Day Sixty-Two: The Wonder of a Cheeseburger

So I wrote a couple days ago about possibly starting a food blog, like the cheeseburger blog I saw. I also mentioned that it made me really, REALLY want a cheeseburger. What I didn't mention, is that my quest for a cheeseburger has not waned since then. I had a serious jonesin' for a beefy, cheesy goodness.

Despite the fact that I've eaten pretty much nothing but fruits, vegetables, and whole grains for the past two and a half weeks, I was definitely willing, although slightly sad, to break my health kick for one beautiful, loaded, drippy cheeseburger. So I set aside the salad I packed myself for lunch on Friday and got the cafe's Kobe sliders for lunch instead. They were minature morsels of cheeseburger joy, with little potato bread buns. But upon biting into the well-prepared small plate item, I was supremely disappointed. The cheeseburger had not been nearly as good as I remembered it.

I sat in dismay, disappointed that I had broken my good eating for something so unsatisfying. Yet, I was even more disappointed that I still had an extreme craving for a good, juicy burger. So I knew I would have to follow the old saying: if you want something done right, do it yourself.

So I traipsed to the grocery store and purchased a pound of mostly-lean ground beef and a pack of whole-wheat buns (there's no reason to not make a good choice or two, right?). I walked home, and faced a mild fear I have: cooking ground beef. I always grew up learning from God knows where that ground beef, if not cooked through, would probably kill you. And I heard from many cooking shows that cooking a burger brown would probably be disgusting. So with the little cooking practice and high enthusiasm I have, I had to somehow cook a burger perfect enough to quell my craving. So I seared the patty, let it sit a few minutes on each side, and watched as juices ran out. After about ten minutes or so of eying the meat suspiciously, I took it off the skillet and let it rest for a few minutes. Then, I began the burger-building process. I toasted both sides of the bun, layered some sliced onion, laid down the brown burger-y goodness with a melty slice of American cheese on top, then added a tomato and a pickle, ketchup and mustard, capped it off, and admired its beauty.

And then I ate it. I ate it in five minutes, and it was glorious.

Although the meat was a little overcooked, it wasn't dry. It had all the glory of a good burger, and although it was greasy and fatty and drippy, I felt only slightly unhappy about my unhealthy choice. And I really, really hope I don't want another burger for another long while.

But when in doubt, always eat the burger.

Day Sixty-One: Oh, Walmart...

To me, Walmart is one of those places I always associated with terrible, horrible things. When the first one opened up in my town when I was still a wee youngin', my mom and I went to check it out, and were amazed and shocked by the sheer size of the place. And then, as others found out about it, it became not only the most crowded retail location in the entire town, but also became a hang out and haven for the strangest and most unsavory of characters within a ten-mile radius. Keep in mind, I do not live in the Boondocks -- I live about forty minutes outside of a city center, where it is uncommon for us to raise pigs, and we definitely do not eat rabbit. But regardless, Walmart became a loathesome, brain-damaging place.

But every once in awhile, as years passed, by my mother's suggestion, we would venture out to one of the three Walmarts in the area to either look for something we think they might sell, or something my mom needed that the Giant Warehouse of Doom carried at a heinously cheap and annoying Rollback Price. But with a shudder and a sense of hope and slight optimism, I would accompany her to Walmart. But as predicted, after fifteen minutes of navigating around families of ten who left mammoth shopping carts in main thoroughfare aisles without care, and bargain-seeking, resourceful immigrants yelling loudly to each other across my path in languages I couldn't comprehend, I got claustrophobic and ran from the store in a panicked frenzy, swearing never to return. And finally, after about six months ago, I finally squeezed the last ounce of hope that Walmart experiences would get better out of my person, and hadn't been there since...

...until today.

After hours and days of looking for bedding for my new apartment that I liked enough to spend too much money on, I finally found the perfect set -- at Walmart. As the website stated it was only available online, I breathed a sigh of relief, and enjoyed the fact that I would be getting an entire set, including sheets, for forty-five dollars. I was ecstatic. That is, I was ecstatic until it was never in stock, EVER, because 10,000 other people were just as ecstatic as me. And then, magically, as if a gift from God, a nearby Walmart carried my bedding. I didn't think twice about venturing into the terrible hurricane of consumerism to get my coveted comforter.

But where I ended up was not just a Walmart. It was a twenty-four hour SUPER Walmart. It had a full grocery store, plenty of space, lots of neat organization, and aisles and aisles of cheap. And better yet, because it was open all the time it was NOT CROWDED. I could have spent hours in there, easily buying item after item without ruining my newly required budget. I have actually, for some strange reason, become enthralled by a Walmart. I feel slightly lower-class, but still excited.

I could spend HOURS and HOURS in this particular Walmart. I could go at 2 AM on a Saturday, when there was no one there, and go grocery shopping. It's a glorious concept. And while I'm still terrified of Walmarts, this Walmart is my friend. I am actually, dare I say it, looking forward to going back to a Walmart.

Who have I become? Or has someone, SOMEWHERE, actually improved a Walmart?

Day Sixty: Who Cares!

While at work today, I came across a wonderful, amazing blog called "A Hamburger Today". After reading about and looking at probably a hundred hamburgers and cheeseburgers over the course of an hour. I REALLY wanted a cheeseburger. I also wanted a food blog. And so, I want to do something similar, just for the hell of it. While the food I'm going to write about will remain a mystery, it's a project I'm going to start probably this weekend. It's going to be informal and fun, without time constraint or minimum posts. And in thinking about my new, fun endeavor, I had another one of those epiphanies I get.

I've started trying to not put as much pressure on myself lately, in terms of my future, where I want to be, what I wanted to be doing, and who I want to make happy. And strangely and miraculously, I'm finding it easier to be creative. Doing simple things that aren't meant to impress anyone seem like fun to me again. I'm feeling happier already. And it's pretty pretty amazing.

So today is hopefully the launch of a new bout of creativity. Hopefully I will have more to offer and share, and with that, I cut things short today, because honestly, who am I trying to impress? I'm writing to keep the habit up, which is good, but there's no reason for me to put pressure on myself to write enough in volume, or profoundly enough, or interestingly enough. But I would still like to come up with decent endings...

Day Fifty-Nine: No More Snow

As is typical nowadays, Mother Nature is planning to dump a foot or so of snow in my area tonight through Friday (when you'll be reading this, it will have been snowing for over twelve hours, and will continue snowing for about another four or five hours). And I have gotten to the point in this long, long winter that I simply could not care any less about snow this year.

Let me preface by saying to anyone who reads this who DOESN'T live in my state (which is probably no one) that I don't live in a place where snow is expected with winter, like Utah or North Dakota. Here, we don't wear parkas in ten-below zero weather out to work everyday like it's nothing. Here, the lowest it gets in temperature during the day is somewhere in the twenties in the dead of winter, like January or parts of February. It snows a few times a year, and usually we get one or two good snows of six-inches to a foot. But not this year. This year, we've gotten two huge snowstorms, back-to-back, and another storm of about six inches, I think. And tonight, it's going to snow another foot.

I've already felt the childlike magic and the giddiness that comes with a nice snowstorm. I've had two snow days off from work (one of them was a personal day, unfortunately). I've watched my dogs play in the snow, I've shoveled out my car and other people's cars, and I've shoveled the driveway and the deck. I've made snowballs. Now, I just don't care anymore.

No, I don't care that it's going to snow. I'm not mad, because that would be completely pointless and counterproductive, given that I can do absolutely nothing about the weather. But on a very basic level, I don't care about the snow. I am not acknowledging the snow. In my mind, it isn't going to snow at all until it's actually snowing and I'm driving in it. I am refusing to let the snow win and take another personal day. And on the very slim chance that the office decides to close early tomorrow because heavy, angry, windy snow will have been accumulating for about twelve hours at that point, I won't be happy, even if I get a free half-day off.

Why, you ask? Because I will have NOTHING to do. There's nothing cozy and fun about being snowed in anymore this year. Now, it's just annoying. It's like being on house arrest, where my only options are knitting a scarf I don't need, re-reading a book I've already read, doing my laundry, watching whatever TV my dad is watching at the time, or taking a nap. But then again, I suppose I could actually do something artsy, which, in turn, might be the world's way of getting me to start being more creative.

But tomorrow, it's me versus the snow. And I'm prepared to win.

Day Fifty-Eight: Why Am I Doing This?

For fifty-eight days, I have been sitting down at a computer and writing. I write about life, I write about moving, cooking, dogs, people, and things that annoy me. For fifty-eight days, I've chronicled my thoughts habitually. For fifty-eight days, I've formed words into sentences, and sentences into roughly-hewn paragraphs. And I can't for the life of me remember why I started writing everyday.

I know I didn't want to bore myself, and that I felt like I needed to use the talents God gave me rather than let them sit in my brain and do nothing while I aged and got old and too busy to do it anymore. But really, now I realize that it doesn't really make a difference. If I like it, I should do it, and if I don't, then why does it matter? Luckily, I like it. I like sitting down to write everyday, assuming I can think of something to write about. Most of the time, unfortunately, I can't think of anything decent to write about, but I usually come up with something somewhat decent and put something together. My first few posts were a much higher caliber of writing than a lot of what I have been writing lately -- more descriptive, less introspective, and more creative with a larger range of vocabulary. But it occurred to me this evening that I have been writing so habitually that I don't even think about why I do it anymore: because I like it.

I make myself write everyday because I'm lazy, and given the opportunity I will many times lay on the couch and watch Food Network over doing just about any kind of personally enriching creative activity. And I think in that regard, I'm doing the right thing. But I have to be doing it for the right reason, too. And thankfully, I think I am.

It reminds me on a regular basis why I chose to go to college for writing, and why at one point I wanted to make it my career. Because I love it, and it comes fairly naturally to me. So I'll keep doing it, because I need a kick in the ass. And maybe at some point, I'll strengthen my weakness of being absolutely terrible at coming up with decent conclusions to things I write about.

Fifty-Seven: Why I Don't Want to Live with Other People

When I was in college, I had many a-roommate. I had clean roommates, dirty roommates, social roommates, and antisocial roommates. But no one ever compared to my roommates my senior year of college.

Let me preface by saying that I really liked the friends I lived with senior year. We had a lot of fun together, and we were all just the right amount of weird to mesh well together. My best friend and I had a "room of Ex-Stuff," which held all of the gifts/borrowed items from significant others we broke up with our senior year. It was adorned by a futon, a very large stuffed animal, some strange animal gifts, a weird free lamp my friend won from Ikea that was shaped like an ice cube, and I vaguely remember some sort of old mattress-like object. I remember fondly of our one friend and roommate spending hours dominating the television, sitting three feet from the screen building some sort of spaceship for Kingdom Hearts, and of the a giant plastic wall hanging of The King that greeted us in his Memphis glory when we walked in the door. It was a great year.

But not everything was peachy, that year. We all had our different ways of living, and they occasionally clashed dramatically. For example, I absolutely require that I wash most of the dishes from a meal before I sit down and eat it. I cannot eat if there's a huge mess waiting for my food-logged person to clean up in angst afterwards. My roommates, however, could happily leave piles of dishes in the sink for days, using the dishwasher mostly as a cabinet for storing clean dishes until it was emptied. Only then would the old ones be put into the dishwasher and washed and the process would start over again.

I also distinctly remember a time when I walked in the door to see my best friend with a look of foul disturbance on her face. "What's wrong?," I asked. It turns out a bag of potatoes that had held on for a very, very long time on top of the refrigerator had gone rancid, and we got to see what happens to a potato that is truly, truly past its prime. They leaked a foul-smelling liquid that ran liberally down the side of the refrigerator, causing a terrible mess and an absolutely abhorrent smell.

This, my dears, is why I do not want to live with other people.

I grew up in a house that was nothing short of immaculate most of the time. The carpets were almost always vacuumed, the tabletops dusted, and rarely a food spoiled before the expiration date was checked and the food was thrown away. While my standards are significantly lower than my mothers (I haven't dusted my room in too long to remember), I cannot tolerate rotten food or dishes in the sink. When I come home from work, I want to chill out and be myself, not worry about what has been destroyed in my absence, or what I'm going to get pissed about. For once in my life, I want to be responsible for myself and no one else.

If there's a dish in the sink, I want it to be mine. End of story.

Day Fifty-Six: Snow Tubing

Snow tubing has always been one of those activities that looked like a pretty good time to me. What's not to like? You go down a giant, snow-covered hill in a canvas-covered tube, and you don't even have to drag your vessel (or your person) up the hill to do it again. You get hitched to a wire that drags you and your tube up the hill to the top. But unfortunately, like most things, tubing is much more fun and exciting in theory than in actuality. I learned this last night.

Upon arrival, we stuck those annoying lift tags onto our zippers, and trudged to the back end of the resort to the tubing lift. The air was clean, crisp, and beautiful, and the lights sparkled off the snow and ice in the dark evening. The hill looked steep and exciting, and the mountain was sparsely littered with skiiers and snowboarders.

And then we saw the line for tubing.

A line snaked around the back of the hill, about fifty feet back. It didn't look that bad, but it moved incredibly slowly. It is absolutely not a good activity to engage in by yourself -- bring a friend to talk to for the half hour of time you're in line waiting to be hitched to your inner tube. As we chatted and finally reached out destination, a long-haired, efficient man in a snow hat lifted a tube from a self-made chute that led down from the bottom of the track above us, hurled it in front of me, and waited for me to sit. Then he waited for a hook to whirl by on the line and hitched my tow line to it, and I whizzed steadily up the hill backwards. The noise from below faded away, and all I heard was the sound of tubes whizzing down the track, and the canvas under my butt scraping against the ice and making my bottom end really, really cold.

After about a one-minute ride, the tube plopped and whirled into a landing, where I got up and schlepped it a couple of feet to the top of the track. It looked a lot steeper up high than it did from below. As we waited, a friendly man in a ridiculous snow hat asked, "has everyone here gone down already?". "No!!," we yelled, anxious for a little instruction. He promptly instructed us to lay with our face first , so our least-repairable body part would of course be the first to sustain any damage in case of an impact, and explained that in order to slow ourselves down, to dig our toes into the icy snow the entire way, so we would stop before hitting the inflatable barrier at the end. This would be our only defense against hurling off the edge of the raised track, off a twenty-foot high cliff onto the snow below.

Simple, right?

Actually, it wasn't that bad. It was, in fact, really effing fun. After the initial fear subsided quickly and I actually realized I COULD slow myself down a considerable amount, it was easy. Except, of course, when I hit one or many of the numerous bumps and potholes that had appeared on the track. Fortunately, though, I sustained no injuries. One of my tube-mates fell off her tube, but I'm really honestly not sure at all how she managed it. In one swift minute, I was at the bottom of the hill, walked down some steps, and got back in line. And I started the whole process again, which had taken about forty-five minutes.

My toes were freezing.

My verdict on the activity is that you have to be pretty unbothered by being cold to stay long enough to get in enough trips down the hill to make the money worth it. Save yourself the money, buy a snow tube, find a big hill, and go down that way. It's a lot easier.

Day Fifty-Five: Someday, It Might Stop Being Freezing.

There was a point in time, probably in high school, when I claimed winter was my favorite season. I was young and full of art and life, and saw the beauty of dormant nature during winter like the world was a black and white photograph. Now, winter presents itself in a much less glamorous and artistic way. It's cold. In fact, it's really, really cold. As an adult, this means that while the plants and animals of the world might lay in a sleepy protective state, I still have to get up early in the morning, go outside in freezing conditions, and scrape nature's beautiful, frozen, irritating dew off my windshield. Winter hardly has the appeal it once did.

Now, maybe because I'm a little less artistic and a little more easily irritated, winter is terrible. I still think it's beautiful, but only from indoors, as many people do. The plants aren't quite so dormant, but are so cold they fight for their lives by going to sleep for several months in order to keep their species going. It lasts, in this area, most of the year. Spring is just a mere thought, as it truly exists for only a two-week span of time, usually at the end of April or beginning of May. Flowers start to bloom, birds start tweeting, and it's enjoyable to walk outside in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Then it gets mercilessly hot and humid, and summer lasts until winter. It's the vicious cycle of Pennsylvania.

As I stood at the gas station today in the cold air of February, a thought occurred to me as a slight breeze blew. I felt, if I really tried, a little bit of spring crispness in the air. It was still cold, but it was the kind of cold that felt more like the inside of a refrigerator than the kind that creeps up inside your coat and threatens to strangle the life out of you: the kind that feels like it will last forever. It felt like winter was maybe starting to give up a little, and make way for spring, somewhere down the road, maybe a month from now.

The unfortunate truth is, I'm probably full of it, and was most likely delirious from the cold. In a month from now, it will likely have snowed three more times, and will continue to freeze my windshield through the beginning of April. But a girl can hope, right?

Day Fifty-Four: Can I Change What I Don't Like About Myself?

Like most people, I think, there are a lot of things about myself I am unhappy with. For most people, it's either skin, or weight, or any other myriad of parts: legs, butt, belly, feet, and hair, to name a few. On a more abstract level, it can be temper, aversion to change, lack of motivation, or stubbornness, and that's only a small sampling. I don't know if it's a characteristic of our culture as a country, or as a social society, but it seems that not many people are really happy about themselves. And like most people, I'm the same way. For me, though, I'm most unhappy with my inability to handle stress and my constant inner tension.

Unlike a physical flaw or a difficult behavior, how do you change a true inner characteristic? How can I control how I handle stress when I'm in the middle of thinking about a gamut of stressful (or even non-stressful) predicaments? Sure, I can stop and tell myself to calm down as many times as I want. I can make myself stop and take a deep breath, move more slowly, and think more clearly. But as soon as I start thinking about the actual situation at hand, all that nice, slow, even breathing and clearing of the mind goes completely to waste. I can't change it with behavior change, really -- I have to make a complete change in my thought process and in how I think. This much, I'm aware of. But how exactly am I supposed to do that?

I could be completely full of it, but I think it can't be much unlike changing little things about yourself everyday. As a concrete example, not too long ago I was told to naturally correct my posture for health reasons. I knew I had awful posture, but I couldn't exactly consciously think about standing up straight all the time -- I simply didn't have the time or energy, and it was frankly a little uncomfortable. But what I learned was to correct my posture in segments from the ground up and to just change little things. I'd change the way I balanced on my feet, the way I held my shoulders, and with a nod of my head, the way it balanced on my neck. While it was a slightly painstaking to stop and quickly correct my posture everytime I remembered, it wasn't even really enough change for me to notice. And after a month or so, I had perfect posture, and I never even noticed.

So what little elements of myself can I change to be a more calm? How can I change the proverbial posture of my serenity? I feel like to answer this question, I need some sort of life coach, or an in-house Buddhist monk. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to start meditating again everyday, as I did for a very brief stint in college. The scary part was, it worked quite well. I guess it's worth a shot to keep myself alive for a little longer.

Day Fifty-Three: Negativity is Contagious

Try as I might, every morning I wake up and attempt to be optimistic. Granted, it's not the first thought that pops into my head (it's usually, "ugh" when the alarm goes off), but as I'm making my bed I try to pick out the positive points of the day. For example, this morning I was positive about it being Thursday. I was also a little negative that it was ONLY Thursday, but it's a good start. I was positive about breakfast, because I love it. I was positive about it not snowing outside, which is a rare occurence these days in such parts. I was also positive about the idea that tonight is I am not held down by an appointment, and can go home and eat a nice, leisurely dinner as usual and putz around the house, go to the grocery store, or do what I felt like without rushing somewhere else.

But somehow as the morning progressed, I got increasingly negative. The people on the phone made me negative. People I communicated with made me negative. And while some of them definitely had specific reasons to be negative, I still got negative just the same, from a combination of that and just growing generally annoyed by little things. Then, it became only Thursday. It wasn't snowing out, but it was cloudy. My breakfast had worn off and I'd gotten hungry. I was thinking about not being able to spend my weekend as I liked. I started thinking about how the afternoon would probably seem to drag on for days. I wanted six chocolate chip cookies in the middle of my negative spell. And then I mentally smacked myself.

Just because others were negative, it didn't mean I had feel their negativity, too. I tried to ignore the people who are pointlessly negative, and help those who are upset for good reason. And when it comes to myself, I'm trying to be at least 60% positive all the time. Usually, I'm pretty good at being optimistic, but for some reason, I feed off the negativity of others and become negative myself. I usually take the mood of whoever I am around at the time, which is completely unhealthy and one of the reasons I don't want a roommate. I don't want my mood affected by a stranger. But negativity really is quite contagious. If one person is negative and brings down someone else, they could bring down two more people, and in no time everybody's pissed off. It's no way to live. So try to stay positive.

Day Fifty-Two: Chronicles of Moving: Part II

Within the past three days, I have been calling stranger after stranger, asking them if I can see their empty spaces they're charging money for people to live in. And everytime I call someone, I fear as the phone is ringing that they will be very, very odd. And up until yesterday (even with the previous searching I've done), I have made out very well and dealt with all generally friendly, nice, and accomodating people.

I emailed a woman about a Craigslist ad (which is always a risk, I know) about a well-priced apartment that sounded lovely -- cable was included, it allowed pets, and it had a communal patio for use with other tenants. I received an email back speaking in very professional tones ("let me show you this great unit!"), from a woman we'll call "Antonia", just for safety's sake, asking me to call her to set up a time. So yesterday, I called, hoping the phone would go to voicemail as it rang a third time, only to be answered by a gruff, upper-middle-aged woman. As I kindly stated who I was and how we had been communicating, I was met with a foreboding response: "Okay, well let me ask you a few questions". Her tone, it should be noted, was less than friendly. "Sure," I replied warily. "How old are you?," she demanded. "Twenty-four," I said confidently, and with a tone implying that I did not see how that pertained to the situation. She grilled me for another minute and a half, asking a variety of questions, some reasonable, some seemingly not. "Do you have any pets?," she asked with force. I answered with a steady no, but I was extremely curious as to why this was such a harshly asked question, as the ad said pets are welcome. My favorite question was regarding my employment. As I told I was, in fact, employed, and she asked me where, and I answered her again, she spat, "I've never heard of it." "Oh, well then it must not exist," I thought.

It seemed, despite my rudeness, that I had passed the test. She became more talkative, but only slightly more friendly, after concluding I sounded "great." I was less than impressed with her, of course. She rambled on stagnantly about what furniture was included (which was a nice surprise, since it wasn't in the listing), and mentioned hastily that it didn't have an oven, but an oven-like contraption with a name I cannot remember would be installed.

So me, who is considering baking for a living, is going to live in a place with no oven? I think not. I almost immediately hung up the phone, and thanked her for her waste of time. But some small part of me was too curious to pass it up. So I tentatively asked her for the exact address, so I could make sure I had adequate directions. She must have assumed she was the ultimate authority, because she refused, but instead gave me her own extremely detailed set of directions. So upon visiting this winner of a place this evening, I have no address, but know that it is in a gold stucco building. "You're really going to like it," she said. Sure.

So I am going to spend my Wednesday night walking around an apartment with a less-than-cheerful landlady, listening to her try to convince me that it's lack of an oven would be remedied before I moved in. It doesn't help that on top of this woman's poor first impression of both herself and her space, she asked me to bring a paystub, and if I wanted to sign tonight, I would need a $200 deposit that would cover part of my rent, or something (she actually kind of trailed off and never finished her sentence).

While I'm open to living in a lot of places, as long as the area is good, I will not make a sacrifice for a bad landlord. If I don't like you, I'm not renting for you -- the end. I am essentially hiring this woman to be available when my heat goes out or when my faucets leak, and I don't trust she's going to give a crap about me once I get in there if she has the audacity to demand I bring her a pay stub before she shows me the apartment. Needless to say, this has the potential to be a very interesting experience.

Day Fifty-One: Does Intuition Really Work?

In apartment hunting today, my mom came across a complex that has a lot of available one-bedroom units for well within my price range, in a nice area. "Why don't you look at those?," she asked. There's a perfectly good reason why I won't look at those. Of the 82 reviews on apartmentratings.com, only 23% of them were good. Why? Maybe it's the reported exorbitant rent increase, automatic lease renewal unless contacted within three days with a written letter, showing an apartment and then renting a unit that is ten times more worn down and used, housing a pedophile without notifying neighbors, pending lawsuits for ridiculous fees demanded of tenants that were not their responsibility, and taking three weeks to solve tenant maintenance issues might have something to do with it.

My mom did bring up a good point: "Maybe they just had sour grapes. Go and see a place and make your own judgements about it". In all respects, this may be true. People are a lot more likely to write a review of something if they had an unhappy experience and either want to vent, or warn people. Most people are not likely to say anything of somewhere they are happy living, because they are merely experiencing what they feel is expected and right of the establishment. It's the same reason a good employee may never get feedback from a bad boss -- if they're doing what's expected of them, they feel nothing needs to be said.

But still, with this firm logic in place, I can't help but just have a bad feeling about these apartments. Of course a lot of people could have had bad experiences -- they may have been bad tenants. Even as a first-time renter, anyone who rents a place without seeing exactly what they are paying for is making a really dumb decision. It's like buying a used car based on test-driving the same make, model, and year that has never left the lot. And of course, maybe the person concerned about the pedophile was an old lady who once saw the man walking in the park with a niece or nephew and got ideas in her head. And maybe, the people who are suing the management for billing them ridiculous fees for apartment damage actually damaged the apartment, and are bitter about having to pay, so they wrote a bad review.

But still, I have a feeling in my gut that this is not a place I want to be dealing with. It could be just bad impressions, which is entirely possible, but I have bad feelings about large complexes in general. How far should I follow my intuition? In this particular case, I think it's safe to say my intuition is correct. But should I rule out looking at other apartment complexes owned by large management companies just because I have a bad feeling about them? I think that's probably not a grand idea. But it really does make me wonder. Maybe I'll follow my intuition for awhile and see how far it gets me.

Day Fifty: Is Being Healthy Making Me Sick?

There is nothing quite like waking up in the morning and feeling perfectly fine, and two hours later being freezing, shaking, and nauseous. To make the experience better, there is also nothing like barfing in a public restroom. And if that's fun, then it's absolutely a blast to have to stop the car at the end of your street and open the door and ralph on the street, and your hair, as someone walks by walking their dog.

Needless to say, I did not have the most epic of Mondays.

I came home and slept for three hours, ate a piece of toast, went back to bed for another hour, ate some fruit, and sat around until dinner. So far, so good.

But for someone who doesn't get sick more than a bad cold twice a year, I've been feeling pretty crappy lately. It's only a month and a half into the year, and I've already used two and a half of my sick days. Fantastic. But it makes me a little worried. What have I been doing lately that's been making me so sick? This week, I've been really watching what I eat, so I'm thinking that maybe it's making my immune system a little weaker. Although the logic may not make sense, if I'm eating healthier but not eating well, I might not be giving myself any vitamins I need. A chocolate chip cookie might not be healthy, but it's giving me vitamin C from the orange zest, at least.

This isn't the first time this has happened to me. Last time I got pretty sick, I was on another health kick, just before Christmas. Naturally, I gave up my no-sugar kick at the holidays when fudge and cookies filled the house and I wanted to actually enjoy my holidays, so I put the health-kick on hold. But why everytime I eat healthy do I get un-healthy? Am I doing something wrong?

Day Forty-Nine: Dogs are Amazing

*Disclaimer*: This was meant to be posted yesterday, but I had a stomach virus and forgot. No excuses, I know. I'm a little disappointed in myself, but I did write yesterday, I just forgot to import this off my Ipod and post it. 
When I come home from work, I tend to have a general routine. I walk
in the door, pet my dogs, get changed, eat dinner, clean up, and sit  
down on the couch to write for the evening, or just check my email.  
And every night, our three-year-old shepherd/collie mix, Ellie, jumps  
up on the couch next to me, curls up in a circle, and goes to sleep.  
And it is my favorite part of the day.

I am a vey strong believer in the philosophy that dogs are 'man's best  
friend'. If I'm ever in a terrible mood, hate several things, am  
upset, or angry, one of mytwo fuzzy lumps will walk up to me and stare  
at me in such a way that all they really wan at that particular moment  
is simply to be loved. It never fails to cheer me up. I gre up with a  
dog, literally. When she died at a staggering nineteen years old, I am  
pretty sure I was in my mid-teens at the time. She was the closest  
thing I ever had to a sibling, and my perents treated her like a child  
(as they treat all their dogs). To this day, I still hear my dad say  
'Ellie! Don't hump your sister!' whenever she gets overexcited and  
latches herself to my leg. While many families mitt find this odd,  
dogs really always have been members ofmour family. Each of us spends  
some time each day bonding with our furry companions, either playing  
with them, giving them a good scratch, or (in my mom's case) brushing  
them. We don't kid around when it comes to our dogs.

It comes as no surprise then, that I already start to feel a little  
homesick when I think about moving out and being without a dog in my  
life. Until I was in 4th grade, I was blessed by the presence of a  
dog, and after that I was surrounded by at leas two, and at one point  
in time when my mother wanted to kill herself, three. So how can I  
possibly move out into a place without a dog? When I look at a place,  
I get a little twinge of happiness when I see that pets are allowed.  
Not because I can get my own four-legged fuzzy, but because I, honest  
to God, can bring my more-adventurous dog over for sleepovers. I would  
happily pay a pet deposit and pick poop up off neighbors' yards to  
have visits from one of my dogs (the other is too afraid of cars to  
enjoy herself anywhere but home. With that one, I'll need to go to her).


And one day, after I've gotten a raise and can afford vet bills and  
heartworm medicine, I'll get my own dog.  But when I lived in an  
apartment at college, I would actually miss my dogs more than my  
parents (to be fair, I could talk to my parents on the phone, so  
naturally I wouldn't miss them as much). To this day, I swear that I  
went home every weekend my freshman year of college to see my dogs.  
And honestly, assuming I budget correctly, that will  be the hardest  
part of moving out for me. Who's going to cheer me up when I'm sad? I  
guess I'll just have to turn to my boyfriend and friends for that (I'm  
kidding, really).

Day Forty-Eight: Restaurants, Though Delicious, are Evil.

I am on a major health kick, and so far it has been proving pretty easy. But when it comes to healthy eating, I am a "go big or go home" kind of gal. I am trying to eat only lean meats and proteins whenever I can, eat more vegetables, more whole grains, and I'm paying attention to the caloric content of the foods I eat, simply because I'm curious to know what healthy foods I thought were healthy before, really aren't. Basically, the whole thing is an experiment to see how healthily I can eat for how long, and how my body reacts (in which I am also eliminating as much added sugar from my diet as I can, just to see how I feel. That means no cookies, no cake, no chocolate, and no sugar in my oatmeal. So far, so good.).

At least, the process is easy when I'm making food for myself at home. This morning, for example, I had two hard-boiled eggs sprinkled with salt on a piece of wheat toast. It was only 250 calories, full of protein, not high in sodium, and I also got some whole grains. It also kept me full from 8:00 AM through to lunch at noon, which is unheard of for me, as I get hungry like every 2 hours. Pretty good deal. Lunch also wasn't too bad. I had a bowl of Kashi Go Lean! Crunch with fruit on it, and that kept me full until, around, 4 PM, which could have been better, but it wasn't bad.

The problem came when I was out at the mall with friends and got tummy rumble-ies. My plethora of healthy options was...the food court. I knew it was going to be a challenge, but I didn't realize how much of a challenge. I headed for Chick-Fil-A, and got the healthiest thing I could find -- a Chargrilled Chicken Cool Wrap with Light Italian dressing. The wrap was basically a salad of lettuce, a couple carrots and some red cabbage, with a couple pieces of grilled chicken inside a thick tortilla wrap. And I used a quarter-packet of the dressing, which was about 25 calories. I felt proud. Until I got home and looked up how much I had eaten. That measly wrap, which kept me full for a whopping three hours, was 415-ish calories (the "ish" is for the estimated dressing I used). I ate some pork tenderloin, a cup of green beans, and a little bit of pasta last night, WITH butter, and that was less. I was astounded, and annoyed. I realize tortillas are not really that healthy of a choice, but come on -- aside from that I was eating a frickin' salad, and a sad one at that. I was not pleased.

I know it's difficult to eat healthy when out on the go or at a restaurant, but is it honestly possible? I know a lot of restaurants offer "healthier choices," but they're still loaded with sodium, and are really, really boring (wow, salmon covered in "signature" grill seasoning (a.k.a. salt, salt, and more salt, and some spices) and a side of overcooked broccoli, all for only 350 calories? No way! I'm totally not missing out on eating the bacon cheeseburger!). And healthier protein options, such as salmon or grilled chicken, are always smothered in some kind of cheese or cream sauce that throws the whole notion right out the back door.

With this in mind, if anyone who's trying to live a healthier lifestyle wants to "treat" themselves by going out, what's the treat? You're eating something probably ten times not as good as what you could make yourself for the same amount of calories and a higher amount of sodium. It's really depressing. It makes me want to screw the whole thing when I get out and do it right, and get the chicken strips. And it definitely poses a handicap when going out with friends, if you're always the one who wants to go somewhere where you can get something not absolutely terrible for you. If it's not a national chain restaurant or a restaurant designed around allowing healthier options, it's probably not going to make the cut. That eliminates diners (unless you're happy with a really, really sad salad bar), pizza and sandwich joints, most chinese restaurants (although some serve brown rice, chicken and vegetables. Woo.), and just about all Mexican places. So, basically, anywhere fun. Mexican is my weakness, by the way -- I don't make sacrifices when it comes to tortillas, guacamole, and marinated beef.

No wonder America is so fat -- it's extremely difficult to find anything truly healthy on a menu. I'm not sure how long this health kick of mine will last (the longest it's ever lasted me has been a month, which isn't too bad, I think), but so far the results have been...hungry. But apparently we're designed to eat every four hours, so I think that's a good thing. But it's awfully inconvenient.

Day Forty-Seven: Men are the Real Chocolate Fiends

When most people (men or women) think of the number one food women crave, they definitely think chocolate first and foremost. We not only just crave chocolate, but we need it, adore it, savor it, and if it had the power to perform miracles we would probably worship it. It can either make us crazy or subdue us, make us lovey, or be the only man we need in our lives. But I've noticed something astounding lately: men eat more chocolate than women.

I promise you, it's the truth. Where I work, a candy bowl sits temptingly to my right full of Hershey Kisses, Hershey Kisses with Almonds, and on occasion, mini York Peppermint Patties. And throughout my day, I fill this bowl at least twice. Interestingly, a similar bowl sits downstairs on the first floor, and it only needs to be filled maybe once every day, or once every two days. There are also possibly twice as many people on the first floor, as on floor where I am. So why do I go through a bag or two of Hershey Kisses a day? Men.

The only way to the bathroom on the floor I occupy is past my desk. As a result, many people grab candy everytime they walk by. There are, however, three or four ways to get to the bathroom on the first floor, and most of the people who use the main doors on the first floor are women (are you following, so far?). So I sit at my desk, and all day, I watch people take candy, and 95% of the partakers are men. Men eat all the candy.

Why? I can't begin to explain it. I could start a possible Battle of the Sexes riot and venture a guess that women have more willpower. We can more easily say "no, that's not good for us." Or, men could just be less concerned about their appearances. So what if they gain a few pounds? Men generally seem to care less about this anyway. Or, men might just be a little less uptight, generally speaking. They like chocolate, it makes them happy, so they eat it. I really don't know. But it definitely debates the myth that women are the chocolate fiends. We might like chocolate an awful lot, but men obviously like it too.

Day Forty-Six: The Best Motivation is Self-Motivation

After being snowed in for two days straight, after only a three-day reprieve from being snowed in last weekend, I lost it today. About an hour ago, I absolutely needed to burn off energy, so I went outside and shoveled the deck (a completely unnecessary, although not pointless task). For a half hour, I scraped and chopped at hardened, heavy snow, I lifted heavy loads of white crap, and threw it elsewhere. I got sweaty, I got gross, and I got cold. I also felt better than I have in a very long time.

I know I should exercise, as everybody does, really. Everybody realizes it's a good idea to get out and increase their heart rate a little bit, but nobody who makes it a priority ever wants to do it until they're actually five or ten minutes in. I am no exception to this common group of people. I don't really like the idea of getting up off the warm couch and engaging in some healthy physical activity, but once I do it (which is very rare), I feel really good. I feel better about myself and my state of health, and I feel like I'm not treating my body like garbage. It also makes me feel better about my high intake of sugar.

But although I have known that I need to join a gym ever since I stopped going after I graduated college, I have never gotten myself to do it (mostly because of the absolutely ridiculous membership fees that come along with joining). But nothing has motivated me more than feeling restless and suffocated by four walls surrounded by snow. I guess being unable to go anywhere else forced me to do the only thing I could to exert any physical energy -- exercise. Maybe being snowed-in is actually not bad for me.

Day Forty-Five: The Famous (or Infamous) Valentine's Day

For as long as Valentine's has no longer been about buying paper Valentines for classmates and getting free candy and lots of hugs, I've not been a fan. There has never been anything fun to me about bedecking everything in sight in hearts, arrows, and naked babies in obnoxiously bright and cutesy colors that are usually also either fuzzy or shiny. I hate that Hallmark brings out their 2nd largest collection of overpriced cardboard greetings covered in glitter. But most of all, I hate that it's a holiday where it becomes mandatory, to most gentlemen, to buy their ladies roses, candy, or dinner, and on the other side of things, men are expected to receive a little lovin' in return. This is an absolutely disgusting concept.

I've always believed that if you're in love with someone, you don't need a designated greeting card holiday to celebrate it. Honestly, if I got flowers or candy or dinner on a night that isn't Valentine's Day, I'd be happier. At least, this is how I felt until last year.

Last year, I somewhat begrudgingly went with my boyfriend to dinner, which ended up being very, very nice. We picked a great place, had a wonderful dinner, and I got a box of Godiva chocolate. I felt...very special. And apparently, by the angry and jealous looks from every other woman in the restaurant, I was also very lucky. This year, although I'm still not extremely adamant about Valentine's Day, I am looking forward to it. However, if we had chosen to to celebrate, I wouldn't have been too upset. We're not getting each other gifts this year, mostly because we don't feel like going through the trouble and we don't really have the money. I would much rather spend a nice evening in than having to wrack my brain trying to come up with a good gift idea, and I'm sure my boyfriend feels the same way.

So I have waved my white flag of defeat in my battle against Valentine's Day, but it was a long battle waged. The problem, I sheepishly admit, is that no one had ever made me feel special on Valentine's Day. So although I claimed year after year that I did not dislike Valentine's Day because I was single, it probably did have something to do with my feelings towards it. I wasn't bitter about it because I was single, but no one had ever given me a reason to not be annoyed by it. And despite the fact that I no longer hate Valentine's Day, I still really do hate shiny hearts and cupids and those stupid little candy hearts with pointless messages that taste like chalk. But despite all that -- Happy Valentine's Day to those who celebrate it.

Day Forty-four: This is Getting Ridiculous

It's currently Tuesday night, and the Northeastern United States is sending itself into a tizzy because -- oh, my God -- it's going to snow.

Keep in mind, if you are not from this area (which is unlikely, if you are reading this) it snowed a whole hell of a lot on Saturday. The roads, while almost completely clear, are still icy and snowy in some spots on side streets. Now, it's going to snow again. And everyone is freaking out. Personally, I don't understand why meteorologists get so worked up over a snow storm to the point where they broadcast coverage from multiple areas for hours and hours on end, tracking the amount sticking to the ground, and putting their cameras on cars stuck in snowbanks because somebody thought whatever they had to do was more important than their safety. In one story predicting tomorrow's impending storm (which will be anywhere from six to twenty inches), they actually referred to this string of constant snowstorms as the "Snowmageddon". I'm really sick of this crap. Snow, in itself, is not life-threatening. And I would be extremely surprised if two decent snowstorms within a week is enough to end the world. New England deals with it all the time.

Sure, power might go out, but we're an advanced and wealthy enough society that we can cover ourselves in several layers of clothing and blankets and either read by candlelight or play stupid drinking games for entertainment. Pipes might freeze, which would be extremely unfortunate and slightly more dangerous, but mostly it would be inconvenient. But, I don't think we'd die. So enough with the drama. It's not like it's a hurricane or an earthquake, because those are legitimate catastrophes and actually injure people and wreak havoc.

In addition to trying to frighten viewers into staying glued to their televisions, there's also this mess with constant information. Do I really need to know that PennDot is working around the clock to salt and plow roads? Do I really need to know that it has snowed half an inch in the past hour? Do I really need to know what Delaware looks like? And most of all, do I REALLY need to know that it is, in fact, STILL snowing? While it's certainly entertaining to watch blithering overpaid morons stand outside in their Totes and company-provided parka and be continuously pelted in the face with wet, cold powder, it's not doing me any good. Any of the information these dimwits are providing me I can either get by looking out my window or actually going outside. Given, in fact, that I actually care. If it's blizzarding outside, there isn't really much I can do about it, is there? Short of standing in front of the window thinking, "wow, that's going to be a real bitch to shovel," I can't do anything else. I cannot make it stop snowing, I can't clear my driveway, and I can't prevent it from getting colder. So why is it necessary that I stay alert on the current snow situation? When it stops, I'll go outside and deal with it. And by then, the news crews won't find the storm nearly as interesting and will move on to sticking cameras in the faces of people trying to clear their sidewalks.

So really, it's getting ridiculous. Enough with the storm coverage. Maybe, just maybe, because we've had one really good snow storm already, the news crews will not care quite as much about this bout of snow. And I'll sit inside and watch it snow and go stir-crazy, again.

Day Forty-Three: Patience, My Ass

I am not, and have never been a patient person. I hate waiting, I have a short attention span, and I will usually take any opportunity I have to make a process go faster, and usually at my own expense. "Oh, I'm supposed to wait thirty minutes for my nail polish to dry before attempting to open this cardboard box with my hands? No, that's okay, I'll just do it very carefully."  This, of course, only ends in a string of colorful curse words, wasted time, and wasted nail polish. "Please wait seven to ten days for delivery." No, I will avidly track my package from the day I make my order to see if it will arrive on my doorstep in, perhaps, two or three days instead.

When it comes to waiting for important things to process that I cannot possibly make go any faster, such as the waiting after a job interview, or in my current example, waiting to hear from a realtor about a place, I feel helpless, restless, and annoyed that the situation is almost completely out of my hands, and anything I could do to make the process work faster would almost certainly harm the outcome. Sure, I could call or email the woman several times a day to get the status on my credit check and the landlord's decision, but proving myself to be "a real go-getter" will probably only prove me to be controlling, impatient, and untolerably annoying. Nobody wants to rent to somebody like that. So instead, I must be content with what I can do with this process: sit and watch my phone blink peacefully in its unquavering and uninterrupted sleep. Sure, at some point during the day, or within the next few days, it might vibrate to life with flashing lights and blinking colors, but right now, it isn't, and I won't have any idea when it will (or if it will). So I have absolutely no other reasonable and psychologically stable option other than to wait patiently. I could wait impatiently, sure, but that would not make my answer come any sooner, and it would only serve to make me more stressed out, more upset, and more impatient than I already am.

So, I'm going to sit and wait. I will keep my phone glued by my side and be patient for as long as I physically can until I become a warped and girly version of the Incredible Hulk, in which my inner child will come tumbling uncontrollably out and I will probably throw a temper tantrum, which I absolutely still do (I am entirely ashamed to admit this, but I promise I do it completely away from other people, and it usually consists of throwing something unbreakable and sobbing hysterically. Please note that this has never happened at the result of impatience. I have only ever known myself to throw an adult temper tantrum when I have done something incredibly, epically stupid and probably knew that it was a bad idea before I did it, yet I proceeded anyway. I think that's probably a decent reason.). In my slight experience, the longer I have had to wait for something, the better it ended up being when it arrived. so maybe I'll end up having to wait a week, and it will all turn out beautifully. I guess I just have to wait.

Day Forty-Two: The Stupidity That is the Super Bowl

As is probably expected, I am not a football fan. I have tried in earnest to watch it and understand it, but I can't get past the large men in too-tight uniforms and the slow-paced action to pay enough attention to what's going on. So when the Super Bowl comes around every year, celebrating the year's best athletes in football and glorifying it to almost a new national holiday, I either try to stay as far away as possible, or suck it up and use the excuse to have a good party with good food and decent beer.

So I sit here now, trying to tune out the Super Bowl, and paying half-attention to the barrage of extremely expensive commercials that come in chunks approximately every three minutes. As much as I don't care about football, the Super Bowl, the talk, the pre-game show, the post-game show, the tailgating concerts, the half-time show, the coach and player interviews, and the obscenely-priced commercial spots, it does fascinate me. It is a celebration and glorification of all that is American -- strength, economic stability and business dealings, commercialism, and competition. Maybe, just maybe, the Super Bowl is an embodiment of the American Dream itself.

Think about it -- millions of people all tune in at the same time, most of them eating similar foods and rooting for the same things (if not necessarily the same team), and making companies millions of dollars by viewing commercials and possibly buying products advertised. It's not even really all that negative, either. It brings people together, and I guess, in a way that I don't completely understand, it strengthens the economy...I guess. And what people aren't spending in products they see in advertisments during the Super Bowl, the mecca of TV commercials, they're spending on food and booze for their parties. It's not such a bad thing.

Still, despite the fascination I feel when it comes about, I'm not nearly fascinated to want to be near it if there isn't a decent party attached to it. I suppose it's a better alternative to the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet (which is adorable, but tolerable for only about ten minutes, and absolutely nauseating when the Kitty Halftime Show comes around). But it does prevent other, more entertaining programs from playing on my TV, as it takes up hours and hours of time. And with these slight gripes, and the new fact that two commercials with unattractive, overweight men in briefs just played consecutively during the most recent commercial break, I am now bidding the Super Bowl adieu for the year and making better use of my Sunday evening.

Day Forty-One: The Importance of Creativity

At noon today, I started making batter for red velvet cupcakes from scratch. I meticulously watched the butter come to perfect beating temperature, carefully measured out all my ingredients, and added a generous amount of food coloring. By two P.M., I had three pans of perfectly round and squat, red cupcakes, and I spent about fifteen minutes making smooth vanilla frosting. By 4:30 P.M., I had three pans of horrendously iced cupcakes and a severe need for a nap. After dinner and a quick nap, by ten P.M. I had twelve too-cute to eat, colorful, fondant-colored cupcakes. I took several pictures of them like they were my children, and I'm incredibly proud of them since it's the first time I worked with fondant, and they turned out pretty damn well.

So I spent ten hours of my day creating things, which I haven't done in a very, very long time. I'm not sure I've actually ever spent that much consecutive time in a day being that meticulous and creative about something, and it was good to get back into the groove of using my creative impulses again and sitting and getting that satisfying stiff neck and stained fingers, even if they were stained with food dye and not paint or graphite. It's not permanent art, but it's art just the same. After having such a satisfying day, being completely consumed by something and not want to do anything else, I wonder how some people can simply not enjoy being the slightest bit creative.

As part of my senior thesis, a quarter of our grade was a "creative project", in which we had to use what we had learned to create something tangible that we could use to either put on a resume or show potential employers. Most video majors created documenteries, but there was no set medium for specific concentrations. Two of my close friends and I threw a small benefit concert, which was a lot of work, a lot of fun, and a really interesting way to go out with a bang our senior year. But some people, unbelievable to me, had an extremely difficult time and absolutely hated the idea of the creative project at all. I cannot, even slightly understand not being creative. It is so ingrained in me that I even though I don't use concentrated creativity very often, I still can't imagine not feeling creative about something. Even if it's in the way I arrange things or the way I dress myself, I'm still being creative. And some people just don't care. How is it that some people just don't have a single creative bone in their bodies? How do they function?

Day Forty: Snowed In

It's amazing what we turn to for entertainment when we become snowed in and our options for entertainment become dangerously limited to a stir-crazy proportion. Given that I was snowed in most of last weekend, I don't know how much more of staying barricaded inside a cozy dwelling away from the elements I can take. It's much better than the alternative, but myself and many other people (most of whom in South Jersey, undoubtedly), are getting really sick of snow. And it certainly doesn't help that our little winter snowfall is being dubbed "the storm of the season" with states and counties declaring states of emergency and actually fining people for leaving their houses. God help us all.

Therefore, even before the first flurries fell, any possibility of plans I may have had for the weekend were quickly dashed. Knowing I would be confined to my house for the evening, I began to undertake the task of making a neat little list of all the furniture and furnishing items I would need to purchase when I eventually move, which will hopefully be soonish. I began thinking this could be a fun little project that would be both productive, and take a considerable amount of my evening. I would get a nice sense of accomplishment and entertain myself in the process, fending off cabin fever for at least the first day of this winter storm.

But what it turned into was a three-hour online search for a comforter. My mother got frustrated, I hated everything, and we both ended up exhausted and laughing at horribly ugly carribbean themed bedding with flamingos and sunsets. Needless to say, it got a little out of hand. While we were pretty entertained, what started as a nice little task ended as a debacle immensely picky proportions. I'm already feeling a little stir-crazy after staring at a screen for the better part of my day today. So tomorrow, it will be cake baking and decorating, and hopefully that will ward off the fear of being locked inside for yet another weekend.

So as I'm sitting here, watching feet of snow build up around me, I'm wondering what other people are doing to keep themselves occupied over the snowy weekend. A lot of people (myself not included) have the social and economic embarassment that is the Super Bowl on Sunday to occupy themselves, so I'm sure that helps. If you're in the Northwestern U.S., what are you doing to keep yourself occupied? Hopefully, you have a bottle of something strong and a friend with you to help the process.

Day Thirty-Nine: The Story of My Demon Phone

Sit back, dear children, and let me tell you a story. It is a story of pain, confusion, suffering, addiction, and being really pathetic. It's the story of dropping my phone in a sink full of water.

About a year ago, I was in my friend's apartment getting ready to go out on a good ole' night on the town. After one of the ladies left the bathroom after her primping session, I strolled in, phone-in-hand, and prepared to relieve myself. Not realizing that the sink didn't drain properly (or have a completely flat surface), I set my beloved outer-body organ on the edge of the vanity while I prepared to do what I had to do. And then I watched, in horror, as my huge, computer-like monstrosity of a cellular device slipped gracefully into the sink and readily submerged itself in soapy water.

Naturally, I panicked. No, I didn't just panic, actually -- I threw a complete and utter freak-out fit. Now before you think me a technophile (if that's a word) and someone who treats their phone like a member of their family (which I don't...I drop it all the time. I don't drop my family members), I need to explain the significance of my cell phone, to those who may not know. My boyfriend, whom I love very much and am actually pretty attached to, gave me my phone as an early birthday gift. Actually, it was the first gift he ever gave me, that wasn't a small token of thought. And although he didn't buy it, he still worked very hard to get it, by talking to people and asking favors. So after doing some tricky thinking and talking to sales guys at his work, he nabbed a brand-new, free, Tony Hawk Sidekick LX leftover from a promotion. So, not only is it a pretty damn cool phone, but it as some significant sentimental value. He also presented it to me right before we left for our first major vacation: a nine-hour drive to Cleveland to see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

So, my friends, I was watching something pretty important to me (and something I text people on....a lot....) fall into a sink full of water. Thus, I did freak out. But I think it was somewhat warranted. But thankfully, after a lot of hair-dryering and refrigerating, and TLC, it made it through the night, and lived to tell the tell, little worse for wear. But as I watched it twitching and turning itself on and off, flashing its multi-colored lights, and turning the volume up and down on its own, I thought it was a gonner.

I was reminiscing about this amusing story today, because as a scar due to its quick submersion, my phone, every few months, will drain its battery immediately and turn itself off, absolutely dead until charged for at least 15 minutes. It happened to do just that today, conveniently after I received a phone call I had needed. But it always comes out of its coma just fine, and hopefully it will last me as long as a normal, unharmed phone should.

Day Thirty-Eight: I'm Pretty Sure I'm Slowly Killing Myself

I'm pretty sure I'm slowly killing myself. Every morning, I wake up and my brain turns on. I think about having to get up, I think about having to take a shower, and I think about all the crap I have to do that day. My brain is always going like the Energizer bunny, and sometimes I think so quickly from one thing to the next that I completely forget where I'm going when I'm walking. I'll stride into a room with purpose, only to realize I either walked completely past where I meant to be going and into the room I am currently in, or I'll completely forget why I ventured to where I stand. But strangely, I'm rarely scattered, and often don't forget things, no matter how much is on my mind. Maybe that's why I'm so stressed out all the time. I have a constant running list of crap I have to do and remember.

It doesn't help that I always need to be moving, as well. If I'm not doing something, generally, I will get antsy and bored. So even when I'm relaxing, I feel like I'm wasting time and I'm stressed that I'm not making better use of my time. No wonder I'm in such bad shape.

As a result, my body is constantly tense. My muscles are always tight, I have nervous ticks, and I'm pretty sure my pulse is quick all the time. I've tried desperately to chill out and calm down, but nothing seems to keep me calm and more slowly moving once I stop my relaxation technique. I've tried meditation, reading, candles, consciously telling myself to calm down whenever I remember, watching my breathing, and relaxing my muscles. None of them work. In fact, the only thing that does help is being absolutely exhausted. Then, I'm slow, calm, and serene. However, I'm also working on low fuel. So yes, I'm pretty sure I'm killing myself.

I'm probably going to die of heart failure, purely because I am working my poor heart so much to keep my body moving as fast as my brain, and my brain keeping up with itself. So it's high time I really figure out how to relax myself before I start doing some real damage. Suggestions are most welcome.

Day Thirty-Seven: Do You Believe That Things are "Meant to Be"?

In the mighty search for a place to live, I have been looking several times a day and calling numerous weird people in order to find something affordable in an area I like that isn't a dump. Since I'm making entry-level salary and refuse to live with others, I obviously can't afford much. So, the process has been proving difficult, and I still haven't looked at anything other than the one small, yet adorable place I've already seen.

But today, my mother found a place that warranted an email in the middle of the day telling me about it. It wasn't just a one-bedroom apartment, it was a two-bedroom cottage, with a washer and dryer. For the same price as the one-bedroom room in an old house with no washer and dryer I had seen. I immediately scrambled to see pictures of it online, and was convinced when I saw it had its own mailbox. So, naturally, I called the realtor immediately to schedule a showing, and I am awaiting her call back.

So while I would love to love this place, and love even more to love it and rent it, it may just be not meant to be. Maybe, it isn't "meant" to happen. While I am not necessarily a spiritual person and I am definitely not a religious one, I can't help but believing begrudgingly in the concept that if something is supposed to happen and work out, it will. I take my job as the perfect example of that. It took me a ridiculously long time to get hired after college, and I went on interview after interview and never got an offer. But finally, I was offered the job I have now, and I couldn't be happier. I can't imagine finding a better environment to work in or better people to work with. So clearly, to me, it was "meant to happen."

So, like I was with my job situation five months ago, I am antsy and on-edge about this cute little cottage. But as I've learned a pretty strong lesson with the employment situation, I now have a better sense of calm about this situation than I think I normally would have. If the realtor doesn't call me back, I will email her, and then if she doesn't get back to me, I will assume it wasn't meant to happen. I am also a strong believer that you need to go after what you want in life, but if doing all you can doesn't get you want you want, maybe it just wasn't meant to happen.

Whether this is or is not the case, I am trying to remain calm and un-stressed about this situation to keep what is left of my sanity and peace of mind. I am chronically stressed out and probably shortening my life, so the last thing I want to do is get worked up over something that really is not that important. Moving out is important, yes, but I do not have to move out by March. Getting a cottage is not important, it's just a really lucky opportunity. So I'll sit and wait, but I won't freak out. Here, cottage, cottage, cottage...

Day Thirty-Six: How Much Love is Enough?

From the time us females are little girls in pink dress-up dresses watching Cinderella and The Little Mermaid, we're taught that our Prince is out there somewhere. He might be sailing the open seas, looking for the girl who fits his slipper, or trying to kiss the girl to wake her from her perpetual sleep. But once we hit a certain age (hopefully), we females realize that this is a great story and a wonderful dream to have, but it's also a load of crap. No one, not ourselves, and definitely not our Prince Charming, are perfect. But that doesn't mean we have to take the first Shmo who falls for us and we don't hate, either. 

I read an article linked from MSN.com today about a woman who wrote a book explaining that other women need to settle in order to live the lives they want to live. If they want to be married and have a family, they can't keep looking for Mr. Right. Sometimes, they just need to accept the fact that they love the man they're with, even if they find him a little boring, or a little stubborn and uncompromising. She says, and rightly so, that if a woman waits around for the man they find to be right for them in all regards, they might be waiting forever. Unfortunately, not all women who want husbands and families end up finding the man who is right for them. So, whether they agree with this woman's advice or not, they probably end up settling. 

But at what price is marriage and children to some? Some women really do want to be mothers and to have families more than anything else in their lives. But to live in a marriage that lacks spark and real love and true devotion, why be in a marriage at all? It seems like a pointless and wasted effort, and not a healthy way to live, at all. But honestly, how many women do find the man they think is perfect for them? Don't almost all women compromise in some regard to what they want? If not, we'd be stamping them out in factories rather than choosing men we adore, flaws and all. 

I'm sure this goes the same for men, as well. No woman is perfect, and if they were, how could you grow and change and learn as a couple? There needs to be a little disagreement in order to grow as people and learn to negotiate and love in times of disagreement. We're a sophisticated species -- compromise is pretty important. But where do we draw the line? Nobody wants someone who has none of the qualities they want in a partner, but it's impossible to find the perfect mate, either. I think obviously, the balance lies in the attributes we're willing to compromise on. And if you're lucky, you find someone who's pretty damn great, regardless of being imperfect. 

Day Thirty-Five: Me vs. Taquitos

Due to a freak one-foot snowstorm that attacked Southern New Jersey this weekend, my cousin and I were extremely limited in our entertainment for the weekend. So when the white stuff started to fall out of the sky at 11 AM, ominously and steadily sticking to cars, roads, and grass, we looked at each other and said, "uh oh". With a small sense of panic and enormous ambition, we created a list of things we would most definitely need if our party would be snowed inside. So, off to the liquor store and the grocery store we went. The bounty that we returned home with was of enormous and very impressive proportions. I myself alone bought three boxes of Girl Scout cookies, 3 avocados, guacamole mix, Triscuits, and a bottle of Raspberry vodka. Not too bad, right? Definitely the makings of a feast of indigestion, but not awful yet. My cousin, however, bought a bag of chips, another box of Triscuits, Taquitos, pretzel bites, ice cream, more vodka, and for the sake of not feeling too guilty, a bag of carrots. Now, we were facing a frightening buffet of gassiness.

We started by splitting the box of Taquitos for a late lunch. The serving size, mind you, is three. We each ate ten. This was followed by a food coma and laying on the middle of the hardwood floor groaning in discomfort. But oh, we weren't done yet. After a brief respite, I made up some lovely guacamole, and promptly ate half of it. My cousin ate a third of it, and then ate a handful of Girl Scout cookies, then passed out. Now, we were starting to feel a little sick. But a couple of hours later, after some carrots and a nap, we decided it was time for dinner. But nothing we bought was worthy of being our biggest meal of the day. So in the snowstorm, we ordered two personal-sized pizzas, complete with melty, cheesy, greasy goodness. I ate two pieces and could not get off the couch for the rest of the night.

My cousin, however, was a stronger opponent than I. She made herself a bowl of low-fat ice cream with Girl Scout cookies on the side, as I watched in dismay and nausea. I felt awful, I looked awful, and I am now still recovering, with the aid of some vegetables and lots of water. What have I learned from my fun-filled, gluttonous weekend of deliciousness? The body was definitely, absolutely, not made to run solely on boxed Taquitos, processed food, and pizza alone. There's a reason vegetables have been such a staple of our diet for so long. I did not manage to feed myself anything yesterday that my body could use as fuel to keep myself going throughout the day. To me, it's like trying to run your car on bacon grease.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid: I did know before that what I was doing to myself wasn't a good idea. But never before in my life have I eaten that terribly for such a long period of time. I now know where my threshold lies, and I think I came very close to crossing it. So now I'm on a health kick, not because I feel guilty, but because I feel half-dead. Come on vitamins, get in my belly and help me function as a human being.