find that willy-nilly, wishy-washiness is not a good show of character. I always laughed at K. Frizzell, but at least she put up a fight against the world who thought she was going to take them on a magical educational bus ride. Likewise, I was not named after a gynological exam, I was named after my forefather who dealt with lard for a living, and I am proud of that. My forefather was a Father of Lard. I will embrace my name forever.

How I Spent my Summer Vacation

2006-08-31T13:26:00.000-07:00

I filled my summer with memorable moments, actually inserting them into my calendar, weekend by weekend. Each weekend had a potentially memorable event with potentially memorable people. I filled in the blanks with sand and water.

It's not hard to fill your life with memorable moments; all you really have to do is look around and say, "I'm going to remember this."

Sometimes you're under a tarp, somewhere in Wisconsin in the middle of a rainstorm, and you say, "I am going to remember this." Then you rise from the crate you've been sitting on, grab your plate, and eat cheap red meat with your hands.

Sometimes you go into a chic London bar wearing jeans and a messenger bag, and you stand by the bar because it's 11pm and nobody is there. You sip your 11 pound cocktail and mutter to yourself, "I am going to remember this."

Sometimes you attempt to protest against religious conservative protesters, so you make signs on your front doorstep all afternoon, only to find that the religious conservatives went elsewhere. You take bad camera phone pictures of each other, with signs saying "He gave me herpes" with an arrow pointing to the statue of Harry Caray. You look in your phone and say, "I am going to remember this, until I run out of storage space on my phone."

Sometimes you eat at a chain restaurant in the suburbs of New Hampshire.

Sometimes growing armpit hair is more interesting than a month-long trip to Europe.

Sometimes a bad pop song haunts you and you can quite reason why, then you remember dancing with ugly people from Wesleyan in the Village and you cringe. You forget, then you remember. Then you remember forever.

Sometimes you take an unpaid internship when being fed, clothed, and sheltered is a much higher priority.

Sometimes you're in New York, and it's 95 degrees, and you're so broke, but so hungover, that you split a burrito at Chipotle. Then you remember how filling steak and guacamole can be.

Then you remember the stuff that you didn't remember, the good stuff that happened when you weren't so caught up over remembering, and you find that you not only had a memorable summer, but a pretty great one.

Hell, I may as well milk the cliche.

Boy Toy

2006-08-20T21:00:00.000-07:00

On a pit stop coming home from Wisconsin earlier today, I ordered a Happy Meal at McDonalds, probably the first Happy Meal I've gotten in ten years. I had eaten beans, hot dogs, and other gross canned things for the past two days, and I didn't feel like waging another full assault on my digestive tract. So, I ordered the Happy Meal.

The lady at the counter asked me if I wanted fries or apples. I remember hearing about that change in the past year, and I told her I wanted fries. Then she asks if I want milk or soda, and I say soda.

Then she asks me if I want the Girl Toy or the Boy Toy.

Was that distinction made when I was young? The first Happy Meal toy I ever got was when I was 4, and it was a mini Lego toy. Very "boy," if you ask me. It's nice to know that, after all the reconcepting that McDonalds has gone through in the past two years, gender-neutral toys were lost in the mix of the "stop being so fat" campaign.

My first reaction is to make a "boy toy" joke; but no, I'm in Lake Zurich, that would be inappropriate.

I said, unsure of myself, that I would take the Girl Toy.

I then discovered that the Girl Toy was a Polly Pocket, and the Boy Toy was a Hummer H3.

Clearly the Boy Toy was better.

But why did she ever ask me in the first place?

De Nada.

2006-08-07T23:49:00.001-07:00

Lesson to White Man #1: A service uniform is not an indigenous Mexican cultural costume.

Earlier in the evening, I helped out at the 75th anniversary of Allstate Insurance, pouring wine for insurance salesman in tuxedos. A bomb was dropped, and I need to discuss the implications of such a bomb:

I was wearing an apron, a black tie, and a white shirt with balsamic vinegar and red wine completely covering the front of it. I was asked to come refresh a table of tuxedoed men. One tuxedoed balding man pointed at his glass so I would pour him some white wine, and as I poured it he looked at me, and with his Midwestern accent, said, "Gracias" with a smirk.

Ok. Bomb dropped. Blood rushes to face. Let's take this from a few different angles...

An old white man assumed I was an immigrant worker. I work with mostly immigrant workers, so that would be a fair assumption. I immediately realized, however, that he was being facetious and demeaning, to me, the assumed Mexican. This man said "Gracias" because he was mocking my supposed inability to speak English. I imagine that if the roles were reversed, if he were visiting Mexico and said "Gracias," that it would be a cute attempt at assimilation. But no; this man said "Gracias" because "Thank You" would be too sincere a statement to give to a lowly worker who is clearly too stupid to learn English. I interpreted his "Thank You" as "Fuck You" to a really, really big group of people.

Would I say "Shalom" if I thought someone looked Jewish? Maybe if I were at a bar mitzvah, yeah, but not if I were at, say, T.G.I Fridays. Making assumptions about people's identity is offensive in itself, because you, Man, are telling me I look a certain way and you are judging me based on that alone.

I was not offended by the fact that I might have looked latina-ish. I'm Italian, I sit out in the sun, my hair is sort of dark. But so are Eastern Europeans. So are the French. You haven't heard me speak, and have no evidence of an accent. I know that nobody ever, ever would assume something so specific if I were wearing plainclothes. Was a dirty white shirt and tie indicative of my status as a U.S. citizen? My literacy? My IQ? My hygiene?

(I had vinegar and wine on my shirt because I am stupid, awkward, and white. And if you've seen what we do on the dance floor, you should see us behind a bar or in a kitchen.)

I gave this man the rudest grimace/laugh that a mean old cunt like me could possibly make. I said, "Excuse me, I didn't understand what you said" and splashed a little wine on his salad plate. I wanted to somehow show him that not only am I educated, but SO ARE THE IMMIGRANTS. Catering is their second job, so they can send their kids to a private college.

Hell, I know this man sells insurance. I can make that assumption because every person seated at this Allstate dinner is there because they sell insurance. I could just as obnoxiously quote something obscure, offensive, and over his head, because hell, you don't need to go to college to be in sales! You're probably stoopid! Where's your cowboy hat? Remember the glory days of high school football? Sell me life insurance!!

Point is...he wasn't just assuming my nationality. He was assuming my nationality based solely on the fact that I was serving him. This wasn't an assault on me; I just desperately wanted to prove this man horribly, horribly wrong. As if it were my job to do so.

But it's not.

Relishing in my Youth...and in dire need of Relish

2006-07-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

Once I send this batch of bills out, I've got a lot of tuna and pasta to eat for the rest of the month. No mayo or relish, though. That might be a bit of a luxury.

The theme of the week is to relish in my ability to eat candy bars and whiskey, run myself into the ground, and still be kicking at the end of it all. I am finally appreciating, and using to my advantage, the resilience of youth. I can ride 30 miles a day to save 8 dollars on transportation. I can drink my dinner for the sake of "cost cutting." I can go on vacation and watch people make things up for 72 hours, fly home, and call it a sweet weekend. All while surviving on Jim Beam and Chipotle.

I am tickled by the fact that I can get away with this. I feel like I should be grounded or something. It's ok, though. I'm just over-romanticizing.

This glorious weekend was spent running all over Holy Hell, annoying Robin with my constantly-oozing hand and my scabby chin. Looking like I got into a good fistfight. Meeting far too many European gay men. Making far too many bad jokes to entertain ourselves on crosstown walks. Abusing the 411 service to find nonexistent 5 o'clock bars. Sweating. Changing clothes. Doing hair. Not doing hair. Afternoon naps. More European gay men. More bad jokes. Violent abuse of the art of Improvisation at 1 am. Violent abuse of my checking account. Violent abuse of my liver.

Everything a weekend vacation should be.

And I will openly romanticize, nay, personify, the goo that has finally solidified on my hand. Goo, I am sorry that I kept a dirty band-aid on you for 3 days. That was uncalled for. I am amazed at how you are pulling my skin back together; you have a great system going. You have done a wonderful job with my right palm, but I could use you more on my shoulder because my scab keeps breaking, oozing, and scabbing up again. I think that might leave a scar. I hate scars.

Goo, I really like addressing you, because I am amazed that my body can even produce you, on-demand like. I wouldn't know the first thing about sewing up holes! You do it all for me, totally homeopathically or something. You keep my hospital bills way down. Mad props to my immune system for organizing the whole shabang.

Goo, you save me money like tuna and pasta and skipping dinner. Thank you.

Ahahahahowwww Wipe Out

2006-07-30T20:44:00.000-07:00

July 28, 2006

I KNEW this was going to happen. Tonight.

I fell. Head over heels. On my bike.

I was so excited to be booting off to New York that I got a strange feeling on my way to Wicker Park tonight. The same feeling I got when I was 18, in traffic, waiting to buy printer paper to make my first fake ID. I rear ended a car because I was too busy reveling in my imagined awesomeness.

This precise emotion causes me to get into accidents. Like when I got my first warning for speeding, I consequently backed into a motorcycle.

Or how about when I went through a red light in Cambridge, freaked out, blew a tire, and decided to go to Revere to get it fixed. Ahh?

I'm going off on a tangent, but only because this is a funny trend. On my hasty way home tonight, I went over my handlebars when a ditch appeared in front of me, and slid into some rocky, grooved pavement, about 4 inches below the normal surface. Somehow, I'm in one piece. And because lists make me feel better, I will tell you why my limbs are mostly intact:

1) My helmet. I don't know if my head hit the ground, but lord knows my chin did. And it would've been a bitch to walk 6 miles with a concussion and messy bloody hair.

2) My amazing tuck-and-roll. It was instinctual. I'm fucking Chuck Norris. Artfully done.

3) My breasts. No, I'm not making a joke. I bruised a rib and probably would've broken a few if it weren't for my internal bike pads.

4) My beloved Schwinn. It took most of the hit. My handlebar is broken. My arm is not. Thank you, Schwinn, I love you.

5) My Wounded Animal Reaction. Some dude watched me wipe out and asked if I was ok, and I yelled in typical Sarah fashion, "I'M FINE," as I brushed myself off, swearing. I walked, ignoring everything and everyone, until I got to Lincoln Park. I could've killed someone in that time if I had to...If I had to.

6) Luck. I am an insanely lucky person. Insanely lucky.

Lucky lucky lucky.

The Caste System

2006-07-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

Working a wedding last Saturday, I was bossed around by a mildly effeminate bartender in his late 50's. He was laid off as a financial advisor five years before and never found another job. At some point in the afternoon, he decided that I was incompetent. I didn't mind so much.

As the newlyweds danced their first dance as husband and wife, he tells me, "Just as a couple of training points, you shouldn't have cut the lemons so small, and you shouldn't have opened so much red wine."

Training points. As if I were in training. As if the red wine I opened affects either uf us in any way. I bit my tongue, knowing that his "teaching" me is the only way he can keep his dignity while working with a silly 21-year-old. That's fine; I just took a shot with the barback and fixed a drink for my actual boss.

Having been in the catering arena for awhile, I've noticed a common link between the food technicians, servers, bartenders, captains, and their respective slave drivers:

Their inner voice says, "These people I work with are more pathetic than me. I am better than them."

The server thinks that about the porter, the head server thinks that about the regular server, the bartender thinks that about the barback, the cook thinks that about everyone, the slave driver thinks that about the cook, and the guest thinks that about every one of them. And the guest is the only one who is right, since said guest is wearing bermuda shorts and eating filet mignon while said server is wearing a sweat and tomato sauce-stained tuxedo, with nothing to swallow but his own undercooked, oversalted pride.

This hierarchy, real or imagined, is a touch tragic. 19-year-olds have the same job, or a higher position, than 60-year-old women who are too old to carry plates anymore. The service industry is the great equalizer. The ultimate Humbling Experience. The only industry where I am at a disadvantage for speaking only English. But, those of us in the service industry can find solace in this: At least we aren't janitors.

Stupid fuckers.

Bonsoir

2006-06-20T13:36:00.000-07:00

I'm paying 8 euro to check my email.

Tourist Paris is disappointing.

Marseilles is very interesting.

Provence is gorgeous.

More to come, when I am not paying 8 euro to check my email.

Toilet Paper

2006-05-25T14:51:00.000-07:00

I don't understand other people's cultures. Ever.

This morning I performed my final two shows with Storybox at Zapata Academy, a private, latino-based elementary school with a lot of Spanish-speaking and positive attitudes. We were greeted at the door with a "Buenos Dias" and bulletin boards saying "Lo se puedo!" and "Lo Hiciste!" We recited the Pledge of Allegiance, and unlike any school I've known, we sang the National Anthem before announcements. "What a nice multicultural school," I thought. I never thought too hard about bilingual and bicultural education in the past, but Zapata Academy really seemed to embrace the fusion of two cultures.

I always, always pee before I do a show. I also let out a good long fart, for the sake of tradition.

A faculty member directed me towards the little girl's room, five minutes before the show was supposed to start. There was a group of 20 girls following behind me, so I walked a little faster since I always feel weird talking to or walking near children. I grabbed the middle stall in the bathroom, speed-peed, and reached to the right, expecting to find a toilet paper-dispensing module. I looked to my left; not only was there no toilet paper, there were no toilet paper dispensers at all. I looked for my messenger bag that had tissues in it; it was in someone's car trunk. I looked underneath the stall into other stalls and saw no trace of toilet paper, just little feet dangling below the stall walls.

I don't need little feet in a bathroom stall. I need toilet paper and my dignity.

The crowd of 20 was filing into the bathroom, forming a line. I swallowed hard and pulled up my pants, hoping that there would be some paper towels on the outside with which I could run back into a stall for a mercy wipe. No; there was just a crowd of girls, and one of them was holding a bottle of liquid soap. I looked at her strange as I pushed on the regular soap dispenser. No soap came out. She was looking at me and I was looking at her, and I rinsed my hands with water and a confused look on my face. I held my wet hands in front of me and saw nothing on the wall but a reusable towel that four little girls were using at the same time.

I was scared of the girl holding the liquid soap. I could tell there was something she knew that I didn't. I was intimidated, and she was four feet tall. I cowered and ran out of the bathroom, horribly embarrassed and confused.

When I related this to Alexis, she told me that it is a cultural tradition in Spain (Spain is neither Mexico nor Puerto Rico) that you bring your own toilet paper and soap to the bathroom with you. I Googled the Hell out of this school and found nothing on bathroom-going cultural traditions. Nothing, no explanation, no justification, no excuse other than the preservation of a tradition that nobody can share, but by which everyone can be inconvenienced.

This is what I get for being the descendant of heartless conquistadors; dirty hands and a drip-dry.

You would think they'd give us stupid Anglos a heads-up about this. But no, this is their revenge of inclusivity. A cold, wet revenge.

Rain

2006-05-11T23:41:00.000-07:00

Do you ever get so tired that you just want to cry all over people?

I actually want to cry on certain people right now, in an angry vindictive sort of way, like, "you wanna tell me I have to wake up in 4 hours?" And then shed tears of vengeance all over their face.

It's only because I have no energy to punch or kick or to give logical explanations why I can't handle responsibility right now. I don't want to take responsibility for my irresponsibility.

It's rainy as hell, and a long walk in the wind has readied my tear ducts for some serious shit.

Go ahead, touch me, I'll cry on you. Then I'll probably fall asleep on you, so don't take advantage of me.

We'll talk about it later.

Potential and Sophie B. Hawkins

2006-04-30T12:54:00.000-07:00

Everyone gets their fair share of friend requests from musicians on MySpace. About a minute ago, Sophie B. Hawkins asked me to be her friend. I remember Sophie B. Hawkins. She had a hit single, "As I Lay Me Down to Sleep" back in 1997 or so. I can't believe that she, like a million other groups, would sink so low as to befriend me.

Has-beens. It's only easy to criticize the has-beens when you're still a could-be.

My junior high history teacher that the idea of "potential" was a negative thing. I never saw why, since it was always a compliment when Mrs. Schumacher said that Jimmy "has so much potential." But potential doesn't equal success. While "potential" can be wasted on frivolous things, people still seem to like the idea of having it, though it is only useful when you use it.

I have one of those Magic Eraser cleaning products (The Greatest Invention of 2004) in my bathroom cabinet but my floor is still grimy. Potential has done nothing for my bathroom floor.

I didn't take the time to listen to Sophie B. Hawkins new music. I like to imagine that all the potential she ever had in life was spent on "As I Lay Me Down to Sleep," which should've given her a modest nest egg for retirement. Sophie B. Hawkins is the reason why I never want to reach the peak of my potential.

My New Schwinn

2006-04-30T01:04:00.000-07:00

This week I purchased a bicycle from an "antique" bike shop- I bought it off the back of a red truck for 80 dollars, cash only. Since I got a new job about 7 blocks away, I figured it would be a good time to start biking the city. Nobody wants to walk 7 blocks, and nobody wants to wait 20 minutes for a bus to only go 7 blocks. This is why cycling is the perfect means of transportation.

Cyclists in Chicago can't just be aware of their surroundings, they need to be (enter superlative and a few very's here) aware of everything around them. Every rock, every pothole, every car door. There are no cops to stop you for not wearing a seat belt, or for rolling through red lights and stop signs. There is also no steel frame encasing you so that you can survive that little accident you had when your phone rang and you were switching CDs.

Every time I get on my new teal 3-speed Schwinn, I truly, utterly feel that I am risking my life. I keep apologizing to my mother in my head as I wobble down Halsted. Sorry mom, I just can't wait for things, I have to be moving.

This is my downfall in transportation: I can't wait.

My blood pressure goes up when I wait for more than 30 seconds on the train platform. I frantically pace back and forth, calling people, having nothing to say, just wanting to be moving somewhere, anywhere.

When I'm trying to catch a bus, I keep walking from stop to stop, hoping that I won't get caught in between bus stops as the bus flies by. Even though I'll inevitably get to the same place at the same time, I just. can't. stop. I walk for the sake of moving forward.

I'm sort of getting addicted to risking my life. There's a wonderful rhythm to biking down long avenues, interrupted only by those little life-threatening situations along the way. Every massive construction pit I ride by, I picture myself checking my phone for a moment and riding head-first into a 20-foot hole in the ground. Then I remind myself that it didn't happen, and I ride a little faster. At least I'm consistent in risking my life, moving from point A to point B. I'm unstoppable in my own mind.

The Plane

2006-04-18T08:47:00.000-07:00

It was a full flight last night, unlike the drunken three-seat spread I had flying down to Florida this weekend. To my right was a suburban mom with a bag of candy and to my left was a blond-haired Loyola student whose face I never took the time to see. It was one of those friendly night-flights where people are too anxious to be isolated, so, of course, the suburban mom was trying to make conversation with me while I tried to read a magazine. I stopped listening to her as I overheard a conversation to the left of me- a young man, a 24-year-old undergraduate at UC Boulder, was hitting on the blond girl sitting next to me.

Men hitting on girls is much more interesting to listen to than a suburban mom talking about Rhode Island.

He asked her if she was a student, what year she was, what she was studying in Chicago, and his experience from the Jimmy Buffett concert at Wrigley last year. He was wearing those plaid shorts that straight guys where in an ironic preppy fashion, with one of those gross local-brewery-promoting t-shirts that made him look like a true UC Boulder schmuck. I was excited to see how this girl, who probably matched him in terms of looks, would handle the situation.

"Um, that's cool..." she trailed off. In that way that girls never want to sound too smart in front of a guy, but with a bitchy and uncaring tone to show him that she is uninterested. Brilliant.

Twenty minutes pass, I talk about the highway systems in Providence.

She has pulled out her business homework (of course she is a business student at Loyola, of course) and UC Boulder man uses it as an excuse to start talking to her again. I've started rooting for her to be a bitch at this point, even though I don't even like her because she has a picture on her desktop where she is playing beer pong with a similar-looking blond friend and sticking her tongue out to the side. She starts being nice to him now, knowing that she still has two hours of flight left to deal with him, and he obviously didn't understand the language of Bitch. He orders a Jack and Coke, and notices her desktop as well, saying, "Hey, you're 20, you're not supposed to be doing that!" In that playful flirty way that requires no wit or keen observation, and not helping him in his state of general unattractiveness.

I felt like I just witnessed every interaction in a bar since the beginning of time, except it was on an airplane. The suburban mom offered all us kids some candy.

Disneyification of the Church

2006-03-26T13:24:00.002-08:00

Sunday, March 26, 2006

My mother bought a condo in a development called "Falling Waters," which is basically a made-up town by developers here in Naples. My aunt attends a church called "Living Waters," a made-up church somewhere in Bonita Springs.
Living Waters is one of those new, non-denominational churches that have abolished most traditions of the church so that people will actually attend services. The building itself is neotraditional while the inside looks like one of those baptist churches designed for televangelism -- stage lighting, comfortable stadium seating, and a ten-piece band. The drum section even has see-through bass-eaters for high-quality drumming. For the Lord.
In place of the altar was a dramatically lit diarama with fake swamp grass and a plastic crane. There was a large overhead projector where the cross would normally be, and the sermon highlights were presented there in a PowerPoint presentation. There was even a "Please turn off all cell phones and pagers" slide at the beginning of the service, with an all-too-subtle advertisement for Cingular on the picture of a cell phone. I looked around for any sign of a cross, and finally found one on the pole top of the American flag, which was in the corner of the stage. The stage.

The service began with half an hour of modern praise songs with the ten-piece band. A recovered alcoholic gave her testimony, promoting their Recovery Support Group, and then the pastor finished off with a sermon, complete with a fill-in-the-blank worksheet included in the program. The sermon itself was, in summary: "Remember ____, ______, and ______. " I didn't fill in the blanks. I was paying attention to find the main point, but the pastor forgot to recap at the end.
This is the point where I start to get critical, because the bulk of the sermon was about giving to the church. He told the congregation exactly how much he gives to the church ($200,000 a year), how hard it was to do so, and how he recieved gifts from the congregation, a new truck, and a doubling of property value in his spec. house in Lehigh. I think the sermon point was that if you give money to the church, you might get a new truck. My mother's diamond ring was scratching my hand every time she clapped for the pastor.
This church had nearly abolished all traditional religious symbolism (there was never an American flag in my church, even in wartime) and replaced it with...stuff. Just stuff. I don't know why they needed a ten-piece band on a stage with such fabulous lighting that any theater geek would kill for. There was still a sort of arched design to the place, hardly reminiscent of a traditional church, but enough to make it distinct from those expo centers where venture capitalists teach seminars on investment opportunities.
People were shouting for joy during prayer and song. My old-fashioned WASPy reserve kept me quiet, with my hands crossed. I didn't know what to make of what I was taking in. I still don't. I probably never will. Church will always be absurd to me.

A Perspective Piece

2006-03-12T17:38:00.000-08:00

It was raining when I came out of rehearsal today. I felt really bad about myself, wearing a dirty white hoodie and poop-colored Adidas pants. It was like everyone was looking at me, talking about me, laughing at me behind my back. I just put on my hood and looked down at the ground.

I got on the train and some girls looked like they were like, "ew, that weirdo." They were pretty and well put-together, and I smelled like garlic because I ate a bagel for dinner. This guy across from me was reading a newspaper with the headline "HEY, HARVARD" in bold. Like I need to be reminded that I'm not at Harvard. I'm just a freak on the train that people laugh at behind my back. I was just fixated on "HEY, HARVARD" and wanted to take a shower just to wash off my low self-esteem. Girls were laughing at me, friends were laughing at me, Harvard was guffawing at me...I almost started to cry right there.

I shifted, glanced behind the newspaper and saw a penis. A man was masturbating on the train in the seat across from me. He was masturbating and reading a newspaper.

From then on, I knew that nobody was laughing at me.

Where did all the Splendoured Things go?

2006-02-15T18:41:00.000-08:00

Currently Listening
Funeral
By Arcade Fire
see related

Feeling a bit torn between the head and the heart lately.

Today at rehearsal, we were creating tableaus that represent "family," where each person was to have some sort of emotional/physical reaction to another person (all while standing still). After the last tableau, my director asked me what the motivation behind my position in the tableau was, where I was looking up at someone from the floor.

"Well, I guess I was making eye contact with him...I was contemplating his frustration."

He swiftly reminded me that contemplation isn't an emotion.

No shit, Sarah.

Forget about my lack of acting ability for a moment and take this as a metaphor for my life. Rather than actually "feel" something as a character, I feel vicariously through other people, and spend more time analyzing emotion than actually feeling it. This dependence on the rational would be fine if my rationale were at all rational, but I still manage to make so many horrible, horrible decisions in spite of my "reason."

Sometimes I even treat actions as emotional experiments: If I behave in manner A to person B, I will feel emotion X. Thus, A plus B will always equal X. Thus, I will never add A with B unless I want to feel X.

I can't let myself experience raw emotion without scrambling to find some kind of irony or other literary device to describe it. This is sad, because I'm pretty sure I'm chock full of sound and fury somewhere (which is ironic because it describes my inner emotion but is really just a stupid shakespearian reference which just shows that I'd rather show off my dull wit than be sincere with you, Reader. And this is doubly ironic because I'm pointing out the irony.) but I'm just left feeling like there's an Appalachian woman inside me who is speaking in tongues and I can't understand a word that she is saying. That is the only way I can express the disconnectedness I'm feeling (which is ironic because I only have feelings about my inability to feel. Which is quadrupley ironic because I just can't let this paragraph stop without talking about how ironic life is.) with my heart. Then again, if an Appalachian woman is yelling at me in tongues, I shouldn't have to be concerned about what she is trying to say; it doesn't mean anything at all. I simply need to observe that she is angry.

It's not that hard.

Women's History Month

2006-01-24T19:48:00.000-08:00

Currently Listening
Let It Die
By Feist
see related

I didn't know that women had a History Month.

I knew about Black History Month since forever, but I didn't notice that we women had our own Month. (It's March.)

I prefer White Man History Months. It's a lot warmer and prettier outside, and there are a lot of holidays to celebrate, like White Man Christmas and White Man New Years. I know it seems a bit premature to be talking about the month of March, but I was reminded of this History Month when I was asked to accompany a show commemorating Viola Spolin, the mother of modern improv.

I was asked to do it because I am a woman. I'm not as good as the other male accompanists, but because I'm a woman, I am doing this show with other women. This is just another lame Woman holiday where nobody gets presents or candy or gets drunk and has sex with a stranger. Instead, we chant and celebrate each other, and there's always that vibe in the room where you swear everyone's just gonna start dancing naked while beating on tribal drums. But nobody ever makes out. Which makes it pointless.

Women's history month celebrates people like Betsy Ross, who had a god-given gift for sewing, and Amelia Earhart, who was really good at crashing planes. Other women are commemorated for being the first woman to do something, like Pocahontas, who was the first Native American woman to get a reputation after banging a white dude, or the amazing feat of Virginia Dare, the first woman to fall out of a uterus on American soil.

Ironically, the choice for me to be the accompanist for this show is Affirmative-Action-Inaction-In-Action. I kinda suck at the piano, but I was hired anyway. So, like Amelia, Betsy, and Madam 'Hontas, I will go down in history for doing something amazing that could be done better by a man. God Bless America.

New Years

2006-01-01T09:41:00.000-08:00

It's the first day of 2006, I'm slightly intoxicated, and I'm going to discuss the net worth of wearing a dress.

The net worth, that's right. For someone who would've been happy wearing "nice pants and a blouse" last night, I indulged my roommate and wore a dress for the first time in two years. And boy, it was worth it. Lots of gay men wanted to have pretend-sex with me. You know, sex-in-theory.

Is that why women wear dresses, to look sexy? And thus to have sex? The notion, to me, is bizarre. I'm going to be as uncomfortable as possible so that you will want to have sex with me more. And if I really looked back, I would notice that my investment in my sex life was a huge disaster, because:

1) I went to a dinner party full of gay men.
2) I don't quite remember gettting in a cab and throwing up and passing out at Ryan's (thanks again, Ry)

So it's like I invested in an environmental technology stock and then bought an SUV. Completely counterproductive, if my goal was such. Granted, walking in heels at 8am wasn't the death of me, but it was incredibly uncomfortable, and for what? To brighten the day of the lady at Starbucks as I ordered a latte, with my pink-covered ipod and my 500 dollar trenchcoat? Is that why I have things? Bah, it's all rubbish. I felt so Lincoln Park.

I was reading an article last night about how America has become so much more yuppified. It reminded me of myself, kinda made me sick. I see no point in investing in myself if there is no end result that is satisfying. I imagine that the reason to yuppify yourself is to eventually marry another yuppie. Not what I'm looking for. So being a yuppie for new year's was just an utter waste. I feel like I need to make up for it somehow, like wearing a canvas tarp for a day. Or that scarf I found in a box at Northwestern. I overcompensated, and now I have to overcompensate to make up for it. It just makes sense. And this is all hilarious to me right now, because I'm intoxicated. My spelling is still impeccable.

Public - 9:44 AM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

By Accident

2005-12-04T14:23:00.000-08:00

This is the most amazing social satire I've found in months:
www.by-accident.com

"Welcome to By Accident, a new concept that gives you the chance to receive the attention you deserve. We deliver customized accidents such as rape, assault and past traumatic experiences. All personally tailored to suit your special needs.

We help you start changing your past and creating a more unique and interesting life story. Imagine the way people would listen to you if you had been the victim of an assault. Imagine how they would admire you if you had survived it and came out even stronger. Ask yourself who the real heroes in our society are. One thing is to be strong and beautiful, but to be the survivor of a traumatic incident and have a life is a real accomplishment."

Rape isn't funny, but what this website says about our victim culture is profound. Why? Because our culture thrives on being victims. It's what makes people unique, and gives them good reason to be jaded and detached. We, as a culture, want to be broken individuals. This website makes a powerful statement about how we live for trauma. They have an email request form for the accident of your choice, so I asked how much a gang rape would go for. I recieved this email:

"Dear Future Victim,

Thank you for your response! We understand your problem. So many people who suffer from painless lives constantly feel ignored.

Getting raped sounds like a great way to improve your life! At the moment we are deeply sorry to inform you that we are not able to help you because we are experiencing a very large number of requests.

Please don't give up your dream! We have a special place for you on our
waiting list and we will not forget about you."

Suffering from painless lives...wow. If that isn't a paradox to mull over, I don't know what is. There is a very smart, very dark person behind this website (reminiscent of the bonzai kitten scam) who is going to offend a lot of people, because the average viewer won't look past the blatant awfulness that it supposedly supports. That blatant awfulness, however, is just an exaggerated version of every guest on Dr. Phil, half the people in therapy, and every jaded, emo 15-year-old on the internet.

I think this scam is genius social commentary and I commend the bravery of the person behind it. Why? Well, it's the wannabe victims, the attention-starved, who are exploiting the real victims of rape, assault, and suicide. Not the creator of this website. Think about it.

Major History part 20

2005-12-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Currently Listening
Twin Cinema
By The New Pornographers
see related

For your information, Sarah is on another wacky diet for two weeks.

I'm not one of those wacky diet people. Refer back to my 5 days of being on Atkins and you'll realize that the food pyramid is no game of jenga with me. My world falls apart if I take something out of my regular diet, even if I don't eat it frequently. I never realized how much I needed ketchup in my life until I did Atkins. To me, all diets are wacky. This is no exception:

No processed food, no meat, no caffeine, no booze. I am left with fruits, vegetables, organic grains, and a deep yearning from within.

The only problem with this is that, since I'm not working too much this month, I planned on doing some serious writing. Major output. Unfortunately, I'm not productive without chocolate and large amounts of caffeine. Even before I joined the Great Dirty Bean Water culture, I couldn't write high school English papers without 2 liters of Diet Coke and one of those huge Symphony bars that they only sell in the back of the grocery store. Caffeine is my muse. Caffeine is the greatest drug to have ever graced this green Earth. I have become immune to caffeine, which is part of the reason why I'm on this diet.

For the past 48 hours, I've stared in vegetable-filled refrigerator, able only to communicate in the crudest forms, watch On Demand movies, and sleep. Writing? This is as far as I can go, after being filled by some spinach, quinoa rice, and some applesauce. I've been surprisingly level without having caffeine, but unfortunately "level" is only good in comparison to "sucking." I've been doing fine, I'm satisfied, I'm drinking lots of water, but I've done nothing but move between the bed and the couch for the entire day. I'm behaving like a manic depressive except I'm neither manic nor depressed. I'm fine. I'm not awesome, I'm definitely not bad, I'm just completely, utterly, boring-ly fine.

This is bullshit. I'd get angry with myself, but I'm just too fine to be angry. I'd cry about it, but I'm wayyy too fine to go there. I'd make myself happy, but I already found that it makes me more fine than I was before. I'd get actively frustrated, but I can't because I'm so fine that I have to pretend to be frustrated just to write this excretion of a blog! I'm gonna pretend to be tired now so that I can stop writing.

'Fine' blows. I want cake and a triple shot.

Public - 7:10 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Currently Listening
A Musical History
By The Band
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I woke up to the morning light of 12:15 yesterday, when my mom told me that we're going to the craft fair down the street. Every beach town has a craft fair at least once a month, where you'll find the typical beads, paintings, photography, and handmade clothing that you would at any fair.

I blame the retirees and the gays, mostly.

Craft fairs are pretty much run by entrepreneurial women and gay men. Usually startup businesses selling "cute things," or older, bearded men trying to sell their b & w photography of boats in an unnamed harbor. Beach town craft fair artwork is full of boats in unnamed harbors, with the occasional lighthouse or buoy thrown into the mix. My mother took an art class on Cape Cod once, and came home with a painting of a lighthouse in the ocean with a sailboat anchored next to a buoy. That's what they teach you in art class on Cape Cod.

Older women wear loose-fitting, flowy outfits that were either bought at another craft fair, or Chico's. They sell handmade beaded jewelry made of stones you've never heard of. It's the sort of jewelry that librarians and teachers love to wear, because they go so well with their loose-fitting, flowy outfits. These are the women who never found it prudent to cut their hair when they went gray. They wear it in a braid, or let it go loose, frizzy and untamed. They listen to folk music that even I wouldn't listen to. Like traditional Irish Folk, or the tribal drumming of East Kerney Island. Anything that was cool 1100 years ago, they probably dig.

The gay men here are old school. Earring in the right ear and a Tom Selleck mustache. They specialize in massage therapy and watercolor painting. They are far more talented than the schmuck selling photos of the boat in the harbor.

And then there are the bath products...dear lord. Bath products are not a craft and should be banished from all craft fairs. That's where those darn entrepreneurial women come in. Trying to make a buck, knowing what will get my mom to whip out her Visa. Just more crap to put in the bathroom, with a picture of a boat above every toilet, next to the mirror with a boat on it, and the shell-shaped soap products on the sink.

This is one upside to living on a lake. Back to Chicago tomorrow.

Public - 10:04 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Currently Watching
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Widescreen Edition) (Harry Potter 3)
see related

We had a couple of extra people at our pre-Thanksgiving, fuck-you-we're-making-Italian-food event this Wednesday evening. The supplementary characters were:

Beth and Doug: Beth is my cousin Karen's best friend, and surgeon at Dana Farber or Brigham and Women's hospital. Her husband, Doug, is a musician in a band.

Kathy: Kathy was the truly "random lady at the table" who nobody really knew. It turns out that she is my cousin's father's cousin. I haven't even seen my cousin's father in 5 years. Awkward conversation galore.

Michelle: Michelle is also my cousin Karen's close friend. She is from Ireland, and she likes to drink and talk. She is single and 35 and rather fabulous.

Kathy showed up the earliest. As she introduced herself and plopped down on the couch next to me, my mother tells me, "She's a few cards short of a full deck." I assume that if you could say something like that so close to the person you're talking about, then they have to be pretty fucking crazy. I'm not very good with crazy people so I impolitely excused myself to the kitchen. My cousin Dave had to make conversation with her (slowly and clearly) while I stirred meatballs for half an hour.

Beth, Doug, and Michelle came next. Some mindless banter ensued. Time passes. Michelle begins to tell us about her mother and her hot tub experience with Van Morrisson in a G-string.

The cases of wine begin to disappear; Beth fetches Doug's guitar and two ukeleles. I learn to play the ukelele. Michelle desperately wants to sing Christmas music but is hopelessly inebriated. I make myself a cup of tea.

I make conversation with Kathy to stall my piano accompaniment. It turns out that she is not crazy, after all. Or if she is, then she hides it well. My mother embarrasses herself yet again. What would you do if the host of a dinner party told someone next to you that you were crazy? Jesus, Arlene, you really did it this time. Kathy left early.

More wine begins to disappear; I make myself some more tea. I fail miserably in piano accompaniment and Michelle fails in her attempt to sing a song in key.

I learn the banjo; Michelle decides to have a heart-to-heart with me. She laments the fact that we are the youngest people in the room and that we should be at the bars. She tells me that I should go to law school because it seems fabulous. She thinks I'm too fabulous to get a degree in anything else. I humor her. She thinks that our shoes make us more fabulous than everyone else in the room (I'm wearing nothing on my feet but two unmatching socks, but she assumes that I have fabulous shoes laying around somewhere). I grow tired of entertaining drunk people, no matter how fabulous.

I try to get away; we get trapped in another 20-minute songfest. Her singing inability is showcased yet again. The piano bench on which we sit is feeling increasingly smaller. She decides, for some reason, that we are going to Rome together.

It is two in the morning, the second latest I have ever stayed up for a family gathering (the first being a white russian-soaked 5am talk-a-thon with my fake cousin Sean). The non-musical faction of the family becomes restless. I wonder why I am so tickled by this drunk Irish woman. Before I think about it too hard, I go make a sandwich. It reminds me what's really important about Thanksgiving: Italian food.

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Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Currently Reading
Waiting for the Barbarians
By J.M. Coetzee
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EXT. - NIGHT. - A STREET IN CAMBRIDGE. Looking for a place to get sushi, Cat and Sarah open the the car door to find a Moroccan restaurant. Sarah wonders what Moroccan food is like. She tries, frustratedly, to pinpoint Morocco on her mental map of Europe, but cannot. Bothered by her lack of knowledge about the country, she acknowledges the small print on the restaurant sign, which Cat cannot see.

INSERT: Sign saying "MOROCCAN. FINE MEDITERRANEAN CUISINE."

CAT
I wonder what Moroccan food is like.

(Beat.)

SARAH
Pretty Mediterranean. Probably lots of hummus or something.

Cat nods.

CUT TO: One hour later. Sarah is in a taxicab going home. Her driver is a Moroccan immigrant who has only been in America for 6 months.

DRIVER
Do you know where Morocco is?

SARAH
Sure! It's in the Mediterranean! I hear it's beautiful there.

DRIVER
Yes, yes...lots of Americans visit there.

SARAH
So how is the food in Morocco?

DRIVER
It's good. We have lots of--

SARAH
Humm--

DRIVER
--Couscous. Americans know us for our couscous.

SARAH
--mmmmm...I love couscous. You have such a rich, fascinating culture.

Public - 11:58 AM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Currently Listening
Confessions on a Dance Floor
By Madonna
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As a result of two shit-tastic experiences with Capt. Mercapten (My comforter is currently at the dry cleaners now), Rich and I went on another Google expedition through the tumultuous terrain of "Toilet Training Your Cat."

We found that there are over 2 million pages with information about toilet training your cat. I'm amazed that more people don't do this...you can save hundreds of dollars on that cursed cat litter that is in piles all over my apartment, and puts this "cat fresh" scent everywhere which smells as fresh as old cat shit rolled in small rocks.

We worked with this website, which seemed to have some important information, as well as an unneccessary political debate on the morality of toilet training.

"dumb cats & silly cats:

I don't think any lasting harm would be done by trying [toilet training dumb cats], especially if he doesn't seem any the worse for wear after having repeatedly fallen in the toilet. In a case where the cat is truly brain-damaged in some way, successful toilet-training is probably out of the question.

An approval-seeking cat, even if not particularly bright, stands a good chance of learning if you're willing to put a lot of patient effort into helping her understand. Do this repeatedly and even a slow cat will get the idea that being on top of the toilet gets her lots of praise and attention, so that she begins to do it on her own. "

Point. Counterpoint:

"Cats shouldn't be made or expected to use a toilet for several reasons. First, it is an absolutely unnatural thing for a cat to do. By expecting and forcing cats to eliminate in a "human" way, they are unable to do what comes as instinctual - such as dig and bury their urine or feces. Isn't it enough that people attempt to modify their cats so they fit in with what that person might deem as "socially acceptable" - such as declawing? Expecting cats to do things as humans do is going just too far."

Fortunately my cat is in the "dumb" category, because he doesn't bury his feces. In fact, he refuses. Not only is my cat retarded, but he is "unnatural," which makes him a perfect candidate for toilet training, apparently. Then again...why would I listen to either side, knowing that they are putting this on the internet:

"Misha, incidentally, won't touch the toilet water if it's dirty — he'll come ask someone to flush it, or he'll wait until it's been flushed, or (if he can't hold it any longer and no one's home or awake) he'll go in the bathtub instead. I always have a friend or a pet-sitting service come in once a day whenever we're gone to take care of things like flushing."

That's right, I'm listening to cat people. Cat people like this:

That's Milly, my aunt's best friend. Her cat has its own room. I don't wanna be like Milly. My cat's gonna shit in the toilet.

Public - 11:49 PM - 2 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Monday, November 07, 2005

Currently Listening
The Delivery Man
By Elvis Costello, The Imposters, Elvis Costello
see related

One thing I've noticed about my job is that people tend to open up to me when I hardly know them. It didn't quite click with me until the fourth or fifth time it happened. The dialogue usually goes something like this:

Coworker: Hello, I'm Juan. Como te llamas?

Me: I'm Sarah. Nice to meet you.

Coworker: You got a boyfriend?

Me: No.

Coworker. Oh. My wife just left me. I've got two kids. Two kids. She wanted to go party with her girlfriends, and now I have this big house and I'm miserable.

Me: Oh.

Coworker: I'm really lonely and I just work so that my kids can have everything.

Me: I'm sorry.

Coworker: I'm so lonely.

Me: I gotta go serve some hors d'ouerves.

I'm still trying to figure out if 1) These people open up way too quickly or 2) I am a very guarded person in comparison to other people. This question bogged me down as another coworker, who I had met about 2 minutes beforehand, was telling me about how his wife left him for another woman. In mid-bitch, I decided that henceforward, I would tell intimate details to people I barely know.

*Sarah thinks of intimate details. Sarah can't think of any intimate details. Sarah invents intimate details to one-up co-worker.*

"Yeah, when my life partner left me, she was really religious, so we thought it would be wise to cut our baby in half. I got the legs."

No. That lacks believability.

"I can relate. When I fucked my best friend's brother, I didn't know WHAT to do!"

Wait. That isn't my story, that's someone else's.

"I found myself in bed with a 40-year-old black man on Pride weekend."

Too...black.

I continued thinking instead of listening, and in a brief moment of silence, I said the magic word which unites me with all Latino males in catering:

"Women..."

He nodded, and finally stopped talking. Not only did it shut him up, it helped me to relate to him on a certain level where, though I don't have to tell him about my "man" leaving me for another "stupid bitch," I can still be honest without telling horror stories to strangers.

I prefer to save sob stories for my friends who have to pretend to care. I don't want my stories to be fodder for any other writers, except for yours truly.

Come on, you knew there had to be a selfish reason in here SOMEWHERE, didn't you?

Public - 12:00 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Currently Reading
The Fall (Vintage International)
By Albert Camus
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I was on the Clark bus earlier today, and noticed two small gravestones leaning on each other. It was an older cemetery, and I thought, "isn't that nice."

You know you're going crazy when you start noticing the beautiful mysteries of life in a creepy way like that.

Mind you, I was on my way to the office in Andersonville to pick up my paycheck for the week. As I was bussing by the Graceland cemetery, I thought about how I'm too good for my job. Hell, I should be running the business. The likely solution would be, naturally, to quit. But I need a job. And I make twice as much as I would anywhere else. Turns out I love doing things that I think I'm too good for. However:

When I do have to let go, I realize that I can't do without them in my life. Scary.

Everytime I haul my ass up to 5500 Clark or so and have to turn around because my boss isn't in the office, I tell myself to quit. But oh, I keep coming back! Ivan, you're just too hot for me, clearly. I'm not getting a tax return because of your sketchy business! Stop taking ephedra! You're 300 pounds! Get ahold of yourself!

Ah, it's no use. He never listens. You just can't change people. Especially Mexicans.

I just tend to underappreciate things that are important in my life. Keeping one foot out the door in all of my activities might be what is keeping one foot in. It sounds crazy, but then again, I called gravestones 'nice.'

Public - 3:11 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Friday, October 07, 2005

Currently Listening
Extraordinary Machine
By Fiona Apple
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- Waltz

Finally, there is some pussy in this apartment.

Rich brought home a kitty that he found in a parking garage yesterday. I begrudgingly took in the cat, knowing that it would be scared shitless from living in a parking garage for god-knows-how-long. And there's no way it could be as amazingly awesome as my cat back home. No cat could replace Bubba, never.

I don't have the time to forge a new relationship right now, feline or otherwise.

As it ran around our bare living room, I just sat and watched until it eventually sought refuge inside Rich's box spring mattress. This cat wasn't havin' it. Sure, it would crap in our litter box and eat our 9 lives, but give us any attention? No.

I didn't think that it would be worth the money and effort of supporting an animal that gives me nothing in return. It's a poor investment, really. I already put effort into a lot of things that give me very little in return, and there was no way I was going to willingly take on another one. I made it clear to Rich that this nameless puss puss with testicles was going to the Humane Society in a couple of days, so that we could get a cute little kitten instead, which we could mould and shape into our own killing machine of cuteness.

Bah, Sarah's soft spot was touched this morning, when I was feeling a little down on account of the rain. As I was prepared to begin starving this furry recluse to death, he decides to come out of the boxspring, and rub his little cat glands all over me until I was forced to have some emotion towards him. The relationship was forged. I brushed it in my bathroom with my old hairbrush, and hadn't left the apartment at all, because I was too busy trying to bond with this cat. I couldn't help it. It's a goddamn cat.

Funny how nice things just sneak into your life, even when you don't want them.

Public - 5:34 PM - 2 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Currently Listening
Mr. A-Z
By Jason Mraz
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I was at Marshalls this afternoon.

Wait, let me explain:

My apartment is poorly lit and I have this black and white picture of a child pooping on my floor and I really, really needed a lamp and a picture frame. That's why I was shopping at Marshalls.

I was wandering through the aisles, looking for picture frames (a hanging 10x12, specifically) and saw two women poking around the shelf with random bottles that you put in your kitchen but never really use. One was about 5'9", short brown hair, pants high on her waist, probably a size 10. The other was shorter, a bit fatter, with blonde hair and a "casual friday" work outfit (it's Tuesday). As I went by, I said to myself, "They screeeaaam '30'."

They scream '30'? What exactly did I mean by that? Why, for any logical reason, did I peg these women as the quintessential 30-year-olds?

I thought really hard, and I came up with this list of requirements:

- You must shop at Marshalls, "just to look around."
- You must wear your single-femaleness like a badge, make bad jokes about how you don't need a man in your life.
- You must not be able to fit into a pant size 6 or less because you are the target demographic of the current Dove Moisturizer campaign
- You have probably cut your hair short, not as an act of defiance, but of conformity
- You watch the Oxygen channel. A lot.
- Though you've watched Sex and the City from beginning to end, you will never, ever be as fabulous as Carrie Bradshaw.
- You stopped updating your wardrobe approx. 1-4 years ago.

Alright, I get it. There is no way that these criteria define such a broad spectrum of women who have nothing in common except for their age. What is important here is
1) To me, calling someone '30' was meant as sort of an insult, and thus
2) I think that '30' is my new 'gay,' and possibly my new 'retarded.'

"What the fuck is up with those shoes? Ugh, you're so 30."

"Where did this waxed bottle of olive oil come from? I'm never gonna use this. You're so fucking 30."

"You haven't had a boyfriend in years. Stop being so 30 all the time."

"Lose some weight, 30."

You see, this is a great derogatory term, because there is no coalition of 30-year-old women who is going to tell me that I'm being politically incorrect when I speak like this. I've just chosen a random age to encompass a bunch of character traits that only really exist in my mind. Sorry, my 30-year-old friends. This "quintessential woman" could just as easily be a really cool 50-year-old, or a really lame 22-year-old. But something just *screamed* '30' to me today. I may never know why.

I sincerely apologize to anyone who actually is 30, fears being 30, or is well past 30. If you can relate to this at all, bless your soul.

Public - 8:06 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Friday, September 16, 2005

Currently Reading
Everyone Poops (My Body Science)
By Taro Gomi
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I started thinking again. My "educational experience" kicked into gear last week and reminded me of something horrible: I've forgotten to think.

I don't know where all of that excess energy was put (I do know but I'm not going to tell you), but it seems as though I've consciously chosen to ignore conscious thought for a few months. A conundrum? Yeah, a little bit.

My Honors Seminar professor calls it "cultural amnesia." Why do I (assuming I'm representing some greater culture) choose to "forget" about so many significant issues? I'm not talking about political issues; I'm talking about *issues* issues. Meaning-of-life sort of issues that only plague us every now and then when our computer crashes or our cell phone gets dropped in the toilet. Those issues that hit us when we're walking down the street and the battery in our ipod dies and we stop and think, "oh my god, where is my life going?"

I'm also talking out of my ass because I've had a couple of beers. I'll stop blaming the wonders of technology for my intellectual shortcomings...now.

I've been writing a bit in the past few months. I've been consciously acknowledging how cliche my writing has become. Everything I come up with, I drop, thinking "this has been done before and is lame." Nothing is "deep" enough for me. I can't even read a book and be satisfied. I went to bookstores and arbitrarily bought books that looked like they would give me something to ponder and I would drop them halfway through. My improv blew ass. My ability to communicate with other people dwindled. I sank into myself, but I temporarily lost myself at the same time. I had no retreat except for home; I even cut that short becuase of the goddamn Oprah show.

After a series of disappointments, I made a decision to stop worrying so much. Live life, drink a lot, enjoy socializing, etc. All the while, something was looming over my head. I began to forget what exactly it was, but it was definitely there. It was my ability to see the world beyond what was staring in my face everyday. The stuff that was staring in my face? Simple things: food, exercise, beer, sex, caffeine, basic communication. That was my summer in a nutshell. They were more than enough of a distraction from the things that I, for some reason, was trying to avoid and forget.

The two days I spent at home last month may have been the most 'real' days of my summer. All of the time I spent trying to create this new home for myself (Chicago, see above), I had forgotten the few things that I loved about being home.

I know, I know...my time spent at home is usually atrocious. But it always gives me a strange sense of clarity that I don't get when I'm in Chicago. Home was presented to me as a fixed structure; Chicago was a life which I created myself. We always have a little less faith in the structures we make ourselves. Especially when we're young and stupid and trying to play the game like the big kids. I gather that this is a common symptom of 20-somethings because I don't see that insecurity going away any time soon.

Home is a safer place to think. This is because there is no direct application of my thoughts that are useful in my home environment. Chicago is for action and Home is for reflection. I got really bored of reflection a long time ago, but I realized that action is incredibly tiresome and only teaches me lessons the hard way. I'm prepared to make a partial retreat and take some time to assess things rather than bulldoze into everything that I possibly can. I bet You've done your fair share of bulldozing, you type-A, career-oriented, go-getter, You. When you aren't busy bulldozing your way through life, you're busy being distracted by everything else that isn't really important. Take a moment and think about something scary. You might not be able to think about one for a little bit, but just keep looking. It's looming right over your head. It might fall on you someday.

Public - 9:59 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Friday, August 19, 2005

Currently Watching
Ghost World
By Thora Birch, Steve Buscemi
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One of many lessons I've learned this week is to never close your door behind you when you're not wearing any pants. It can make for a very interesting afternoon/day/night.

Wednesday was a lazy day for me. I was sitting around in my underwear around two in the afternoon and decided to go for a run. I went to get some shorts in the the dryer out back and noticed that our back door was left slightly ajar (who says ajar these days?). I cursed Rich for jacking up our AC bill just a little higher and closed the door as I grabbed my shorts out of the laundry. I turn around to open the door again and found that somehow, the door had locked from the inside. I have no idea how it is possible to dead-bolt lock yourself out of your own apartment with no keys, no phone, and most importantly, no pants. But alas, it happened.

Rich wasn't due home for at least another 7 hours, and I wasn't even sure what time it was, since I wasn't wearing a watch. I had nothing to do except sit in my one plastic chair and stare into my broken full-length mirror, listening to my phone ring, unable to answer it. I thought that I was McGuyver enough to figure out a way in, but gave up on building my own pipe bomb when I realized that all I had to work with was the boiler, the circuit breaker, and a box of papers. Well, at least I had a pair of shorts.

How does one kill an afternoon with no money, no keys, and no cell phone?

1) Look through your old tenant's personal items.

The man that used to live in our apartment was allegedly a crack addict, and our neighbors told us that we were living in a former crack den. By the way the place looked when we moved in, I had no doubt that this was true. However, I was looking through a box that Mr. Kanter had left in our back room, and found that he was an Evanston-raised, athletic, intelligent, very Jewish man who loved the Cubs and had very involved parents throughout his childhood. I read his old letters from Jew camp and looked through all of the college scholarships that he received. A black and white picture of him potty training will be hung in my bathroom. Yeah, I got to know him pretty well, alright. How the hell did this guy become a crackhead? How unfortunate life can be sometimes. At least I have 3 new yarmulkes to show for it.

2) Be a Pappalardo. Pick some weeds.

Since my morbidly obese landlord never comes to maintain our property, I had nothing better to do than leave our back door open and pick weeds and clean our front "yard." Only a Pappalardo would pick weeds on their free time. It looks beautiful now. Thanks for all the help, Sharon. Have another milkshake.

3) Periodically kick the dejected-looking bums off of Geoff's doorstep.

It appears that living above a bar will attract some seedy characters to your well-shaded, comfortable cement doorstep while you're at work. I kicked two guys out; one I kicked out twice. But alas, nobody was home until late. My efforts were rendered pointless.

4) Sit on your own doorstep, looking like a dejected bum.

Once I found out that it was close to Rich-come-home time, I just sat patiently on my stairs, admiring my yardwork, for about one hour. Lo and behold, I hear the basement door opening next to me. Of all the days that someone decides to perform maintenance on our building, they oh-so-perfectly choose today to do it. Thank god. It turns out it was my landlord's girlfriend, who clearly wears the pants in the relationship, and she came to fix the massive leak in our roof. This is the first time I had seen landlord-related maintenance activity in 3 months. Once again, impeccable timing.

This is what you do when you are locked out in your underwear. I recommend it to anyone who enjoys prison, slavery, or homelessness. I also recommend it to anyone who has no bodily functions or basic human needs. So far this week: World: 3 Sarah: 0. Stop rubbing it in my face, World.

Public - 4:58 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Major History part 19

2005-12-04T14:20:00.000-08:00

Friday, July 29, 2005

Currently Listening
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
By The Beatles
see related

After two very long weeks, I finally quit Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Sales Department.

I'm a bit proud of myself. When I remembered how my job situation was one year ago, I have now grown to be a much more direct asshole. Last year I was at a job almost as shitty as CSO, but I didn't even have the balls to be straight with my managers, be an asshole, and quit. No, I had to invent a dying family member instead. That put me in an entirely different department of assholes.

I was planning to go in this morning to work, then call it quits around mid-afternoon, when the paychecks come out.

I overslept.

I decided to hold off until 1, when I finally went down there to tell my boss to shove it, then ask for my paycheck. "Shove it" turned into more of a quiet, mumbley mess of "I-I-have another job and I-I...sales isn't working out for me...and-and-I put in an honest effort but I-I...so...could I get my paycheck please?"

That was as direct as Sarah Pappalardo can possibly be. More importantly, this is the primary reason why I'm not good at quitting things. I avoid quitting at all costs because, for some reason, I am unable to say anything remotely coherent when I have to seal the deal. Interviewing is a piece of cake. But alas, I am unable to finish anything I start. I can continue starting things until I die, but ending/finishing/breaking up...anything along those lines...I just can't do it. Maybe I'm passive/aggressive. Maybe I hate being judged (by my boss, my exes, my peers), or maybe I just need to suck it up. Boo hoo, I can't kick annoying exes out of my apartment. Boo hoo, I can't quit a job that I hate. Boo hoo, nobody can read anything I write because it's not "finished." Suck it up, you pussy. Start saying what you mean.

In about an hour I have to go pick up that paycheck I've been wanting so badly, and I think I will force myself to work "shove it" somewhere into "can I please have my paycheck?" I don't really think this is going to help me become more direct, or a better person really, but it will be really funny to tell my boss to shove it. Heh. Oh yeah, that shit is funny.

Public - 2:48 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Monday, July 25, 2005

Currently Reading
Desolation Angels
By Jack Kerouac
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I was sitting on the train after a terribly long day yesterday, and there was an older woman, probably in her late 60's, sitting directly across from me. I hate sitting in those seats on the el that are directly across from two other seats, because you can't help but to face forward and make eye contact with your fellow passengers. This woman was wearing a v-neck shirt and sitting with her elbows on her knees, reading a magazine. Her approximately 67-year-old cleavage was hanging out, about 3 feet away from me. They looked like grocery bags. Tanned, wrinkly, plastic, grocery bags. It really got me thinking about getting my first lift in 20 years, just so I never have to see that kind of horror in my own mirror.

I must've been thinking about it too long, because the woman looked up and we made eye contact. I don't quite know if I was staring because I was so lost in thought. Nevertheless, I turned my head sharply to the left, stared at the ground for a moment, played with my ipod, checked my cell phone, checked my watch, and looked straightforward again. The woman was now sitting back, clutching the magazine she was reading across her chest with a violated look on her face.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. She saw me staring at her wrinkly bags of flesh once known as breasts. I have no idea if she sat back out of embarrassment, or out of disgust that I was staring at her Tits of Christmas Past. I started making a really obvious disgusted face just to make sure that it was the former option and not the latter. I've got enough to deal with right now, and I don't need to be branded as a Grandmasexual on top of it all.

I couldn't feel guilty about violating an old woman who had the proverbial balls to sit like that. Sure, I'm allowed to sit like that, but I'm 20, and my generation says that it's ok. My 60-something aunts would never do that. It's just sick.

Sorry, I'd finish this blog now, but I ah...I gotta go cruise at the grandma bar down the street. If anybody asks, I'm at Gin Mill.

Public - 11:09 PM - add eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Currently Listening
Silent Alarm
By Bloc Party
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Every day that passes, I feel like I'm inching closer and closer to the corporate world.

This week, I picked up a day job at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra working up in the office. Working at a place like the CSO is like a gateway drug, leading you into harder corporate jobs in the future. I took it thinking, "I'm working for the symphony. This isn't corporate. Sure, everyone around me is wearing ties and pantsuits and gathering around water coolers and making bad jokes about the fact that it's friday, but this is the symphony. I think that still makes me a musician."

A few hours later, as I'm returning calls to old ladies who have shown interest in the CSO in the past, I take the time to look around me. Next to me is "that theater dork from high school"...sporting a "Cats" t-shirt and a matching frumpy black sweater on account of the frigid mid-July air conditioning. In the processing office, there is a guy with a massive tattoo covering his neck that says "Fuck You." A lot of ex- Second City employees also work there, which made me realize an unfortunate pattern in my choice of jobs-- If you don't have a contrabassoon in hand while you're working for the CSO, you're job isn't cool. And if you're putting together music for clueless graduates of the Second City Conservatory, you're still not a mainstage cast member. You're not even the mainstage music director. So go fuck yourself.

I have to remind myself that this is okay for now; I'm still in college. But, like drugs, dead-end quasi-corporate jobs are addictive. College is a perfect time to experiment, until you become that 27-year-old loser smoking up in your parent's basement without a job. Or, conversely, you're that 27-year-old loser living in a condo with a job and the approval of your family. For me, the latter is deadly. And I know that avoiding those two options doesn't leave me with many alternatives, but here is my plan:

I'm going to stay in college forever. Then nobody can ever question if I've "arrived" because I will permanently be in a state of "getting there." Until I die. Then my friends will feel sorry that all of my efforts went to waste. Like that "cool job" I had at Second City and the CSO.

Public - 5:17 PM - 6 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Monday, July 11, 2005

Currently Listening
Greatest Hits
By Pat Benatar
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- Hit me with your best shot

Today I realized the utter stupidity of networking websites. Wasting some time on my new (used) ibook, I was browsing through Friendster profiles, something I hardly ever care to admit doing. First I felt like a creepy voyeur, trying to see if I could determine someone's sexual orientation through ambiguous statements in their testimonials. I came across someone's profile who has been calling me incessantly for the past month or so. I've been avoiding him at all costs. He had a really great picture in his profile, though. Model material. I really wanted another good-looking person as my friend so that I could feel more validated as a person. Being his real-life friend just isn't as impressive. His profile is a lot more interesting than his actual self.

The important detail here is that he has been calling me way too much, trying to hang out with me....alone...drunk. Doing something as small as friendster-ing him could give him the wrong idea, like, that I actually value his existence. Even though I wanted another good-looking person in my friends list so very badly, I still couldn't go through with it for the aforementioned reasons.

The fact that I didn't friendster him isn't the significant part of the story, though. The sad part is that I actually spent several minutes of time and energy moral dilemma-ing whether I should allow this person's picture to show up in a box where it tells you my interests and hobbies and shows pictures of me that make me seem cooler/more mysterious than I am in real life. Several. I was moral dilemma-ing because telling him that I'm his "friend" via this ridiculous cyber faux-existence of ours might give him the real-life idea that I don't loathe him. I behaved as if this issue is actually important. While there are people suffering all over the world right now, I am worrying about the effects of faux-friending an annoying ex online. Ponder this.

But wait, Sarah...you never cared about suffering people before, why start now?
1)I guess if I start caring now, it might get me into Heaven someday.
2)Good point. I'll stop.

But wait, Sarah....if you loathe this person, why do you still call him your friend?
1)I use the term 'friend' very loosely.
2)I wouldn't loathe him if I hadn't dated him already.
3)I like to find excuses to use the word 'loathe.'
4)Loathe.

Don't tell me that I'm looking too deep into this; I know how men work. I am one. Do you want me to make another list? I'll do it, I swear. Don't push me.

Public - 2:04 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Currently Listening
How Sweet It Is
By Joan Osborne
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GREETINGS FROM LOVELY HULL, MASSACHUSETTS. YOUR FUTURE AWAITS YOU. AND YOUR PAST IS LIKE, "FUCK YOU, GO AWAY."

Finally, after all this time, my mom is finally living in a normal place with sort of normal people near a normal city and other normal suburbs. Ah, the relief. I'm so happy for her that I've taken on the duties of painting, cleaning, unpacking, and shutting the hell up for the duration of my visit to New England. Arlene is back on the Cape for the night to close on the house tomorrow, so I'm left here all by myself. Just me, the cat, and a fuckload of boxes.

In order to successfully unpack, I have to think like Arlene, really get inside her head. Getting inside my mother's head is like going through one of those funhouses that they have at carnivals or that carousel of mirrors at Canobie Lake. You walk through and everything you see is upside down, but you know it's upside down so you have to think upside down to actually think correctly. I had to stretch my memory back to the old house in NH and remember where she would put odd bowls, plates, depression glass, and spices. As I was putting the salad shooter above the oven, something didn't feel right. I instinctively knew, above all things, that the salad shooter goes right next to the cake mixer and the blender in the lazy susan. Above the can opener. Why is there a can opener in the lazy susan? And why the FUCK are the spices where the odd appliances should be?

Why are the pans and the pots all mixed up with the tupperware? Why do we have 50 forks? Why do we have 7 apple peelers and 5 funnels? What the hell do we funnel?

That was a brief out-of-Arlene experience, and it already raised my blood pressure a little. All I have to remember is that someday, we'll need 50 forks for when we have a party and 10 people go through 5 courses where they all need the same fork, or we'll have to make a lot of apple pies really fast, or we'll have to consume a lot of alcohol in a funny way. See, don't ask questions, Sarah. The answer is right under your nose.

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Major History part 18

2005-12-04T14:19:00.000-08:00

Monday, July 04, 2005

Currently Listening
The Essential Bessie Smith
By Bessie Smith
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I'm a big fan of sun and ice cream and friends and not playing with small children. Let's start out with that.

Sunday, we were supposed to host the big family barbecue, but my aunt Joan decided to have it at her cottage in Chatham instead. Alex and I went over early to hit the beach and apparently be harassed by seven-year-old children in the meantime. When it was finally time to eat, we found that the grill only had 6 burgers and a few hot dogs on it. I find that these 6 burgers are cut in half on the platter as we are serving ourselves. There was no second batch for the 15 of us at the cottage. And that doesn't even count Grandpa. I'm just not in the mood for counting old people.

Sidenote: I hate hot dogs. I don't consider them food any more than I consider my own vomit conveniently wrapped in intestinal casing. I sat politely and watched everyone else eat cheap shit that I wouldn't even feed my college friends. Alex and I escaped to pick up my other long lost friend and we cooked some sausages on my "The owner of this grill really has something to prove" grill back at home and called it a day.

I was the D.D. for the night and I watched 3 people go through 2 bottles of vodka. My cousin Brian, after about two drinks, peed on the side of my house. Mind you, there are more bathrooms than inhabitants in my house, but he had to pee ON my house. By midnight, I actually had to con him into not driving home by showing up at his house and kicking him out of the car. I almost decided against doing that until I heard him in the backseat as 50 cent was playing on the radio. He kept mumbling, "Fuck Fifty, fuck fifty." Then when some Biggie song came on he repeated "Fuck Biggie, fuck that shit." My cousin lives in Ohio, by the way, and I don't think he has any right to disrespect East Coast rappers when he lives in Ohio. Secondly, I don't think he has the right to have any sort of opinion on rappers at all. Or black people in general, namely because his description of his new college began with "I'm not racist or anything, but..."

I almost invited him to Provincetown for the fireworks tonight, but decided against it. If he has such a negative opinion about rappers, I don't know how he would react to Gay Disney World. Thus, I am home tonight, avoiding any more family loathing and trying my darndest not to horribly offend them/scare them/make them hate me by spending any more time around them. My mother is looking more and more of a normal a family member every minute that passes.

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Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Currently Reading
Guru : My Days with Del Close
By Jeff Griggs
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I've realized how certain personality traits and deficiencies can be inherited or learned from the people who have raised us. This is my epiphany of the week.

Some people, somewhere in the middle of the following paragraph, will probably yell, "it took her THIS long to figure it out?"

My mother is not the greatest conversationalist, nor is she the greatest listener in the world. Most of the things she says are "I" statements...."I always take my nephews fishing" or "I live in a temperate climate," etc. Not even the good kind of "I" statements, like "I loathe the entire state of Idaho" or "I think I may be sexually attracted to my ipod." You know, engaging stuff. My mother is short and slightly large, so people just think she's "cute." Her cuteness and momness overrides her inability to honestly and engagingly respond to another human being. I've finally realized why our phone conversations are so bizarre:

Me: I got an A on my paper today.
Mom: Oh really? The cat threw up today.
Me: Hmm. I wrote it in like, two hours.
Mom: Really? I didn't clean it up yet and it's starting to smell bad. That cat is so needy.
Me: *Sighs* I have to work today and tomorrow.
Mom: Oh. It's really windy here.

You get the idea. She has socialized me into being an incompetent conversationalist. Usually only creepy people and Evan Zugin have pointed out that I "only really talk about myself" and "don't seem to really be listening to anyone" when in reality I just think that I'm "having a normal conversation" and "talking about things." Go figure.

After the bulk of my friends just smiled and nodded as my mom talked about things that nobody can relate to, I chortled. That's right, I chortled. It's this thing I do when I figure something out. You know, like when my head begins to hurt and then i just sort of chuckle and snort. It's weird.

*Loses her audience*

Public - 9:30 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Currently Playing
Songs For Silverman
By Ben Folds
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Ok, here's my 5-minute rant for the day:

I'm sick of women who think that they are Carrie Bradshaw. They think like Carrie Bradshaw, they write like Carrie Bradshaw....seriously, people. Find your own voice. Sex and the City is GONE!

Stop using overly-elaborate, pretentious phrasing while talking about your vested love interests. Stop trying to be profound about relationships. Stop trying to tell us how intelligent and empowered you are. Congratulations, modern American female, you have spread yourself too thin. Pat yourself on the back.

This shit makes me wanna wear a dress, bake a cake, and pop out some babies. Christ.

Public - 2:24 PM - 4 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Currently Playing
Aha Shake Heartbreak
By Kings of Leon
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- We sold our house at the Cape.

No more Cape Cod stories. No more boredom. No more insane family gatherings. No more insane jobs.

And I'm kinda sad. The house is full of disappointment, and represents a lot of unfulfilled expectations. It was supposed to be my parent's retirement dream home. Supposed to be the house I would inherit, supposed to be the house I'd raise my hypothetical future children in...you get the idea. This house is like the little brother who everybody thought would be a genius, but became a pothead and lived in the basement for the rest of his life. I would sell that son, and likewise, I encouraged my mother to sell the house. Since this house deserves a little bit of credit, here is a brief biography of the life of our Cape House.

1993-1999: Spent an ungodly amount of time sitting on an inner tube in the back of our Jeep, reading Stephen King novels, as my parents searched for a summer house.

February 1999: Bought a chunk of undeveloped riverfront property. Dreaded my future high school summers.

March 1999: Found the worst architect in Massachusetts to design our house. Resulted in a 2 1/2 by 24- foot foyer and 10-foot ceilings.

April 1999: We hire our roofing guy, Bill, to subcontract our house. The worst decision my father had ever made.

April 2000: The house was supposed to be done by now. Bill poured 2 tons of cement through a bedroom window, and my drunk cousin, Ricky, had to re-plaster the walls.

April 2001: Wait, shouldn't this have been done by now? Guess not. We fired Bill because he stole $30,000 worth of materials from us. Ricky was pissed and drank a lot and there are still beer cans and empty Marlboro packs underneath the carpeting.

June 2001: We spend our first summer in an unfinished house with 10-foot ceilings. I meet Dwayne, my first white trash boyfriend ever.

July 2001: My first time swimming upstream in the river.

Spring 2002: Oops! Guess it's not gonna be my parent's retirement dream home anymore.

A lot of years of creepy, lingering, empty feelings of misery pass...

Spring 2005: No more Cape Cod.

Those years of misery were fairly well-blogged about already. So, farewell, Cape House. It's almost hard to say goodbye. Oh wait, no. Nevermind.

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Tuesday, April 26, 2005

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

I was on netscape.com this evening and read an article about the dangers of what you blog. You know, never talk about your job in your blog, try not to divulge too much info about your sex life, and don't talk shit. For some reason, that article prompted me to google myself. And look what I found:

My Diary-ah: Dale Ramsey
Jan. 8 2005

I'm really resenting Rich for purchasing the piano. It's nice to hear it playing in the background every so often but SARAH IS SO HORRIBLE AT PLAYING IT! I'll walk to the bathroom when it's completely silent and all of a sudden I'll hear some twisted rendition of a song I happen to enjoy that she'll butcher and make me loathe it. Sarah Pappalardo, destroyer of all things wonderful. Damn you and your musical poison.

That's why his blog popped up when i googled myself. Well, it's nice to know I at least have one nice roommate left. Notice he stole my witty tagline?

Dale Ramsey: you were CAUGHT IN THE ACT!

Public - 7:12 PM - 6 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 17

2005-12-04T14:18:00.000-08:00

Monday, April 18, 2005

The Great American Apartment Search begins yet again.

Rich and I have searched all over Kingdom Come for these things:

-Granite Countertops
-2 Bathrooms, preferably marble
-Massive Closets
-All for the low price of $1300 a month or less.

This criteria sent us packing to the ghetto, unfortunately. I looked at a building that was probably nicer than my actual house, but outside was infested with bums, used condoms, and one too many baby mamas hollerin' at the dude with the nice ride. Not my style.

This ruled out most of uptown.

We headed down to Wrigleyville and circled around Wrigley Field for awhile. At least the bums are talented here. Strike the used condoms and add empty liquor and beer bottles and random piles of puke near the alleys. No baby mamas around, but rather there are massive clusters of slightly overweight, old drunk Cubs fans hollering at me, probably because I'm under the age of 40 and have breasts. Also not my style.

Plus, the rent was higher.

This left us with sweet, quiet, wholesome Boystown. The rent is still cheap, and the apartments are generally nicer. But it's a 24-hour fuckfest on the weekends. Is there really anything wrong with that? It's probably the only neighborhood where I'd be relieved to find used condoms on the sidewalks in the morning. Definitely no baby mamas here. And gay men hate bums. So the only real downside is that my "friendly local tavern" would be Hydrate. That's my only real problem.

To be fair...there is always Wicker Park. I can be unnecessarily far away from everywhere I need to be, pay more for rent, turn veggie and start shopping at thrift stores.

I think I'd prefer Cabrini.

Public - 10:06 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Currently Playing
Twentysomething
By Jamie Cullum
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"I'm no longer the evil whench you knew me to be."

These were some of the first words to come out of my professor's mouth on our first day of class. I was so astounded that I had to write it down in the syllabus so that I'd never forget it.

Dr. Ibata-Ahrens, a Japanese political science professor, probably has the worst rating on ratemyprofessor.com. When I picked her class (mandatory for honors), I read some disheartening facts about her. Here are the highlights:

----

THIS STUPID **** NEEDS TO GET LAID!!! SHES A ****ING LOSER, NOBODY TAKE HER!!! MOST LIKELY WAS PICKED ON AS A CHILD, IN CONCLUSION JUST A STUPID ****!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Run! Run fast and run now. I have never been more insulted in my life..

when i think of this professor only one thing comes to mind...the devil..i think she'd be more welcome as a jail guard

Avoid her like the plague! I got an A in her class, but would have settled for a C in ANY OTHER CLASS! She's completely unprofessional, unhelpful, abrupt, and just plain rude…stay far, far away

wow...if u ever saw "cheers," picture the girl frazier always wants to bone...mean, slicked back greasy black hair, never has anything good to say. well hey, this teacher is her...could be the meanest and most self-centered person i know...

----

My naive self thought that it would be fun to have the devil for a teacher. The woman in me thought that maybe I could "change" her....or at least torment her, like I used to do back in high school. Either way, it would be satisfying. I just get such a kick out of coldhearted bitches who slick their hair back,, have no empathy for fellow humans, and devote their life to studying Japanese politics. Seriously.

I went into class expecting the absolute worst. Instead, I found a woman with her hair slicked back, flirting with the three young men in the front of the class for about ten minutes. She was making horrible jokes and I could tell that she had no sense of humor. None whatsoever. But she was trying, so I knew that something was up.

"I made a new year's resolution to have a positive attitude. I'm no longer the evil whench you knew me to be."

I'm guessing that something really got to her, something that finally made her realize that the entire world, faculty included, thought she was the Satan with a vagina. I realized I was encountering the post-encountered Dr. Ibata-Ahrens. I was disappointed. Very disappointed. Like meeting Vanilla Ice after 1995. Or any Surreal Life character after they were casted for the Surreal Life.

I'm gonna be kinda bored with her, now, though it is amusing to watch her actually struggling to be nice. You can see it in her face, she really struggles to perform simple actions like smiling, laughing, and listening. We'll see how long the non-whench Ibata-Ahrens lasts. I give it until her next menstrual cycle.

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Monday, March 21, 2005

Currently Reading
As I Lay Dying (Vintage International)
By WILLIAM FAULKNER
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I spent Saturday night in a retirement villiage clubhouse drinking vodka tonics and singing karaoke. Try to top that in Chicago. I bet you can't.

The funny thing about this part of Florida is that it is absolutely filled with people from Massachusetts, namely, Cape Cod. The old'uns call Naples "Cape Cod South," because the entire retired population migrates down here as soon as they have to put on a sweater when their Chatham beach house gets a bit chilly.

<>Around October, a fleet of Cadillacs, Lincoln Town Cars, and Jaguars migrate down Interstate 95 in search of their final resting place. Some of them find their final resting place along the way, however. Most elderly persons can't handle the 24-hour drive.

The ones that make it look forward to golfing in the day, a good scotch in the evening, and a night of the "classics," sung by Betty, Erma, and Martha from down the street. I take my karaoke pretty seriously, but I was amazed to find that there are a lot of burned out broadway musical-obessives over 70 who, if they weren't so obviously lame, would blow me out of the water. I did a lovely rendition of Roberta Flack's "Killing me Softly" and Tina Turner's "Proud Mary." Yes, I blew Erma out of the water. She thought she was so damn good when she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I say that's fucking bullshit. Get back in your Towncar, Erma. Leave the karaokeing for us young folk.

Public - 7:21 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Friday, March 18, 2005

Currently Reading
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (Vintage Contemporaries)
By Mark Haddon
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Retired people. Sarah Pappalardo.

The two don't go together very well.

I got to Naples yesterday and already started discussing my 401(k) and my social security benefits. I spent St. Patrick's day at my mother's cousin's retirement villiage, across the street from my aunt's retirement trailer park, and down the highway from her ex-husband's retirement mansion. My mother bought a place that is also just up the street, which she calls her "retirement villa." I don't know if that means it's a condo, a really nice condo, or a condo with those really cool adobe rooftops like you see in Portofino. You know, the real villas. But I digress...

We went to the bookstore today, so I bought something old and something new. My mom was searching through the magazines, so I picked up the New Yorker, just for shits. I looked over to my right, where my mother was looking at Arthritis Monthly. I know, I know, I didn't think it existed either. I would think I were lying too. But there really is an Arthritis Monthly Magazine, where people can read about what is making them old and immobile. My mother has some mild form of arthritis, but I don't see why she needs to buy a magazine to read about it.

I have a problem like that, too. I'm an asshole. I don't need to subscribe to a magazine about it. I'd much rather read the New Yorker.

Public - 2:51 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 16

2005-12-04T14:13:00.000-08:00

Friday, February 25, 2005

Currently Reading
Women, Sex, and Addiction: A Search for Love and Power
By Charlotte S. Kasl
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So I'm rounding up some random books to read for my 10-day stint in Naples.

This one just came in the mail today. It was recommended to me by a friend back in NH. Usually when I go to Florida, I take the most obnoxious non-beach reading books to read on the beach (the last three years have involved The Sound and the Fury, a good chunk of Foucault's Pendulum, and The Fountainhead). Beachgoers in Naples love to approach me and talk to me about whatever book I'm covering my face with while I'm tanning, so I thought I'd go for something a little more provocative this time, to see if anyone tries to pick up a girl in a hot orange bathing suit reading a book called "Women, Sex, and Addiction."

Does that mean I'm a drug addict? Addicted to sex? Addicted to women? Addicted to women who love sex and are drug addicts? Addicted to reading books about people with emotional baggage?

This is a clinical study focused on how women deal with relationships (the 'addiction' is more of a metaphorical thing). Yet I can still see my mother asking me why I am reading a book called "Women, Sex, and Addiction."

Arlene: Why are you reading that book?
Me: Because it's interesting.
Arlene: Why do you have to read a book that has 'sex' in the title? You're not supposed to think about sex. Don't show Auntie Joan that book.

As soon as I find time between Rush Limbaugh's radio show and The O'Reilly Factor, I think I will just sit next to my Auntie Joan and start rattling off feminist bullshit just to annoy her. It doesn't matter if I believe in any of it or not, all that matters is that I stress out my family while doing it. It's pretty much the goal of my family vacations.

I also have this book called "Cunt" on my bookshelf that may be the most idiotic book ever written. I might just bring it along and casually toss it on the coffee table, just for decoration.

Oh, late-stage adolescent rebellion....who says that teen angst has to end at age 19?

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Saturday, February 12, 2005

This is the best Emo Profile ever.

love_iis_homicide
well. lets seeee here. my names brittany. duh, you already know that. well you should. so this crap is about me. well lets see... im lame. i like guns and razorblades. suicide is pretty awesome. i like emo music. emo boys turn me on. lip rings, dyed hair, tight pants... need i say more? ha. i cry a lot, and always angry. i dont get along with a lot of people, i'd rather be friends with guys then girls. i hate rap music and black people. nigger. the "n" word...sew me fuckheads. i dont belong here in wisconsin. my friends mean the world to me. i hate everything and everyone else. so dont bother talking to me. justin hufton is the love of my life. ross dessart is god... oh and my hero ;]. leah redell owns, missy mills is mine bitches... one... last... thing... fuck off.

*followed by the perfect rule-of-threes black-and-white emo picture*

Public - 2:13 AM - 6 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Friday, February 11, 2005

This is that Valentine's day entry that I've avoided for the past 3 years.

For the first time, absolutely ALL off my friends have dates for Valentine's day. Except for one, and you know who you are. And no, I won't be your Valentine.

I really think I need to disappear on Monday. I need to find a family member to mourn. Conveniently, my uncle Billy is going into the hospital and might die. I might build an altar and pray on Monday. I might find myself or discover a new philosophical way to live my life. I might burn incense and recite a chant or two.

I might eat a five pound box of Godiva that I bought myself and think about all the people I could have been with on Valentine's day, if it weren't for the fact that they have significant others.

So V-day is the day that you spend with someone who is important to you. Sure, I've been there...you go out for a nice dinner in the city, come home and have a bottle of wine, then fuck all night. Just like a regular day except it costs more money and the sex isn't as good because you ate too much and are sleepy on account of the wine.

The above paragraph is a prime example of the Lonely Person's Rationalization of Why They Are Alone on Valentine's Day. Well, I'll admit it. I'm a little bummed about being alone on V-day. But alas, I do have a plan.

A lot of gay guys go on Manhunt.com to find anonymous sexual partners. It's a website where, instead of profiles that show your face, you show your goods. And then you go fuck 'em and be on your merry way. So I'm gonna put a picture on Manhunt and see if any gay guys just think I'm a really, really girly boi. I wanna see how many gay men would theoretically do me on Valentine's day. And my greatest pleasure would be to reject a shit ton of men who would never have sex with me anyway.

Or I could just mourn the coming loss of my Uncle Billy. Who knows.

Happy Valentine's day, you sorry happy fucks.

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Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Currently Playing
The Moon & Antarctica
By Modest Mouse
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Clean out your old bomb shelters and keep your gas masks handy, folks. Bush is the greatest threat to our postmodern world. Oh, I'm not talking about George Dubya.

Dale showed me this webite where, apparently, an entirely gay nation is being formed somewhere off of the coast of Australia. He read me their constitution, which sounded relatively normal until the final amendment. It goes as such:

9. Every lesbian citizen, irrespective of birth, station, or property, shall be required, for a certain length of time, to carry arms in defence of her country.

They are creating an army of Lesbians?! What will happen if they go to war? Who will be left to play softball?

I wouldn't wanna mess with gun-toting lesbians who are angry enough to leave their own country for mandatory military service. An entire army of females living together would mean that they would probably all be on the same cycle, though.

Imagine, please: 50,000 bloated, PMS-sing women with Uzis coming after your country. Oh sure, they’d be intimidating for a little bit. But all you would have to do is cut off their tampon and midol supply and they’d be done for. Or make tampon-grenades (just pull the string and BLAM!).

I think I’m already at the forefront of lesbian-defence technology.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that they already have gone to war with Australia. http://www.gaykingdom.org/lawofwar.htm

Public - 1:03 AM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Currently Playing
Want Two (CD/DVD combo)
By Rufus Wainwright
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I sat down in my English class today around 11:40. I was ten minutes early, so I decided to pull out my massive compiled reader and look over what I needed to read for class. I unzipped my messenger bag, and swiftly yanked my book out of the rear pocket. But it turns out I yanked two things: my massive compiled reader and a store-brand condom.

Store-brand. Not even Trojan or Lifestyles. Of course, that wasn't what was running through my mind at the time. Rather, I saw the condom somehow perfectly wedged between the cover page of the reader and the clear plastic cover (as though I like to decorate my school supplies with contraceptives and whatnot) for all to see. This made me actually jump out of my seat and drop my five-pound reader on the floor with a thud, sufficiently making a scene. I paused for a second, trying to look like I didn't care about what just happened, and picked my reader up off the floor.

But where did the condom go? It wasn't in the clear plastic cover anymore! I started patting myself down and looking around the perimeter of my desk to see where it landed, and if anyone was in direct line of view of the condom. It was nowhere to be found. I began to panic. Finally, I saw a little square shadow on my seat, right between my leg and my jacket, where no one could see. But how would I get this condom to safety without anyone seeing me handle it?

I grabbed my red hat and trapped that little sucker, dead in its tracks. Mr. Condom wasn't going anywhere. I scooped him up with the hat and put him in the inside pocket of my North Face. All was well.

You're probably wondering how a store-brand condom would end up in my pile of books. It definitely was not my condom. I don't need to lie to any of you, because I wouldn't be telling this story to ANYONE if I were the type of person to stick store-brand condoms in between the pages of my textbooks for amusement. I know it wasn't my roommates' (they buy condoms in bulk, and they only buy the best) and I don't do anything during the day that involves free condoms, so I'm just assuming that someone really wanted to have sex with me (someone on a tight budget) and dropped it in my bag when it was by my bed. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why couldn't you splurge on the ribbed kind? And why the HELL can't you keep a condom in your wallet, like normal people? And what were you doing in my bedroom, anyway?

Condoms and classrooms don't mix. That is your lesson of the day.

Public - 9:07 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Monday, January 17, 2005

Currently Playing
Good News For People Who Love Bad News
By Modest Mouse
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I only made one person cry this week. Not bad, considering.

Oh wait, make it two. I'm only gonna tell you about one, though.

Some dry, store-bought cupcakes were moistened with tears in my second to last nonfiction writing class (Exploring the Literary Snapshot) this week. We were to read a selection from the anthologies we wrote for our final projects. I selected one piece well beforehand. It's called "Grandma's Gonna Die" -- essentially a rehashing of when my Grandma refused to be buried in Florida because she thought that the terrorists were gonna hijack the plane and take her corpse hostage. So it was all about my Grandma and how she's gonna die.

Before I got a chance to raise my hand and get my presentation over with, another girl read a story about her Grandpa. It was actually very touching-- she talked about the warm and fuzzy days of her childhood that she spent at her grandpa's house. Tears came to her eyes as she read the last two lines: "He said he had to go to the bathroom, and if he wasn't out in ten minutes, to come and get him. He came out of the bathroom, but never went back again."

While everyone else was busy being touched, I just mouthed the word "Shit" and flipped my anthology open, showing Ryan the title of the piece I was supposed to read. What kind of asshole would read a story making fun of their Grandmother's death while this girl is crying over her Grandpa?

The obvious answer: Sarah Pappalardo. Ok, so I went through at least 45 minutes of Moral Dilemma before realizing I had absolutely nothing else to present except for this piece. My other piece was way too detailed about my sex life prior to age 18, and I had already workshopped my third piece in class. I had no choice. So I rationalized, thinking "it's not THAT offensive..."

You might be asking, "Why would I do this to a poor girl, obviously distraught over the death of her grandpa?" The fake answer: I'm so depressed over my Grandmother that I need to express my feelings about it in an exaggerated, irony-filled memoir piece. The real answer: I'm self-serving and attention-starved.

I don't think I made her THAT mad. I mean, she didn't look too angry. She didn't run out crying, that's for sure. I think that means I'm getting better.

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Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Currently Playing
What You Waiting for
By Gwen Stefani
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Sarah is on hiatus due to the new quarter and increasing demands on her sweet, hot ass. So here is a rerun:

I was at the bookstore drinking a mammoth coffee and studying diligently as I overheard a son and his mother talking. I love eavesdropping on conversations at the bookstore. A book is the perfect cover because you can read the same sentence over and over again and listen to the juiciest bits of people’s lives, hidden behind a pile of paper and a soy latte. This little boy, about nine years old, was doing a school project on an animal at the last minute on a Sunday night. I remember doing that project in fourth grade. I finished in half the time of the other students, so I did two, one on the red fox and one on the cougar. This child had clearly been left behind, however. He refused to start his project and he felt no remorse.

The mother gritted her teeth and said in a low voice that he was giving her "attitude"—none of which I saw, and I was definitely looking—and she continued to threaten him for at least ten minutes. She made a series of empty threats that only a mother could make: "If you don’t read that goddamn book, I’ll hit you so goddamn fast…" or "Write about these animals or I’m leaving right now and you can do this project yourself." The mother had to make him believe that this semi-informative coloring book he refused to make will somehow affect him in life, whether through a brutal beating if not academic failure.

The mother began to raise her voice while the kid just sat there, staring at her in fear, and I muffled my hysterical laughter with some flaky pastries. She must have noticed me, because she began yelling, "Now look what you did! You’re making a scene, you little bastard!" I couldn’t take it anymore. The poor child sat there, silent and baffled, as his mother stood up and began to scream at him in the middle of a bookstore. I had to run, or else I wouldn’t have been able to swallow my baby bundt cake and coffee without spitting it all over the mother sitting below me.

As I doubled over laughing behind a stack of books, I realized how all mothers have the power to instill this kind of fear of academic failure in their children. Some of them fail miserably in the attempt. I took some deep breaths, brushed the crumbs off of my sweater, and returned to my pile of books to study until the words became blurry lines of ink and white space.

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Sunday, December 26, 2004

Currently Watching
Closer
By Natalie Portman, Jude Law, Julia Roberts, Clive Owen
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Ten pounds heavier, I return from...

A VERY MYSTIC CHRISTMAS 2004

Mystic is one of those too-cute-for-their-own-good New England towns (Is Connecticut apart of New England? I don't think so. But who's counting...). Lots of farmer's porches, white picket fences, old white churches, seafood huts on every harbor...pretty much exactly like Cape Cod except it has a cool pizza place which inspired the movie Mystic Pizza. Oh, and a few less drug addicts. But that's beside the point.

Christmas was Christmas as usual...I tried to down as much red wine as I could before the Christmas Eve service at 6 o'clock. Church is an amazing place when you're wasted. Granted, I don't really attend church anymore, and I'm not particularly religious, but I look forward to my annual date with Mystic Congregational Church. Church helps me to reflect on things that are important to me, like
1) Good sex I've had in the past year
2) I don't know why I started a list; that pretty much sums it up.
I was pretty horrified this year when, promptly at 6:34, the service ended. That makes for a 30-minute Christmas Eve service, the shortest amount of time I had ever spent in a Church. No sermon, no candlelight vigil, and no hot sex in the shower....I mean, shut up. Go away.
Was I too busy living a life of sin when God decided that church services should be cut in half? What exactly IS the point in going if there is no sermon, nothing to learn about? Is America so strapped for time that we can't sit down for a goddamn hour and think about hot sex and hard drugs while a man in a robe talks about love, purity, and forgiveness? I may go to church for all the wrong reasons, but I'm sure that at least 2-5 people in that congregation go to church for the right ones. And we've done them wrong. I'm sincerely ashamed. 30 minutes is not sufficient time to reflect on the birth of Jesus, his infinite peace, or making sweet, sweet babymakin' love.
I left the Church spiritually unsatisfied. I pretended that I was having a good time, but I just wanted to make Church feel better about itself. Don't tell Church I told you this, but I faked it, cause I had a little too much wine. Church just really needs to get over itself and listen to my needs. I left once before, started hanging out with Temple on the weekends, until I found myself with a different denomination of Zoroastrianism every night. It's not a good life to live. But I just can't 'do' Church anymore. It's over. Sorry.

Public - 3:31 PM - 8 eprops - 5 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 15

2005-12-04T14:11:00.000-08:00

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Currently Playing
Trailer Park
By Beth Orton
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I'm gonna quote Sean's last entry right now. Only because I just realized that I don't know everything, and that's really annoying.

"Most college kids exist under the assumption that they know vastly more than they actually do, but it makes sense, due to a life of constant exposure to new facts. But reading "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" doesn't make you an existential expert, writing a few lines of crappy poetry in a coffeehouse doesn't make you subversive, having a hippy professor doesn't make you countercultural, watching an hour of CNN a week doesn't mean you're informed (long-dormant confessions, commiserate with me). Fact consumption without digestion often marks the college mind...But just as that line applies to both as far as they like to parade and display more than is really understood, it doesn't imply stupidity, just a bit of philosophical showing-off... (I loved those days, all you needed to do was SOUND like you knew what you were talking about, bong smoke and cheap beer filled in the blanks...)"

Not particularly profound, but still very true. I've been humbled far too much lately.

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Tuesday, December 14, 2004

It is noon on a Sunday. Aunt Jane has a white russian. Uncle Arthur is drinking a Budweiser. Cousin Dave is dressed like Santa Claus. It must be....

THE RIDDLE FAMILY CHRISTMAS PARTY 2004

Ah, my mother's side of the family. Nothing tickles me more than seeing my 800 cousins once a year, packed into the banquet hall of the Elks club. This year is a milestone, for this is the first year that nobody in the family has died. Hooray! Let's start a not-dying streak, guys!

Oh wait, nevermind. I forgot about Uncle Jimmy.

*awkward silence*

Public - 6:45 PM - 2 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Currently Playing
Phrenology
By Roots, The Roots
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- The Seed 2.0

I'm in the middle of fleshing out a scene on the other computer, but I must interrupt so that I can tell you about my NEW ENGLAND DRIVING EXTRAVAGANZA: WINTER '04.

Like last winter, there was a deadly storm in which I almost died. There were teachers who forgot my name, teachers who worshipped me, friends who smoked me up, friends who said they'd call me but never did, and, as usual, grandmas who unapologetically criticized my appearance.

It was raining pretty hard when I left the Cape, and by the time I hit Boston it began to freeze. My first stop, however, was Manchester West...and there were still 45 miles to go. I made it there alive, just so I could tell the same story to about five of my old English teachers. I just mauled the English department, telling them about my "internship", my "screenplay," my "first big novel," You know, nothing that has actually come to fruition yet, but it will really soon, and if I tell enough people that then it HAS to happen...

So 3 pm came, and it was time to go across the Merrimack to sit in on MYT rehearsal. The new cast cracks my shit up. They did this scene called "Box" (they had me at the title) about how decieving television marketing can be to teenagers. All I know is the scene ends with the "director" telling two girls to start getting all over each other, being all sexy and trying to sell this product Box, and the last line of the scene is when the girls are practically mounting each other, and one of them stops and asks, "What does this have to do with Box?" Mind you, these scenes are directed towards 12 to 14-year old kids. This only makes the innuendo that much more satisfying. So I love the new MYT kids.

By 6 pm the roads were treacherous, so I thought it was the perfect time to head out to bumfuck and crash at Alex's apartment at UNH. And thank God I survived, or else I would have never made it to lunch with Grandma today. Our dialogue went something like this:

Me: (driving) So...are you looking forward to having all those people over for Christmas?

Nana: 20 people! You know, it's not easy feeding all those peop-- (looks at my side profile) Jesus, Teresa, you're all broken out! Stop touching your face or you'll leave scars all over it!

Me: I know, Nana.

Nana: Nancy, how are you going to meet a nice guy if you've got ugly spots all over your face? You know better than to touch your face.

Me: (as 4 years of complex dermatological assessments to fix my acne flash through my mind) I know, Nana.

Well, at least I got 60 bucks and some free weed out of this trip, even if I had to sacrifice my self-esteem and a little bit of my dignity. It is harder than you think to answer to the names of your estranged sister and cousin and still go along with your business. It really affects the way you perceive the importance of your existence. But I'm not bothered or anything...

It was bright and sunny as I dropped Nana off in North Andover. She reminded me that she is gonna die soon. I said ok, shut my car door, and started blasting "What A Feeling" as I peeled out of the driveway. You would think that I left feeling angry, but that last comment out of her gave me a ray of hope...a hope that I can go to New Hampshire without going to a Chinese feeding troph, answering to the names Nancy and Teresa, and kindly accepting my grandmother's social ineptitude, since she's just gonna die soon anyway.

Public - 10:51 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Currently Playing
The Boatman's Call
By Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
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- People just ain't no good -

Training people at the Gap makes me realize why I shouldn't become a teacher.

For some god awful reason, I am running training sessions this week for the new holiday people. Um, last I checked I think that managers are supposed to do that. But I guess things have gone willy-nilly without Rosa taking the pleasure of training and re-training people. This is so cool, because I am so unenthusiastic about working, and now I can pass it onto young immigrants and middle-aged women.

I want to teach them how to sit on the box of boxes and take a nap when nobody is in the store. I want to show them how to make people pay more for items than they have to. I want to show them how to stare at the wall for hours in the fitting rooms while still looking busy to the managers.

Um, this is why managers are supposed to do the training. I love the managers now, but honestly some of them should be shot, according to the corporate and regional offices. I will be an integral part in their downfall.

So why don't I just fake it and play by the rules for their sake? Eh, I want to win the friendship of my peers. And my peers' mothers. And I always admired Susan Messing's teaching style, e.g. calling people whores as a term of endearment, swearing like a truckdriver, just because it will make me look "edgy."

So they give you a script to read, basically. I'm supposed to say something like "Gap was founded in 1969 and was originally names 6 feet of Dungarees. It was named the Gap in 1974 as a result of the gap between the hippie generation and the conservatives during the Vietnam era."

I'll turn it into something more like "Shit, I'm fuckin' hungry. Who wants to order take out from Fridays? The JD burger is so fucking good when you're high. The Gap was named in 1974 to represent the gap between the hippie generation and the conservatives during the Vietnam era. Everyone here is a stupid cunt."

I think that will make them like me. Especially the part about why the Gap was named the Gap in 1974. Dear lord, I can't believe I'm getting paid OT to do this. I love my life. I want them to promote me to assistant manager just so I can eventually run the worst store in history. Fuck my career goals, my college education, my anti-establishment bohemian ideals...I want to be a manager at the Gap. Then I want to be hated by my peers, get pregnant, and storm out one day in a fiery pregnant rage. See posts from summer break.

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Friday, December 03, 2004

Smite me, God, for I have betrayed two young Asian men for much too long.

Whenever I walk around the food court to get my chicken stir-fry pita from D'Angelos, I have to walk by the Japanese fast food place, and the Cajun food place that is really Asian food with Cajun names. The guys with the free samples are always out there, ready to hand out their respective kung pao chicken and bourbon chicken samples to me. But just when they think I might consider choosing their specific brand of chicken, I fake left, fake right, and dodge into the line at D'Angelos.

Why do I take from them when I know I will not eat their MSG-food? Do I really need those two extra pieces of chicken on my way to getting dinner? Are they just like, "Oh, it's that bitch again. I'll give her the piece that looks like a chicken beak," or "Aoio egueh! Hfouhfshfwa!" *spits*

I dunno. It just makes me feel so dirty on the inside. Way more than that time I quit Fridays because of a dying relative that didn't exist. Oh well, their chicken dishes are exactly the same, anyhow. Their profits should be compromised for putting a fake Asian-masked-as-Cajun restaurant next to an Asian one, anyway.

What the fuck. I really need to not go to the mall ever again. My grammar and ranting is getting worse by the minute.

Public - 11:57 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Currently Watching
Napoleon Dynamite
By Jon Heder, Jon Gries, Efren Ramirez
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TWO UNRELATED THINGS THAT BOTHERED ME TODAY:

I was folding underwear with a woman named Sam...one of those women who looks 35 but has the attitude of an 18-year-old. The kind of 18-year-old that runs away with a mysterious latino gang and gets pregnant, never to be seen again.

She is describing the faux-fur coat she is going to buy at Wet Seal when she gets off of work (yes, she works at Gap and shops at Wet Seal) then looks sharply to the left and stops talking. She throws down the underwear and whispers to me, "Oh my god, that's my boyfriend's wife. I'll be right back. I gotta go see what I'm up against."

As each of those three sentences spills out of her chapped lips, I let out 1) an curious and attentive "oh?" 2) a realizing-the-situation-at-hand "ohhhhh" and 3) a disappointed-in-the-state-of-mankind "oh my god." Sam scampers off, hiding behind some bras, and I am left standing 5 feet away from this poor woman, who is checking herself out in the full-length mirror on the far wall of the store. Part of me wanted to run over to her and yell, "YOUR HUSBAND IS A BASTARD!! GET OUT NOW WHILE YOU STILL HAVE THE KEYS TO THE AUDI!" But instead, I just stared. I stared for a good 5 minutes, just feeling incredibly depressed that this situation is happening everywhere, all the time. This woman is going about her business, doing everything as usual, as the woman who is fucking her husband is hiding behind a stack of padded bras, sizing her up.

I went on break a while later and picked up Newsweek, whose cover story featured "Desperate Housewives." Now I know why that show is so damn popular.

Public - 11:42 PM - 4 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Currently Playing
Queen - Greatest Hits
By Queen
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- Bohemian Rhapsody - -

So I ran into the state of Massachusetts yesterday and said "what’s up" AND THEN IT ATE ME. Since then I’ve been slowly chewed and digested and traveling through the small intestine that is Cape Cod.

After pulling an all-nighter after the Celine Dion Dance Party, I began my travels promptly at 5:30am, going from Logan airport to the Dana Farber Cancer Institute, then to Northeastern, then to the Prudential Building, doubled back to the Farber for a little more cancer, then finished off with a 2 ½ hour traffic jam en route to the Cape.

I would explain the reasons and purposes behind these stops in Boston, but it makes my day sound a lot more interesting and mysterious if I don’t. And hell if I’m not relieved that the lump in my ass is benign.

So I’ve noticed that things have changed at the Gap since I’ve moved up in the ranks. All of a sudden I find myself doing things like caring….walking fast…standing too close to people when I talk to them…talking very loudly…discussing the nuances of denim…and then it hit me like a brick: I am the incarnation of ex-manager/brain aneurism two-time survivor Rosa Ryan. The only thing separating me from her is a bad haircut and mild retardation. This stopped me dead in my tracks as I was training the newest Eastern European immigrant girl how to say "Thank you for calling Gap Gap Body my name is Karina Trabvalehejhikova I can help you" on the phone. I was way too into it. I was two steps away from scaring small children. And it needed to stop immediately.

After work, I reserved an eighth of overpriced Cape Cod weed to ensure that I will never be successful in retail over the course of this month. When I get high, even my most passionate determination and drive withers away. The last two times I got high I took a shit and gave up halfway through. Just quit and said "fuck it;" figured I’d pick up where I left off the next morning.

I’m just waiting for someone to provoke me there, so I can obnoxiously say "I’m a writer" as I fold a turtleneck into a perfect square and stare at them. "Retail can suck my dick." "Retail is for retards." "Retail is for people who think they are pretty but will never be models." "Retail pays the same as janitorial work but my grandkids won’t be as proud when they tell people how they got through college." "Retail killed my first-born son." "Retail eats the placenta of its mate after birth." "Your Momma…Retail."

Go ahead, Retail. I'm fucking Tennessee Williams circa 1950-something right now and you can't do anything about it. Go ahead and suck it.

Public - 12:06 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Major History part 14

2005-12-04T14:10:00.000-08:00

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Currently Playing
Real Gone
By Tom Waits
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It's been awhile since I've posted, so I'm gonna tell you about the art installation project that I made up this morning for my Art History lab.

The installation will be done in Dorchester. An exaggerated set design of Heaven will be set up in the middle of the road, with big pearly gates, cottony clouds, and random angels everywhere. Then a bunch of people will just be beating up whores for no reason, while men wearing suits will be frying army men in frying pans with a static expression on their faces.

My second idea was to install a full-fledged carnival inside a cemetery.

See, if you juxtapose enough random stuff, meaning will just spew out of it with little to no effort. My prof was like "ooh that's so Dada" and I'm like "yeah I totally planned it that way," you know, since I know so much about Dadaism and all. Sorry, I slept through the avant-garde period. But I can stick giant plastic genitals in an old schoolhouse in Tunisia and call it art.

If I had a couple of years to kill, I would become an art major and just play this mix n' match game and see how far it would take me. Glueing sticks to living animals, mounting picture frames on the floor, videotaping someone punching a candle and repeating "she will not spew," etc. etc. I could go on for hours.

Somehow these installation artists can afford to live in Manhattan, so there's gotta be something to it.

Public - 1:54 PM - 2 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Currently Playing
The Very Best of Meatloaf
By Meat Loaf
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How dare I oversimplify every person I meet, then expect them to believe that I'm complex.

Ergo...

Dumb Guy From Purdue, Retarded Improv Girl, Mediocre Girl, Sketchy Mc Sketch III, Fat Catholic Boy, The Cat (there's more to her than her 18-inch frame; she drives too), Drug Dealer from Maine, Yale Man, Obese Prententious English Professor, and my Crazy Christian Aunt, I APOLOGIZE for being able to describe you in 4 words or less. What can I say, I just hate people. Such a misanthrope.

See, this may sound funny, but it's actually kinda sad. It's one of many reasons why I'm single right now. High expectations will keep me single for a long time. I guess that's why Dale called me Jessica Stein. I'm a nervous Jew who is obsessed with words and has obscenely high expectations in the dating department. Ok, so I'm not Jewish. But I do see his point. It's just so cliche to be that Ally McBeal-esque character. I'm complex, remember? I'm way more than a quirky urban professional; I'm *deep*. But I'm bored and feeling kinda sober/drunk, so I'm going to compare TV and film characters for no reason.

Carrie Bradshaw: Quirky urban professional. 30-something. Writes about her pathetic love life and makes a shit ton of money doing it. Constantly distressed.

Ally McBeal: Quirky urban professional. 30-something. Talks about her pathetic love life in humorous asides and makes a shit ton of money. Constantly distressed.

Jessica Stein. Quirky urban professional. Dangerously close to 30. Talks about her pathetic love life to ugly pregnant friend while continuing to make a shit ton of money. Constantly distressed.

Sarah Pappalardo: Not-quirky urban student. A solid decade away from 30. Talks about her pathetic love life via her blog, making no money while doing so. Pretends to have a shit ton of money. Constantly drunk.

Phew, that was therapeutic. Sidenote: You wanna see a real live verson of Ally McBeal? Look in my xanga subscriptions and read "Mufie." It makes me want to vomit.

Public - 12:36 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Saturday, October 09, 2004

I was at the gym tonight, just sort of staring at my angry workout self in the reflecting mirror 12 inches away from my face, and this 40-ish woman comes up next to me. She was wearing sweatpants that were about ten sizes too big for her, probably her husbands, and a classic Jennifer Beals Flashdance gray sweatshirt. She had a completely intimidated look on her face, as if she had walked into a men's bathroom by accident.

Inner thoughts: Ah ha. A gym novice. A good reason to think I am better than her.

So everyone knows that when you're at the gym you have to pretend like you're busy at all times, or else you just look weird or lazy. But she just stood behind the elliptical machine next to me for about five minutes, just staring at it. Once she finally got on, she just arbitrarily pushed buttons and started going on the lowest level, switching between the backward and forward motion every 30 seconds.

This bitch was stressing me out.

Three minutes later, she took a break to towel herself off. Four minutes after that, she was done. I still had 37 minutes to go. 37 minutes to think about all the idiot women I know that complain about their weight problems to Dr. Phil and do the same thing.

Woman: I walk my dog every day, and I dance for hours while my husband is at work! But I just can't lose weight (cuts to her dancing in her living room while her obese child watches)

Dr Phil: Do you ever break a sweat when you walk?

Woman: Sometimes, when it's hot out. But seriously Dr. Phil, its like losing weight is impossible!

Public - 10:38 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Monday, September 27, 2004

Currently Watching
Pulp Fiction
By John Travolta, Samuel L. Jackson, Bruce Willis
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I've realized how easy and unsatisfying my life has been since I have come back to Chicago. My classes aren't particularly satisfying (though they are easy), improv is about 90% social and 10% actual improv, I haven't read a real book since August, and I've written about one sentence of non-blog personal writing since September. I've been preoccupied with making my life look pretty-- decorating the apartment, making new friends, making my life appear as though it is ridiculously interesting, hoping people don't realize how shallow i've gotten in the past 4 months, etc. etc. So I'm putting my yearly plan down on paper, something I haven't done since my productive days of high school, and I'm going to follow it. Read with me, but don't worry about commenting, because you aren't supposed to care.

1) Read 1 non-school book a week, dammit.

2) Join the fucking newspaper, radio station, ANYTHING to get in grad school so I won't be a goddamn loser

3) Get in a goddamn show in January

4) Fucking get a job in Chicago in January

5) Start one of the 18,000 novel concepts I have on the goddamn back burner.

6) Finish IO by next fall, and get on a team, you shithead.

7) Take voice lessons, strictly for Karaoke purposes.

8) Fuck my social life.

Private - 11:41 PM - 2 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Saturday, September 25, 2004

Currently Watching
Kill Bill, Volume 2
By Uma Thurman, David Carradine, Michael Madsen, Daryl Hannah
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Earlier this week, Rich asked me to help him find a subject for an informative speech in Speech class. The first thing that popped in my head was a nifty little condition I heard about from David Sedaris.

Apotemnophilia (from Greek "to cut off") or amputation fetish- the overwhelming desire to amputate a healthy limb.

There is a slew of websites made by and devoted to apotemnophiliacs (try and say it five times fast) who just don't feel whole unless somebody chops a chunk of them off. Apotemnophiliacs are a sub-category of a huge group of unfortunate deformed people and people who believe that they are fortunate. They are called "amputees and wannabes." People have shot off their own limbs and paid black market doctors wads of cash to do it surgically. Some people will only have sex with amputees and deformed people, and if there is a collection of people who want to have sex with something, they WILL make internet porn, bless their souls.

As Rich was trying his hardest to work on his speech, he couldn't help but to poke through all the fun sites that came up under his Google search. By far, the best (and my personal favorite) is "Cripple XXX- The Erotic and Sensual side of Being Disabled," for deformed people who always wanted their chance to be porn stars, and the people who adore them. Ranging from men with spina biffeta to a woman with no torso, these people really get to show off their goods. There are also Cripple-themed erotica stories. The ones that weren't so horribly written just had absurd details, not the kind of detail you'd expect to find in erotica (even cripple-rotica).

"Stretching, she pulled her T-shirt over her head, leaving her nude. She reaches over to make sure the brakes of her wheelchair are locked before she slides her self into the seat. She learned early on to always check the brakes. The first time the chair rolled out from under her gave her quite a scare. Of course, after she realized that the only thing hurt was her pride, she found the whole incident rather amusing."

BOW CHICKA WOW WOW....Notice the inconsistencies in past/present tense usage. If Cripple XXX needs an editor, I'd be glad to donate some of my time, because I totally lost my pseudo-boner like ten minutes ago. But, my love for the grotesque has been satisfied. Mind you, it's not the fact that they are disabled that makes them grotesque, it is the people that are taking advantage of their disability and putting them in absurd provocative poses next to their wheelchairs and walkers. I might write something about it. Anyhoo, this is all that Rich and I do when we are left with nothing but the internet and blind curiosity.

Public - 12:00 PM - 8 eprops - 5 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 13

2005-12-04T14:05:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Currently Watching
Mean Girls (Widescreen Edition)
By Lindsay Lohan, Rachel McAdams, Jonathan Bennett
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As much as I really want to write about the attempted murder of the Webster Office Cat, I will instead dote on Mean Girls, which reminded me of all the weird shit my friends and I pulled in high school. But I can't take total credit for this one:

Freshman year, Carolyn and I thought it would be an interesting project to invent a hot girl, just to see if she could become popular without actually existing in physical form. She had a screen name, a generic blond-girl picture to go along with it, and real live "friends" who spread delightful rumors about her to the guys. I think her name was Jennie or something.

After about a week of talking her into existence, I remembered hearing the freshman football team saying, "Have you heard about that Jennie girl? She's wicked hot. I heard that some dude on the Central football team banged her." The popular girls said that she was "such a bitch," and "guys only liked her because she was pretty." Matt Banks asked her out, after some romantic notes exchanged through some trusted intermediaries. Carlene said that she was in one of her classes, and they were really good friends.

Once Jennie became the most popular girl who never existed, we just eased her out of existence and everyone completely forgot about her, never questioning whether she was a real person or not. Not like that matters in the end, anyway.

Public - 3:58 PM - 6 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Sunday, September 19, 2004

It is 11:51 am on a Sunday morning, I'm fairly drunk, skipping improv, and wearing no bra right now.

Hot, isn't it? Well, I had the gayest party ever last night. My straight friends who stayed are way more secure in their sexuality than they ever thought they were. I had fags doing body shots off of me, making out with me, getting my number....it was almost like a straight party except no one wanted to have sex with me. But they did like to mount me. Often.

The reason I am writing this, however, is for a big "Fuck You" to grandma, because at least three people said:

"Have you lost weight?"

I guess the fat was all in your head, Grandma, because the answer is no. I've stayed within a 6 pound weight range for about 5 years. Both fags and grandmas have it all wrong; the Gap taught me that appearances are everything. It is possible to "look" fat, ugly, disabled, molested, even fucked. I could even point out to you the people that look fucked.

Oh, my post had a point? Yeah, the party was really homosexual. I don't even think the keg was killed because they were drinking cosmos or something. I think I totally picked up like 5 homos though. I'm totally gonna get some pseudo-sex.

Oh god my life is pathetic.

Public - 1:01 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Currently Playing
The Diary of Alicia Keys
By Alicia Keys
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- Diary - -

My first long day of classes is over. To my dismay, I realized that I had two back-to-back classes at opposite ends of campus. Worrying that I'd make a bad first impression, I walked swiftly, while still trying to look cool, and managed to make it to the door of Byrne Hall about a minute before class began. Not quite there yet, I still had to get to the fifth floor the fastest way possible, which is the stairway. Climbing five flights of stairs did a number on me, but somehow I made it there before the professor, so I caught my breath and relaxed.

About five minutes pass, and in walks the professor. He looked about 300 pounds, with the body type of a munchkin, but taller. His face was beet red and he was breathing hard, and I laughed to myself thinking of how he ever made it up those five flights of stairs. He sits down, wipes the sweat from his face with his hands, then runs them through his hair, sitting in silence for a good two minutes catching his breath.

We sit, we stare, we feel the awkward vibes-a-brewin'.

He then welcomes us in a pretentious-sounding faux British accent as a girl walks in about ten minutes late, saying "Gee, it sure was a trip going up those stairs," with one of those awkward 'I'm late!' giggles.

He replies, "I wouldn't know. I took the elevator."

I start laughing out loud, thinking he is really witty. Everyone looks at me like I just killed a kitten, and I'm wondering why I'm the only one that gets the joke.

After class I see him walk a different way down the hall. Lo and behold, Byrne Hall has an elevator, used frequently by said overweight professor. And I laughed at him. I laughed at a very fat man for doing a very normal, fat-people thing. So now everyone thinks I'm a fat people laugher-atter, but last time I checked, even large, out of shape men don't break a sweat taking the elevator.

This one really blows my mind.

Public - 8:36 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Friday, September 03, 2004

400 miles later...

I come home a very cranky, road-weary citizen. As for UNH, it was an enjoyable trip. During the day I wandered around "town," but found that the coolest part of UNH is walking through the woods to get to class. Absolutely beautiful. I caught a field hockey game, but UNH got they asses whooped by Michigan. All the girls I played with in high school did a great job on the bench.

Later on, we drove to Portsmouth. Portsmouth is, as Alex calls it, "a place for rich old hippies." The town is uber-cute, but boasts one too many frumpy clothing stores where nothing is under 100 dollars. There was a man playing a dulcimer, which struck me as odd. Not because he was playing one, but because I actually knew what a dulcimer was.

We came across some more rich hippies who had put together a band that intentionally played patriotic songs badly as fat, scantily-clad baton twirlers entertained the stoned adolescent crowd. It was meant to be a mockery of conservative patriotism I think, but reminded me of why I can't stand the way-lefties any more than I can the Moral Majority.

I met up with some other people from high school later that night and got another reminder of why I went far, far away from New Hampshire. After some lip-reading and concerned glances across their living room, Alex and I ditched and went back to her place. It was there that I met Ben, the ex-con mentioned previously in my blog. Ben is a clean-cut, polo-wearing, fairly typical UNH student, who happened to buy an Audi A4 with drug money. It was nice to put a face to the badass. Good kid.

That just about sums it up. Tomorrow I'll be back in Chicago, a land far away from people that know what I was like in high school. For all you people that know me from high school, I'm ah....sorry. I really feel bad for you.

Sarah, former NH resident, future NH owner

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Thursday, September 02, 2004

Greetings from Bumfuck, New Hampshire.

Yesterday I took off on my end-of-summer, New England driving extravaganza. As usual, my first stop was in North Andover for the obligatory Grandma visit. Knowing what I was in for, I put my emotional guard up before I even got there. You have to do that when you pay visits to people like my grandma, because the first thing she said to me when I walked through the door was:

"You've put on some weight."

Of all the people who I have to hear this from, it has to be from an 88-year-old who would surely die if I punched her in the face. So, I gritted my teeth and explained that I work at a chain restaurant. But, beneath that tongue I was biting and the teeth I were grinding, I really said:

"YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT WEIGHT, OLD WOMAN? YOU'VE GOT CHINS COMING DOWN TO YOUR ASS AND CHANKLES THE SIZE OF TEXAS AND YOU WANNA CALL ME OUT ON GAINING 5 POUNDS?? NO MORE GRANDDAUGHTER FOR YOU, YOU FAT, WORTHLESS, FATTY FAT FAT!!" *takes money and runs away*

One half an hour later, she is pressuring me to "get my money's worth" at the Chinese restaurant buffet by eating those cheap ass pastries that they call "dessert." I stuck with the fruit.

I let out a whoop of joy when I finally left her house, and headed off to NH.
After a quick trip through Manch to pick up beer, I lose all service on my cell phone and get lost in a number of places along the eastern half of NH. UNH is....remote, to say the least. I went down at least 10 country roads that I wasn't supposed to go down and saw a trailer park, a nudist colony, and 6 kids sitting in the back of a beat-up Ford pickup, hauling ass. It's like Michigan, minus the mullets. After a bit of picture taking and frustration, I found Alex's apartment and promptly began drinking.

And I want to tell you all why I love Alex: This summer, her fairly conservative, traditional family told her that they weren't going to pay for college unless she lived at home and went to school nearby. You know what she did? She packed her bags and hasn't been home since. She's paying her own bills and working her ass off until SHE can afford to pay for her OWN education. Now if that isn't friggin' independence, I don't know what is. Packing up and leaving at 18 takes BALLS. Big ones. Once again, Alex puts me to shame. Kudos, you independent, responsible piece of shit.

Stay tuned for the second half of Sarah's Motherfucking Trip across New England.

Public - 9:47 AM - 6 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Friday, August 27, 2004

This is the last of the great Gap manager stories.

Yesterday Rosa stormed out in a fiery pregnant rage. That morning I noticed that she had broken out all over her face and I thought, "Gee, she must be really hormonal today. I think I'll keep my distance."

As I'm playing with lip gloss over in Body, I see her stomping over to my side, raging all the way, saying that she's going to tell our General Manager about something terribly horrible that someone did...nobody exactly got the details on why she went batshit, but the point is, she went batshit. BAT. SHIT.

So she's freaking out and crying in the office and our assistant manager, Alessandra, tells her that she needs to go home. Rosa immediately switches back into batshit mode and bites Alessandra's head off, drops her keys and leaves. For good. No more crazy Rosa. I think she was so crazy that being pregnant just cracked the glass on the crazyometer. So crazy it was written all over her face in the form of acne.

Picture: Face with acne where, if the dots were connected, would say "I AM BATSHIT CRAZY"

I think I'm the only person out of the entire staff that will actually miss her a little bit. Her social ineptitude and freakish retail whoring really kept me amused on the slow days. Even my manager at Friday's hated her guts (Gap and Friday's shares the same back hallway). But me and Rosa...we were allies....just the right mix of retarded and insane in a mildly-retarded, somewhat sane business. Rosa Ryan, I salute you, you and your butchy haircut and purple blouses. Although I can't relate to you in any way, I can laugh at you...and all the wonderful memories you've inflicted upon me.

p.s. My general manager called her a "Sorceress." Ha! That is the funniest way to avoid insulting someone that I ever heard...mostly because it's funny to hear that word without "evil" preceding it, like "Witch from the West." The implied "evil" just makes me wanna say that a lot more. "You are being SUCH a fucking sorceress today..."

Public - 11:46 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Friday, August 20, 2004

Currently Playing
Sharpen Your Teeth
By Ugly Casanova
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- - - - - - - - - - - - -

For all of you who were wondering how my notice-giving went at Friday's...

I stuck with the dying family member idea. Although this really does confirm my membership in the Shithead Club, I had my reasons for following through with it. And I present them to you in list form:

1) I am a pathological liar. I love making up elaborate lies for no good reason. I like to consider it my out-of-class acting practice. In fact, Mick should've put lying as one of his do-it-yourself exercises in the back of his book.

2) It is way better having managers that pity you than having managers that hate you.

3) My managers offered me special hours, transfers, leaves of absence, odd sexual favors...just so I could stay on board at Friday's. I'm literate, under 300 pounds, and can speak English fluently. That makes me their #1 asset. But, I'd rather burn out than fade away, like Kurt Cobain.

4) Did I mention I'm a pathological liar?

Yeah. So if anybody needs a place to stay, there is a vacancy in the place where my soul used to be. There's free cable, but the translucent, ethereal Sarah took the TV when it left.

A woman I used to work with at Brax told me that Friday's is "where waitresses go to die." On that note, I will leave gracefully from this corporate cave that reeks with the stench of cigarette smoke, rotting waitresses, and overcooked fajitas. Bless you all, you poor sons of bitches.

Public - 7:32 PM - 2 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 12

2005-12-04T14:04:00.001-08:00

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Kids are the most self-absorbed creatures on the Earth. I think its because they have so little life experience that they think other people exist in order to please them. Their reaction -- when their little kid needs aren't satisfied -- is complete horror. Like someone shot their own mother right in front of them. Except its usually because they can't get ice cream or because their head is itchy.

I was reminded of this one kid during tax-free shopping day at the mall today, after several had put on their show in front of me while I was obligated to give an empathetic smile and say, "aren't they cute." A British boy, about three years old, was sitting behind me on a plane to Florida. He had the voice of a six-month-old baby, but he spoke like a 3-year-old with a British accent. His voice gave me chills and he cried from the time we took off to the time we landed.

Now the last time I cried for two hours straight was never. I'd imagine it would take witnessing a catastrophic event for that to happen, so it gets me thinking...

Maybe life itself is a catastrophic event for children. They cry non-stop for the first few years of their life because existence itself is pretty shocking and tragic for them. Sure, being hungry is a fucking tragedy when thats the worst you've ever had to endure. So after being hungry a few thousand times, you just get over it. You get over bumping your knee, you get over not having dessert. Basically, we numb ourselves to life's childish little tragedies.

But I still think that kids are fucking brats. Keep your kids quiet. I hate being talked down to by 3-year-old British babies.

Public - 4:14 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

A bumper sticker on a Ford pickup today:

"Chatham, Mass. -- A quaint drinking town with a fishing problem"

A quote from my manager's pep talk today:

"We are way beyond our competitors. The Outback is still on their Bloomin' Onions, but we've got fucking tacos."

A stop sign read:

"Stop Bush"

Public - 12:33 AM - 4 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Monday, August 09, 2004

They say that nothing is waterproof

But your lovin', baby, keeps me dry all the time

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Saturday, August 07, 2004

Currently Watching
American Psycho (Unrated Version)
By Christian Bale
see related

First off, good movie. Any sort of brutal killing to the music of Huey Lewis and the News gets kudos from me.

Somewhere in this movie, there was mention of Sarah Lawrence College. And I had a flashback -- of when my English teacher specifically pointed me out Senior year, took me aside, and said I should go there. The first thing that came to my mind as she said that was, "I have failed as a conformist."

As much as I thought I had succeeded in blending in during my high school days, I guess I didn't do that great of a job. I believe this because Mrs. O'Brien only suggested Sarah Lawrence to me and a girl who wore the same jeans for a week, as some sort of political protest against grooming.

So at the time I was a bit offended -- second only to the time that my coach told my whole team that I was going to be "the next Rosie O'Donnell," which was meant to be some sort of compliment. What, I couldn't be a better looking, funnier, more talented, less annoying former celebrity? Jesus Christ!

So there is my high school flashback of the day. I still don't see any angst-ridden feminist inside me, but I'll check again just to make sure....Nope, just plain angst-ridden. I'm gonna go smoke a pack of cigarettes now and condemn the Man over local microbrew organic beer and read up on Eastern religions.

Public - 9:42 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Currently Reading
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim
By David Sedaris
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I was flipping through my old papers and folders from grade school last night and came across a short story I wrote when I was in the 6th grade. I remember writing this story in particular, because I got reamed out by my English teacher for writing "filthy smut."

So, I was 11 and humorously alluded to anal rape in prison. What's the big deal? Anyway, the story started like this:

"Bob sipped on his glass of milk as he rolled onto the floor, just in time to watch 'Power Rangers.' Bob is 42 and divorced and lives with his dog, Buck, and his stuffed mouse named Louie."

The stuffed mouse loses an eye somewhere towards the bottom of page 1, and is then referred to as "Bob's one-eyed mouse" for the rest of the story. I almost peed myself reading this, knowing full well that I had no idea what a one-eyed mouse might mean to a grammar school teacher at age 11. What makes it even worse... I repeated the phrase "and Louie just sat there" throughout the story as an innocent attempt at humor, not realizing that deep down, beyond anything my pre-adolescent mind was able to comprehend, I was talking about a penis.

At the end of the story, Bob's one-eyed mouse gets eaten by his dog.

So, I wrote some smut when I was 11. That's because deep down, way on the inside, I was a mildlly retarded, 17-year old boy. That's the only way it could make any sense. There's just no other way.

Public - 1:54 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Major History part 11

2005-12-04T14:04:00.000-08:00

Saturday, July 31, 2004

I want you to read this random conversation between myself and a guy who was on my friend's screen name. Notice the change in my style and tone as I realize who I am talking to.

PaPPa85: you are such a drunken pot-smoking, love-loving hippie sometimes, ya know that? we gotta have a beer and talk about our quirky relationship issues...
mexychic69: this is some dude
PaPPa85: oh
PaPPa85: hi some dude
mexychic69: but i am a drunknen pot smoking hippie and i take no offence in what u just said
PaPPa85: cool

(I realize he is drunk. I befriend him, thinking he is a hippie from Maine.)

mexychic69: im fresh out the joint
PaPPa85: and your spelling is impeccable

(This is where I realize that sarcastic remarks are uncalled for.)

mexychic69: but im tougher now
PaPPa85: yeah jail does that to a person
mexychic69: jail is pussy shit
mexychic69: dont even think that

(Oops! That sarcasm just slipped out. But he is oblivious, anyway.)

PaPPa85: which jail were you in? the one on the east side?

(See? I know a jail! It's in Manchester NH! That makes me street smart...)

mexychic69: yea alfred, its in maine
PaPPa85: oh thats gotta be a pussy jail
mexychic69: nah its just a lotta base heads
mexychic69: and cheese eaters
PaPPa85: god i fuckin' hate cheese eaters

(Why the fuck are there jails in Maine? What is a cheese eater?)

PaPPa85: so what were you in for?
mexychic69: trafiicking
PaPPa85: ah you coulda done some serious time for that shit
mexychic69: nah man it was bullshit
mexychic69: i got probation for it
mexychic69: then i violated cuz im fucking dumb
PaPPa85: eh everyone violates their fucking probation

(I don't know a single person that has even known a person that was on probation. Also, observe my gratuitous swearing and use of the word 'shit')

mexychic69: yea no shit
mexychic69: jail aint shit though so dont ever get shock if cops are trying to say shit like jail sucs and u should rat
mexychic69: never rat
mexychic69: ever

(This is an important lesson from a drunken drug dealer from Maine.)

PaPPa85: did someone rat you out?
mexychic69: nah i got pulled in my new quattro turb whip cuz my liscence plate was duct taped on
mexychic69: hot shit whip got taken
PaPPa85: duct tape...thats ghetto dude
PaPPa85: so you bought that car yourself?
mexychic69: aint no thang
mexychic69: drug money

(Ok, drug dealers from Maine know street talk better than me. The only hot shit whips I know are located in novelty stores on Belmont and Halsted.)

PaPPa85: yea
mexychic69: but i gotta bounce
mexychic69: stay up and keep ur lips sealed
PaPPa85: aight
PaPPa85: later
mexychic69: peace

(Thats right, I said 'aight.' And no, I will never rat.)

Public - 12:19 AM - 10 eprops - 6 comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, July 29, 2004

I had a strange series of dreams last night, all having to do with quitting things or going postal.

First I was on a Physics field trip (I dropped out of Physics halfway through senior year, long story--I still feel like a quitter on that one) where my teacher urged us to get drunk on the bus ride there. I was telling an anonymous wanderer through my subconscious how I had quit drinking and "been clean" for two months, so I wouldn't be boozing on the field trip.

Next thing I know I'm at a lacrosse fundraiser (I played in high school, and one day I just stopped showing up without any explanation). Not wanting to be there, I mysteriously gained the ability to fly and I flew away.

Then I'm eating a turkey dinner, and some guy I don't know says "can I have a little bite?" and before I say yes, he takes a huge bite. Then another guy does the same thing, so I go nuts, screaming and bitching about people eating all my food. So I hit the last guy, and start going into a bitch rage and someone tells me nicely that it must be that time of the month.

Finally, I go talk to my manager at Friday's and she says "No, you don't have a day off tomorrow, you're working at our subsidiary restaurant, 45 minutes away." A waitress is standing there and I tell her that I quit. I scream and I yell about how unfair it is and she says, "You think its so bad? Well what do you think I have to do to get by? I do this just to get along." So I leave on a bad note, very angrily, and immediately have an overwhelming sense of guilt. I hop in an elevator, but it doesn't stop at the floor I'm going to, it just keeps going up and up until I start to suffocate and my ears pop because I'm heading into the stratosphere.

Then I wake up to my mother trying to recieve a fax on her fax machine.

So my subconscious adventures played out like a bad Harold...strange, loose connections but okay...I got the message. I feel guilty when I quit things, even when I have every good reason to do so. We all have stuff we gave up on when our plate was too full and we spread ourselves too thin. Maybe the elevator has something to do with the pressure to do it alllll even though its impossible. Or maybe my subconscious was hormonal last night, because I've never been told that its "that time of the month" either in life or in dreams.

I dunno. The quitting theme just stuck with me this morning. I found it interesting.

Sarah

Public - 11:26 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Sunday, July 25, 2004

Currently Watching
Scarface
By Al Pacino, Michelle Pfeiffer
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Living on Cape Cod is both a blessing and a curse.

Ever since Vacationland became Realityville for me, I've had a difficult time making the transition from suburbs to a town. Cape Cod if full of towns, and those towns contain Townies. Townies are a special breed; you can only find them if you go more than an hour outside of a major city, where towns are self-sufficient and people have no good reason to leave. This is where you find the real people of America. I am in awe of their realness. Usually I'm quick to condemn bartenders with DUIs, 19-year-old mommas, skinny white kids that think they're ghetto, and pot-smoking middle-aged career waitresses, but these people deserve a little more attention other than my blatant condescension.

They come from a place where you aren't guaranteed a college education and a shiny new car.

I've made sad attempts at befriending the townies, but only in vain. I'm pretty intimidated by these people that the world casts judgement upon. I figure they must think I'm an elitist (who would think THAT?) so I just sit by the wayside and laugh politely when they make dirty jokes, scared that they might judge me just as harshly.

I don't know if I'll ever feel comfortable in this kind of world, but I'm still stuck here, straddling the reality I choose and the reality that exists outside of it. Vacationland has housing projects behind those million-dollar beach houses, and I'm still trying to figure out what exactly is going on in my own well-manicured backyard.

And they all smoke. *Nods head, hands on hips* Shame, shame, shame.

They must be lesser-thans, after all. Only bad people smoke cigarettes, drink heavily, and do drugs.

Sarah, college student, heir to a house with a dock

Public - 9:34 PM - 6 eprops - 3 comments - edit it - email it

Sunday, July 18, 2004

Currently Reading
Misogyny, Cultural Nihilism, & Oppositional Politics: Contemporary Chinese Experimental Fiction
By Lu Tonglin
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I attended a mandatory denim fit workshop early this morning. This is one of the rare occasions that I get to see a group of people, together in one place, that care too much about what they do for a living.

It's retail. That thing that people do when they can't get better jobs.

And I realize that these women know more about jeans than anyone ought to waste their time learning, because they "care" about Gap denim. They have an emotional attachment to a corporate behemoth. I wish I could have jumped on top of a clothing display, waved my arms around, screaming, "YOU'RE GETTING PAID 8 GODDAMN DOLLARS AN HOUR! YOU HAVE NO CHANCE OF UPWARD MOBILITY!!"

Like many women, these people have a serious problem: They are overachievers. I don't know why it is, but I'm sure it accounts for the female majority in most colleges and the fact that we were designated to bear children. There must be something in the estrogen hormone--that freakish motherliness--that forces us to go that painful, unneccessary extra mile.

If estrogen makes overachievers, you can start calling me Bill. Until I get a job where my undergraduate education is appreciated, I am not lifting a finger unless I am told. Even still, I'll mess stuff up just for shits. So....

Annoying women of the world: Put your excess potential to achieve into something worthwhile...like downloading pirated movies, or blogging, or contemplating your love handles. Do something that merits no achievement whatsoever. Do it so that I don't have to waste my time being annoyed at you. Stop doing things well all the time. It's your fault I'm writing this right now. I'm wicked pissed at you, female gender. Shape up.

Public - 10:42 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Currently Reading
The Bell Jar : A Novel (Perennial Classics)
By Sylvia Plath
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Sarah J. Pappalardo goes to great lengths to make money.

I've sunk to new lows-- I lied through my teeth so I could get a job at T.G.I goddamn Fridays. I didn't even lie to get a GOOD job, just a job at fucking Fridays.

They think I'll be here year round, and that I'm "taking a year off" because of "family issues" *tear* and I don't know if I'll ever make it back to Chicago...

So what am I gonna tell them when I give my notice in 6 weeks? Well, clearly a family member of mine has to be on their death bed. I haven't picked which one, but I'm leaning towards my Aunt Joan or my brother Tom. I think the brother would give it more effect (he's a half-brother, but who's counting). Yes, I am beyond horrible for doing this (I can picture getting a sympathy card in the mail sometime in the fall) but they wouldn't hire me if I was seasonal. And I need to make money. For drugs. And light fixtures.

So I have no soul; we got that part down. But, on the other hand, I might be buying you beers somewhere down the road, and you can thank my icy cold heart for that icy cold bud light (or Heineken, if it's a lucrative summer). So suck on that, moral people. Suck it hard.

Suck it!

Public - 12:35 AM - 13 eprops - 8 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 10

2005-12-04T14:03:00.000-08:00

Saturday, July 10, 2004

After a week of being drowned in a mass of people sharing a similar genetic code, I have learned many things.

1) Tewksbury, Newton, and Religious Fanaticism don't mix: Tewksbury Riddles drink too much so the Newton Pollards treat them condescendingly. Religious Fanatics condemn the Newton Pollards for going to a gay wedding.

2) 5-year-olds come in many different kinds: Tewksbury preschoolers stain our walls and wet our beds; Belmont preschoolers know the various uses and forms of OxyClean.

3) Subconscious racism still exists in this state: If I hear the phrase, "I knew a black person, but she was really nice" one more time, I'm going to start throwing books at people's heads.

4) Senile old men add flavor to the dinner table: 'nuff said.

5) There are people that are virgins into their 30's: Don't be surprised when your doctor laughs at you when you're 31 and you say you aren't sexually active.

6) There is a huge divide between "Cape" people and "Lake" people: My cousin Darlene doesn't want her dear little ones associating with the "Lake" people ("Not that I want to sound like a snob...")

7) My cousin Shelly goes to the lake all the time: Yes, she was sitting right there too.

8)Some people drink and drive, some people drink and drink and drink: My family has a variety of the two.

9) A small but loud faction of the family adores Rush Limbaugh: whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy????

10) Get me back to Chicago, please. Please. Michael Moore is beginning to be a turn-on.

Public - 10:38 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Currently Reading
Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx
By Adrian Nicole Leblanc
see related

B2n3j4k2: I have a cat like that
PaPPa85: she can be quite the bitch
PaPPa85: she gave me rabies once
PaPPa85: but we laughed it off and had a beer
PaPPa85: then she said, "someday sarah, i'm going to bear your children"
PaPPa85: then we laughed and snorted some cocaine
B2n3j4k2: I love it when my cat parties like a rockstar with me
B2n3j4k2: I just wished she would talk to me, when she shoots me up
B2n3j4k2: she always gives me this serious, static expression on her face and doesn't say anything before pricking my arm with the needle
B2n3j4k2: it's really weird and hot at the same time
PaPPa85: so did you guys make out?
B2n3j4k2: well it always gets really close to making out.
B2n3j4k2: But once I try to slip her tongue she gets all paranoid...this usually results in me getting clawed and bit with rabies and tells me, "remember I'm a lesbian you idiot! Don't try anything scandalous again you pig!"

Public - 12:44 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Friday, June 25, 2004

"So, Sarah, what did your manager say to a bunch of trainees today?"

"Something that sort of baffled me, Xanga."

"Oh dear, what happened?"

"First she told everyone that she was a genetic anomaly and that she had 'extra stuff' inside her, which took a few surgeries to get out."

"Extra stuff? Like a hermaphrodite?"

"Well, Xanga. That would explain a lot of things. But it didn't stop there."

"Gee whiz! Two manager stories in one night?!"

"Yes, two. When the trainees were playing get to know each other, she and I had to learn two new things about each other ourselves. She then told the trainees that we've known each other personally for about 3 or 4 years."

"But you've lived in Mass. for 10 months."

"Exactly. There is nothing strange or funny about that; it's just completely baffling. Why would she tell a bunch of strangers that? I've worked there since December."

"You work in retail, Sarah. Don't expect anything too far above the level of retarded."

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Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Yet another adventure at the Gap.

The manager decided to put me on four training shifts this week even though I've worked there like 80 different times already. This time is different, though. Now I get to carry around a clipboard and tell people when they go on break. I'm moving up in the world, let me tell you.

So I'm sitting in training and my manager, the one who had two brain aneurisms, looks directly at me and says, "Guess what? We're pregnant!"

You and me? You and the Bulgarian girl sitting next to you? You and the Gap Corporation, in a metaphorical sense? I didn't react, so I just pretended like I didn't hear it.

"Sarah, we're pregnant!"

Why is she directing this towards me and not anybody else sitting around me? It was now my duty to 1) understand that she is referring to her husband, which is completely out of context but understood after a bit of thought, then 2) have the burden of putting on the 'congratulations!' show that everybody does when someone says they are pregnant. It's almost as bad as pretending to really like a gift when someone gives you something.

It's not so much the fact that she shared her wonderful news with me, it was the word usage that irked me to no end. Would I say to you, "Hey! We made you a cake!" referring to myself and the Betty Crocker cake mix? Yes, it's understood that Betty helped me, but it's unnecessary to mention and out of context. If her husband were standing right there, the "we" would make a hell of a lot more sense. Saying "Sarah, we're pregnant" implies that both Rosa and I are pregnant, two things I never want to happen within the same time period or the same general location.

It just doesn't make sense.

But I must remind myself: she's crazy. It's my mantra. Gets me through the day. See posts from winter break.

Sarah

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Sunday, June 20, 2004

I was bored and in the mood to be angry, so I roamed www.freerepublic.com for awhile. I was reading some old opinions on that Rainbow Sash thing, just to see what the conservatives had to say about getting political in the Church and whatnot...Long story short, a bishop said that people should not bring politics into holy places like a church. For the most part, I agreed. (Do you feel a 'but' coming on? Do ya? Do ya?)

I visited my fathers grave today at the St. Thomas Catholic Cemetery. Every time I drive down the cemetery road, I can't help but to observe a wide brick pathway leading to a monument, about three times the size of a normal large gravestone, "Mourning the lives of the unborn," which goes on further to make a call against abortion. To the casual onlooker this might seem justified and almost nice; to someone who is mourning (like, say, at a FUNERAL), this is the LAST place a political message is needed.

Though this has little to do with my stance on abortion or gay marriage, this does strike me as a bit hypocritical that a private, Catholic cemetery can allow a direct political protest, while homosexuals cannot even make a symbolic political statement in a church. If political statements that only favor the church can be permitted, then why don't I pretend to electrocute myself at a CYO basketball game to protest against the death penalty? That's MUCH less offensive than a bunch of homos wearing stripes, right? Y'all can protest in a place of mourning but they can't protest in a place of worship. Come on, now.

By nature, religion is political. With beliefs come a set of laws, and those laws will be tossed and turned over forever. But, if they say that a place of worship ought not to be political, so be it. Just keep in out of the cemeteries too, thanks.

I hate people with opinions,

Sarah

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Major History part 9

2005-12-04T14:00:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

I swore I wouldn't write about this...

For the past five days I've been on the Atkins diet. Why, you ask?

When I decided a few weeks ago that I wasn't gonna drink much this summer, I figured, why not stop eating too?

So after 5 days of complaining to my mother about how much I want an ice cream, tonight I drove like a crack addict to Sundae School and got the biggest sundae I could buy. And when I say 'like a crack addict,' I mean my hands were shaking at the counter, my eyes were shifting between the various flavors of ice cream, and I could help but to yell at the lady, "g-g-g--ge-GET ME A HOT FUDGE SUNDAE...please!" while giving the girl at the counter a half-friendly, half-desperate smile.

I was tapping on the counter as I waited, exact change in hand, and then proceeded to run to my car where I could consummate my relationship with the devil. And by consummating my relationship with the devil, I mean eating the best, most evil goddamn sundae this side of the Mississippi (which contains all my carbs for the month.)

You could've offered me my own personal sex party in honor of myself and I would've thrown you out of the way for a banana and a can of coke at that point. And afterwards, I really wanted a cigarette. Instead, I bought 3 packs of gum and chewed an entire pack.

Robert Atkins is dead. He dropped right after a heart attack. That was my meditiation for the evening. It made me feel a little bit better about myself. I hope it made you feel better too.

Sarah: fat on the inside

Public - 9:38 PM - 6 eprops - 6 comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

I'm staring out my window onto the cul-de-sac that I live on, and the mailman is going about 50 miles an hour while smoking a huge, disgusting cigar. He does this every morning, like its the establishing shot for the filmed version of my day. I'm sure that his right hand is holding a flask of something cheap while he manages to steer/deliver mail with his left hand.

He uses the gas pedal rather furiously for an old man.

A lot of people call the Cape "Heaven's waiting room," but this guy isn't waiting for shit. He's hauling ass on the stinky drunken highway to Hell. I picture him just laughing at me, with a wet cigar jiggling in his mouth, and then burning rubber as he drives to the next cul-de-sac. In a crusty old man sort of way.

He's probably 105 or something. Raised from the dead for the sole job of delivering my mail very quickly. Smoke your cigar, old man. Bless your withering, aged heart.

Sarah

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Sunday, June 13, 2004

Currently Watching
Lost In Translation (Widescreen Edition)
By Scarlett Johansson, Bill Murray, Giovanni Ribisi
see related

Sarah J. Pappalardo is back on Cape Cod.

She is not very excited about that.

Sarah J. Pappalardo has rid her diet of carbohydrates.

That means beer. And pizza. And chocolate.

Sarah is not very excited about that either.

Before I run off into the land of bad, free verse poetry, I'll make some statements in paragraph form for your reading pleasure. First and foremost, Lost in Translation is a scrumptious movie. In my early summer boredom, I chose to watch all the bonus features on the DVD. One of the deleted scenes showed Scarlett's character in one of those morning-after-in-bed shots, where she wakes up, realizes what she did the night before, smiles and curls back up in her blankets.

Scenes like that have little bits of honesty in them. It's nice.

Public - 12:30 AM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Currently Watching
Monster
By Charlize Theron, Christina Ricci, Bruce Dern
see related

Eek!

Damn, Charlize! What did the makeup people do to you? Oh no, not the cutoff t-shirt with Alaskan wolves on it...

Despite the disturbingly accurate 80's trucker/whore costuming, this was a decent flick. Theron is well-deserving of her Oscar. As for my unsolicited review...

WHY ANNOYING NEO-FEMINISTS WOULD LIKE THIS MOVIE:

I was recently studying Jack the Ripper in a seminar history class (the same one where I studied the Sex Pistols) and we talked about the Ripper's significance during the women's rights movement of the late 1800's. He singlehandedly scared all the women of London right back into their homes, instead of being all 'liberated' and all...you know...that thing that women do when they are feminists. Point being, he killed a bunch of whores and managed to put women "back in their place" while doing so.

So the real-life character that "Monster" was based on was a whore that murdered the men who prostituted her. Suck on that, male gender. Now the whores are coming after YOU. Go run back to your wives and lock your doors.

WHY MALE CHAUVINISTS WOULD ENJOY THIS MOVIE:

The main character is caught and put to death. Jack the Ripper has never been discovered. Therefore men are smarter than women.

WHY PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO COMMENT ON THE OBVIOUS WOULD COMMENT ON THIS POST:

It has been speculated that Jack the Ripper was a woman. But probably not, people. Come on. Most women didn't have the education that Jack the Ripper had during that period, you know better than that. Don't antagonize me. It would ruin my brilliant historical connection.

Tomorrow I tackle "Saved" to see how much it doesn't live up to my expectations.

Sarah

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Sunday, June 06, 2004

Currently Playing
Bone Machine
By Tom Waits
see related

- Goin' out West - -

Word of the day: Silly

I got back from taping "The Making of 'Silly Dances'" a couple of hours ago. The film itself is one hour of people doing silly dances to silly music in front of silly greenscreen effects that play behind them. My job was to video the making of this and interview the silly people after they did their silly dances. There will be a silly premiere party for this silly movie and I should get a silly copy of this silly movie. This is the sequel to "Silly Faces."

I was rollerblading by the nursing home on Diversey today. Sunday is always the busiest day at a nursing home. It was sunny and warm, so people wheeled their parents out to the front of the building as some bored adolescent grandchildren sat by the wayside checking their cellphones. Reminded me of every Sunday of my childhood.

Sarah

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Saturday, June 05, 2004

I have been blogging like a madwoman lately.

After a superhuman attempt at eating 4 rolls of sushi, I went to see David Sedaris at some random bookstore off of Belmont.

Ah, inspiration.

Every time I hear him talk or read his books I get re-inspired to keep a diary. Not like this shitty weblog-- a REAL one. With effort. He doesn't try to write actual stories in his own diary, just little 'vignettes' that he often incorporates into his stories later on. See, I don't put in any actual effort when I write blogs, but if I did, they might actually be interesting to read.

Point being: Put in a little elbow grease, Sarah.

So I think I'm going to make a sub-blog that nobody knows about except for wandering creepy bloggers and it will be my good blog. Ha.

Sarah (not a writer)

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Friday, June 04, 2004

So tonight I saw our movie "Dog." And although it wasn't the best of the short films out of the 18 that played, it definitely wasn't the worst. So I'm proud to say I wasn't in the worst movie of Split Pillow 2.0. I was very amused and surprised with some of them-- definitely some quality stuff out there. The best part was "Time Warp"...this was the movie that Fuzzy and Shaun edited, and happened to have the guy that Shaun knocked out in it. And he still had a black eye even after a month.

Yesterday I auditioned for a random improv troupe. In the meantime I happened to lose my headshot, not follow directions, and have my cell phone go off during the audition. Let's see how that turns out.

Harumph.

I've living in between 3 Alpha Phis and 3 Sigma Alpha Epsilons. Shoot me.

Sarah

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Wednesday, June 02, 2004

So if ya'll were wondering why I had a bunch of links to mental health websites, it was by no means a hint or suggestion to any of you. I just thought that my xanga would be a convenient place to put them while my email was down.

I'm doing a fieldwork project on the homeless and mentally ill in Chicago. Since I'm no sociologist, I invented a lot of homeless people and "interviewed" them as some sort of "evidence" for my "fieldwork." This is one of many reasons why I am at DePaul and not, say...Harvard. I've had 10 weeks to start on this fieldwork but I didn't even examine the details until two days before its due. Yay me. And yay Honors Program for making me take this bullshit class (The Urban Experience).

Tomorrow marks the beginning of my 5 day weekend (thank you, finals, for not existing) and is also the screening of that short film. I plan on being somewhat belligerent this weekend, for it is my LAST weekend in Chicago for many moons. I really don't want to leave. I really, really don't. I'll miss you all. Even the people I don't know who are reading this. Visit me on the Cape, or I'll surely perish.

Sarah

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Major History part 8

2005-12-04T13:59:00.000-08:00

Sunday, May 30, 2004

Currently Watching
The Hand That Rocks the Cradle
By Annabella Sciorra, Rebecca De Mornay
see related

Phew-

We just finished filming for "The Challenge" -- a 3-day film project where you must write a script, film someone else's script, then edit yet another script all over one weekend. I helped out by playing the random roommate and doing tape log for many hours, knowing that if I came back here there would be absolutely nothing better to do. I was right. I'm glad I got to watch hamburger and ketchup be made into dead run-over dog...

So when I woke up at 10:30 and had to be in the North North side by 11 I threw on a T-shirt and a hoodie, not really thinking about the fact that I'd like, have to be on camera or anything. So I didn't realize that what I was wearing was what Sean (Cleary) used to call my "tit" shirt...yeah...by the time I realize what I was showing we had already started filming...

Exhibit A: www.fuzzyco.com ... scrolll down a bit. I'm so ashamed. Moreso about my lack of film acting ability but still about the unruly and unneccesary cleavage. On the upside, however, it was a lot of fun! I was reminiscing about "Hair Twins" and I got re-inspired to edit it over again.

Siamese Hair Twins, for the uninitiated, was my baby for the last month of high school. A documentary about two sisters attached by the hair. I miss filming it. It was the most fun I had during graduation. Anyhoo, if you wanna see this mysterious Dead Dog/Motorcycle/Asswipe movie (honestly i don't even think there is a title to it yet), go to Biograph on thursday. And thank you Fuzzy and Shaun for asking me to do it. Mucho divertido! The mini-DV is gonna come out any day now, I swear...

Wow and I almost forgot to mention the song that was our inspiration for the film. It was written and played by a group called the "Haterosexuals" and it was called "A girl with Tourettes" or something like that. Some great lines were:

Fuck, shit, fuck ass/I'll throw up in your tits/She'll bite you if you're a Jew etc. etc. If I get a copy of this you just have to hear it. It's terrifically horrible.

Sarah the filthy whore

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Thursday, May 27, 2004

As finals are approaching, my level of focus is decreasing.

My beloved roommates and I have been working very hard on making the new place look pretty. Thank you all for coming to the BBQ, by the way. I could never be prouder to be the hostess that throws up at her own party. DON'T mix undercooked hamburgers with beer and a jug of Carlo Rossi. Let me tell ya, it gets ugly.

So I wrote a paper about the punk rock movement and the Sex Pistols yesterday. It was sort of nice to read about people who were truly angry at just about everything. And not always for a reason, either. These people just wore swastikas like it was their job, yet had no anti-semitic feelings whatsoever. They genuinely just wanted to piss people off by shocking the hell out of them. Being able to fuck around with powerful symbols of the modern age is some heavy stuff. I think we do that a lot nowadays, though. Mostly through fucking with taboos and whatnot...

Just to show you how the meaning of taboos have changed in our wonderful postmodern society: say I made a racist remark about black people. Was my intention to make fun of the black people, or to make fun of the people that are traditionally racist in our society? The answer should be obvious. Ah, the beauty of today is that we can exploit these taboos just to show how incredibly ridiculous they are.

Jerri: I think there's something wrong with my friend, Mr. Jellineck.

Jellineck: Is she gay, Jerri?

Jerri: No, I think she might be retarded.

Jellineck: Well most gay people are retarded, Jerri.

Perfect example. If you can't see how fucking awesome an example this is, then you should kill yourself.*

Do it.

Sarah

* Reading this over again, I realized that whether this stuff is offensive or not is completely contextual. But we all know that if Amy Sedaris or Paul Dinello says it, it has to be ok.

Public - 12:15 AM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Currently Reading
Improvise. : Scene from the Inside Out
By Mick Napier
see related

Issue: A certain sketchy that I haven't spoken to in a year just called me. I pseudo-dated him for like 3 weeks in the summer when I was 16 and I thought that not giving him my home phone number would "give him the idea;" unfortunately he never got it. So he has called me an average of twice a year since, trying to hang out, and this time he somehow found my new cell number. I was nice to him. I felt bad. I know a lot of messed up fuckers on Cape Cod, and I can't call them all out on their general inoffensive stupidity when it comes to dealing with women (The best line that ever came out of him was, "I'm readin' a book, ya know. Its about the Kennedys and shit.")

The poor fucker. He works in construction now and we are certainly in totally different worlds/socioeconomic backgrounds. Being college students, we tend to take for granted that we hang out with mostly educated people. Doesn't make the craftsmen of the world any less intelligent --just completely different. I'm being really nice here because I'm generalizing, and I know plenty of ridiculously smart people in the trades. But Dwayne got hit by the stupid tree. And I actually dated this kid. I think any interest I've had in him had quickly turned to pity; so yes, this is a pity friendship at this point. Are pity friendships bad or...nice? I get the sense that the fact that I have pity friendships at all says something very horrible about me. Somebody back me up here...

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Saturday, May 08, 2004

What an interesting night last night, let me tell ya....

I just sort of walked into the showcase show last night. Didn't pay or anything. Someone shoved a camera in my hand and told me to take pictures of the show. Afterwards, Jayson, Evan, and I had a deep talk over pizza at Giordanos. After dropping my phone one too many times last weekend, it had just randomly shut off altogether and I missed a call asking me to come help out with NYC Neutrino www.neutrinonation.com (the important people) on Mainstage. So, instead of getting to "perform" (I use the term very loosely) I got drunk and talked about drugs and life and death. Bummer. 8 months here and I could have said I got up on Mainstage at CIF...shucks.

So we head over to Cusick's badass loft, which has like 30 foot ceilings, a basketball hoop, and complete rooftop access. It doesn't get much more badass than that. And a few MadTV people were there...I re-met Josh Meyers after an embarrassing first meeting which he thankfully forgot about, met Nicole Sullivan, and heard that Mo Collins was wandering around somewhere, but I had too much pudding in my pants to seek her out. Thats right. Himmerick threw me in a room and said "you're gonna pudding wrestle." So I'm in this room in a white t-shirt and white boxers, with Josh Meyers and his model girlfriend (soo LA) ready to wrestle this random chick who was reallllly excited to pudding wrestle. I lost.

So I'm wandering around with pudding in my pants and I realize people just aren't as friendly to me now that I'm soaking wet, eyeliner smudged, and just full of pudding. Nice to see who your real friends are when you look like you got in a fight with the shit monster. I think I tried to put Fuzzy's hat on top of my pudding hair.

So a bunch of us head to Geoff's sketchy after hours party and we drink and smoke until 6 in the morning, then head to Clarkes where I start yelling, "I"M SO HIGH!!!" not realizing that we're one booth away from 4 cops. All I know is i ate a 3-egg omelette, hash browns, and 2 pancakes in about 4 minutes. After all that, I can say that I saw awesome improv, got drunk, and pudding-ed myself all for the low cost of $21.

Sarah "pudding in my pants" Pappalardo

Public - 3:41 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

"So, Sarah, why are you down in the dumps?"

"Well, Xanga, I had a rough 45 second improv spot tonight and it's got me down."

"Now Sarah, you know that nobody cared that you just interrupted a dull scene and made it worse..."

"But Xanga, when I only get these tiny spots to perform, I just get in my head and I suck! Now I think that everyone thinks I suck."

"But they like your boobs, Sarah."

"Well I know, but I want people to like me for my talent, not my boobs. The only way I can do that is to make myself grotesque and ugly."

"But that won't make you any better at improv, that will just make you Rachel Dratch."

"Good point, Xanga. I guess the only way to stop sucking is to stop thinking that I suck."

"See? Now we're getting somewhere, Sarah. Go out into the world and do not fret. You have your whole life to start being awesome. They know that, and chances are they aren't even paying attention to you, anyway."

"Thanks, Xanga! You really helped me out!"

*jumps off bridge*

Public - 12:44 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Major History part 7

2005-12-04T13:58:00.000-08:00

Saturday, May 01, 2004

Somehow I am sober enough to acceessss my website.....

So tonight I finally met Mick Napier and that was pretty cool!! I finally saw my teacher, Mark, shitfaced, which was fuckin' awesome!!! In fact, if we saw everyone superior we knew shitfaced, we'd have a totallly new respect for them. This was the awesomest night ever because I saw pseudo-famous people drunk. That is sooooo cool. But there was a certain other person that had a gf (boooo) but oh well thats what I get for being 19. I'll work on that as time goes on. Damn, gina, this was a crazy night. Sooo ridiculously random. My tongue is numb. And I just ate a lot of pizza. I should pass out now but I'm not bc i'm stilll like wtf just happened? And its going on for another 9 days??? Wow, improv might be the greatest thing I've ever come upon. Ever. Seriously. Wow. Drunk. Oh wait, I started improv because I liked acting and stuff.....now it's all just drinking...save me.....

Sarah loves you.

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Monday, April 26, 2004

So I indulged in my womanhood today and went to Marshalls and Linens n' Things...suffice it to say, I feel like my mother. No, not in a "SARAH I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU" kind of way, more like the motherly kind of thing where they spend hours in Marshalls just "looking at things." Now that I have a large, empty space to fill (with dale and rich, of course), I want to spend my free time buying crap to fill it with.

Marshalls has a lot of decorative chickens. I want to fill our apartment with ceramic chickens. Would you like a chicken? I'll buy you one.

Marshalls also has throw pillows with chickens on them. Not as good, but for pillows they will suffice.

Linens n' Things has a lot of fake art with pictures of people drinking wine. I want those EVERYWHERE. WITH BUTTER ALL OVER THEM.

I NEED A STAINED GLASS LAMP WITH TASSLES.

I would LOVE a coffee table with little apples painted on it.

I want plaid window drapes.

KITCHEN = LINOLEUM. BROWN LINOLEUM.

80's colonial?? You bet your ass!!!

two words: Lawn Gnome.

Must find an oriental rug to go under the pink floral print couch. And brown walls. Brown walls.

Trading Spaces Reject

Public - 3:39 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Sunday, April 18, 2004

Currently Watching
Metropolis (Restored Authorized Edition)
By Alfred Abel, Brigitte Helm
see related

So there I was, kicking over a bottle on the sidewalk, and BAM! There goes my ankle...

Yes, I ironically sprained my ankle after having a conversation about how I believe that I control Karma. Turns out Karma said "fuck you" and kicked me--

Hold on, I must go off on a tangent. Here is what my roommate just said on the phone:

"Yeah, everybody wants to be a fireman or a cop..."

"...Because they're EASY jobs, that's why!"

Ok, back to Karma kicking me. So I rolled my left ankle and I've been off my feet all day. I've subsisted on nothing but two sandwiches from potbelly's (oh! the torture!) and a granola bar. So if there's anything I have learned from this, it is to stop kicking over glass bottles that are on the sidewalk. Contrary to popular belief, I DO NOT control karma. Clearly, the bottle was angry. We talked things out and now we're cool, but he's still kinda mad, but he doesn't want to admit it. He just needs time...

Gimpy

Public - 11:29 PM - 3 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Currently Playing
Hail To The Thief
By Radiohead
see related

It's my birthday, my b-b-b-birthday-

I am soooo not in the mood for being 19. I really liked 18. I'm getting really close to that age that I thought was so far away in my childhood. And let me tell ya, I am REALLY not in the mood for the big 2-0 next year....just fucking bizarre...

So this week, I've been sort of occupied with this whole apt. thing---mostly getting the money into the landlord and *trying* to do everything the *right* way. Although I'm ridiculously excited to be living in my own place finally, I am a little bogged down by the responsibility of it all...yeah, responsibility. That thing that comes with age. Well anyway, I'm hoping this will all pay off in the end. A room of my own is priceless. Not to mention, I am just dyyying to barbecue out on that patio (yeah, if you are reading this you are probably invited. Except for Bob. Just because.)

So I'm at that point in the beginning of the quarter where it seems like work is endless. No matter how much you do, there is always more to come. I hate looking at life that way, geez. I think I just need to rediscover my love for alcohol this weekend and take my mind off things. It just feeels like I haven't drank in a long time (it hasn't been that long) but GEEZ...whatever happened to our wild crazy weekends? Where'd they go?

Birthday girl signing off. Hey, Chicago Improv Festival is in a couple of weeks. www.cif.com

Sarah

Public - 10:13 PM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it

Sunday, April 04, 2004

PaPPa85: then he sticks his cock in my ear and tells me to call him augustus
Mariah3185: oh man

PaPPa85: the right side of my brain has never been the same since
PaPPa85: but my hearing has improved tenfold
Mariah3185: wow, that must be some magical sperm
PaPPa85: disney quality
Mariah3185: oh for sure
PaPPa85: i've got fucking bambi fetuses growing inside my skull
Mariah3185: hahahhaha my xanga is awesome
Mariah3185: and that's gross

Public - 11:07 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Major History part 6

2005-12-04T13:56:00.000-08:00

Sunday, April 04, 2004

It's ten o'clock on a sunday morning!

Yeah, as you can imagine, I went to bed a little early last night. Killer headache. I think that killer headache caused a really weird dream I must've had from the hours of 12-2:30 am. I was on a singles cruise, like the one's that middle aged people go on, and we're at this singles club, and we're just all forced to mingle with each other, but all the guys looked like those ugly hairy dudes in the dub band that I saw last night. Blech.

So last night I tried a little something different and I went to see the band Slackers at the Bottom Lounge. And sonofabitch, they were pretty damn good! Sort of a mix of reggae/rock steady/ska/n' a little bit of old school R&B---not something I'd usually pay money for, but Dwayne, the elusive musical groupie legend of Chicago, got me in for free. And now I know that I'd definitely pay money for a show like that. I was eyeing the trombone player/singer the entire night. Unfortunately I was dressed like shit since I thought I was going to see a shitty show so I acted like a complete jackass when I talked to him. But he was sure pimpin' it after the show---that guy must get so much ass.....

I digress. Friday I hung out with people in my improv class and showed them the wonder that is, WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER. And these people can really appreciate how well done this movie is. So, I recruited a few new cult members I think. I returned to the dorms sufficiently drunk that night and found that people were asleep. Of all the nights that I feel like staying up and partying, everyone has to goddamn sleep. So I just consciously chose to pass out. Which is okay. I slept like a baby. Sunned myself by the lake the next day.

Hurrah for a 4-day week. The mother comes on Thursday.

Sarah

Public - 12:20 PM - 4 eprops - 4 comments - edit it - email it

Sunday, March 28, 2004

Ahhh....to sit in a towel on a Sunday morning with the bright Chicago sun shining down on the clothes I wore last night that reek of smoke and booze. I should be enjoying this beautiful day outside, but I figured I have allllll spring to worry about that. Anyhow, there really is something to doing absolutely nothing.

This is the part where I sum up my spring break. This can be approached from many different angles. I drunk dialed my ex, whom I haven't spoken to for a very, very long time. Hurts my soul, let me tell you. And hell, why should I tell you about it anyway? HA!

I saw Boston from the touristy perspective this week, encountering every tourist trap that I knew existed and some that I did not (the Irish famine memorial in Gov't Center--- a statue of skinny dying irish people?). I ate an overpriced and mediocre meal at the "real" Cheers and got a cannoli at Mike's Pastry. It was sort of fun for me to take a fresh perspective on Boston since I was so sick of it a year ago. I miss the insane culture of Boston and the demented way that things work there. I sort of miss the big dig, rotaries, people saying "good idear," and crummy T rides. Most of all I miss the New England attitude. Let me explain:

I was saying something about Boston College to Dale while we were on the boat to Boston and a lady says to me "Don't go to Boston College," probably thinking that I was considering it as an option. Since she was the only other person on the hull of the boat other than Dale and I, she had awkwardly broken the code of silence between us. I feel obligated to have a conversation with her now, so I start rambling on about HR people and how evil they are. I finished, expecting her to add something, and she just says, "well it was nice talking to you" like she was leaving or something, even though we hadn't even left the dock and had another half hour to sit 3 feet away from each other. That is the New England attitude. No obligation to anybody else but yourself and the people you consciously choose to care about. Man, I miss that.

As for drinking, I never knew I could 1) drink that many days consecutively 2) drink hard liquor before noon 3) get shitfaced at 3 pm 4) pass out at 6 pm 5) be hungover at 11 pm. I think my mother is concerned about all that. But hey, we were on vacation! Geez, I haven't played flip cup since June!

I got attacked by a squirrel. Never feed squirrels.

Don't *plan* drunken hookups. It wasn't meant to be that way.

Watch the farting version of Wet Hot American Summer.

Sarah Puppalahhhdo

Public - 2:13 PM - 2 eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Saturday, March 13, 2004

Bah, it's friday night, I'm pretty fuckin' tired, let me tell yas.

So Thursday I intended on staying in for a night of hw, when i randomly decide around midnight to go to the Royal (for the uninitiated, the sketchiest gay club west of the Kennedy Expressway) and let me tell you, I wish i had more than the two and a half bud lights that I did.

There is something about being in the same room as a lot of gay people that seems to attract straight men to me. 3 hideous, straight, horrible dancers come up from behind and start humping me, some more horrifically than others, and I poke and stare and Mariah and Kellen as I fear for my life. We are west of the Kennedy Expressway, anyhow.

By the time the third guy basically starts pummeling me with his general pelvic area I become genuinely frightened and turn my complete attention to Mariah (thanks again, mariah); for there is nothing more safe and comforting than pretending you are a lesbian at a gay club when you have straight men coming after you from every direction. Ironically when I turn to big, strong men in most situations, the safest one at the Royal is to turn to a skinny ass drunk blond girl (thanks again, the ass grabbing really added to the effect).

So at the Ray today I was staring at men's calves for 40 minutes. Some men have incredibly attractive calves. I want you to ponder that over the remainder of the weekend.

Next week I will be in Boston. Amen.

Sarah

Public - 2:57 AM - 4 eprops - 2 comments - edit it - email it

Sunday, March 07, 2004

And so the weekend ends.

Thursday Marty, Mariah and I go to my friend's show at Second City. I was drinking Bacardi O, which I hate, and subsequently had a 24-hour headache. So Friday I try to go to the library to get some books for the 2 papers I have to write, and there is nothing. I decided to venture to Chicago Public but the doors were closing at 5 as soon as I had gotten downtown.

Distressed, I resort to a night of sobriety and transexuals. Rocky Horror was probably the soberest fun I've had in....days. I liked it because everyone in the cast is fat, but all my guy friends were prettier than I was. Oh well.

Saturday I get obliterated with Mariah and her friends for absolutely no reason. I don't remember much after 12, but I know I had a pina colada, ate at clarke's and started bitching to everyone I knew online at 230 in the morning.

Sunday I go back to Chicago Public. They won't let me get a library card. I have two papers to do and no material. So I sit my ass down and begin to take copious notes on the books when some guy comes up to me, like, "Do you go to Depaul? You look so familiar. I know I've seen you around" blah blah blah and proceeds to not go away for quite some time. Instead of reading critical analysis on Yukio Mishima I am answering questions like, "How are you so stabile?" and "Why are you so independent?" and "How is it that you have so much class?" ---yes, i wanted to vomit and I think I almost started to cry when he left because I was so frustrated. Must be hormones.

All the while my screen name has been online at some other computer, and I think it's my mom's. So I think my mom has read every conversation I've had in the past two days, including the ones I don't remember.

This was my weekend. Take me home.

Sarah

Public - 11:32 PM - add eprops - add comments - edit it - email it

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

PaPPa85: i guess you can't make people not hate each other, but i'm still stubborn enough to believe that i can change peoples minds
Mariah3185: well
Mariah3185: you can't
PaPPa85: you can make them see diff. points of view though
Mariah3185: no, you can't make anybody see anything if they don't want to
PaPPa85: but i'll still try
Mariah3185: suit yourself
PaPPa85: i wish people would do that for me sometimes, instead of pretending to agree with me
Mariah3185: i understand
PaPPa85: and i think the key to peace is understanding
Mariah3185: well you're wrong you motherfucker
PaPPa85: oh
PaPPa85: well i'll stop then

Public - 1:11 AM - 2 eprops - 1 comment - edit it - email it