And The Best Actress Goes To...

Sally Field is mother fuckin' boss. Excuse my language, but seriously, she has to be one of the best actresses of our time. She is beyond incredible. Seriously. If you are not up to date with how amazing she is, then let me fill you in. In 1976, she was in this made for TV movie, in a role that Natalie Wood and Audry Hepburn turned down. She played this young girl that had Dissociative Identity Disorder, (more commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder.) If you live under a rock, the title of this movie is Sybil. Because of her, the movie was nominated for a Golden Globe and won four Emmy's, including Best Leading Actress in a Drama or Comedy Special. Which makes complete fucking sense. She had to jump characters in an instant. And I don't just mean that she had to change emotions. She had to adjust her voice, her facial expressions, her demeanor, along with emotions. And in an instant! BOSSILY! I can't even begin to describe how amazing her acting job was. I can't. So just watch the movie.*
What else, you ask? Well, despite the fact that Tom Hanks took the spotlight as a mentally handicap man who had could teach the world quite a few great lessons, Sally Field played his mom, and she was awesome. She won a SAG Award and a Kid's Choice Award. Yeah, even kids know how bossily Sally is. She also had one of the best monologue I've ever seen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EjNa8Ukg_0

Okay, it cut half of it off, but you can still see... Freakin' awesome. Along with being in Mrs. Doubtfire, Where The Heart Is, and along with a bunch of other movies, and she makes the TV show, Brothers & Sisters, what it is.

So, do you get it? Sally Field is a mother fucking boss.

*Fun Factoid: Joanne Woodward, who plays Dr. Wilbur, played Eve in one of the first media portrayals of Multiple Personality Disorder in Three Faces of Eve.

I've Got The Magic In Me! Well, at least I did.

I came to one of the most devastating realizations today. Let me tell you about my day before I elaborate on this tragedy. Today, I woke up at 7. I ate, got myself ready and went to class. I had a stimulating discussion on Plato and what is real and not-so-real in my philosophy course. Then I went to Intro to Social Work, a class that I have some sore feelings for, where we watched the most boring movie about the history of social work and then watched an old State of the Union with Obama, yes, the ENTIRE thing. I don't tend to watch anything on C-SPAN, so I don't know how State of the Union is suppose to go, but this particular one, everyone- wait, I take that back- the democrats would stand up every other sentence and applaud. After which, we had a mere five minute conversation about the similarities between the two videos. After class, I had to rush to work. Now, it was a very rainy day today, so I made sure I had my umbrella. Well, that piece of shit kept breaking on me. I got more wet because this devil of a contraption would flip upside down and collect water then go back to and dump it on me, and then the arms got out-of-whack and I wasn't even getting any coverage. I know I looked like a fool walking with a broken umbrella, getting soaked. Well, then I arrived at work.  At work we were doing floor-sets so we were busy. I left work at 9 and made my way home. I barely remember the drive home; I was on auto-pilot. See, when you do the same thing multiple times, your brain makes shortcuts with new neural pathways.
So, what's my devastating realization? Patiences young Jedi. Before I tell you I have to tell you at little bit about my philosophies growing up. I used to think that I was something really special. That their really weren't a lot of people like me. I always felt like I was lucky because I had this gift of being able to be inspired constantly. I saw the magic in everyday life. I would be in awe from the smallest blade of grass that made it's way up between the cracks on a sidewalk to the beautiful silhouette that skyscrapers make when the sun is at just the right angle. I felt special because I was inspired by everything. I have notebooks and sketchbooks full of everything from quotes to poetry to drawings of life's everyday beauties.
My devastating realization? I'm not special. In fact, as kids, we are all inspired by the little things. I've been lucky because I've noticed the magic as long as I have. But grown-ups don't see it. They just remember all of the hustle and bustle of life. Time is ticking for grown-ups, but kids have all the time in the world. I have realized that I'm losing it. I'm growing up*. I have a job and I go to school full time. My room is clean, and is staying that way. I run errands, like going to the bank, grocery store, getting gas or tampons or milk. I have bills to pay and places to be. I can't spend time noticing the true beauty of a song or a flower. It sucks. Growing up really sucks. Magic is real, until you stop noticing it. I don't want to stop noticing it, but how can I? Sure, I might take note when big things happen. You know, weddings, funerals, babies being born. But, then it will fade away. We noticed the magic more after that horrific day in 2001, but now, nine years later, it's gone.
Growing up sucks. I want to be a Toys R Us kid forever.

*To quote Grey's Anatomy, "We're grown ups. When did this happen??"

Is There Anything I Can Help You Find Today?

I work in customer service. I am a sales associate at a small volume store in a large mall. Working there at times can be boring, like beautiful days when no one wants to step inside a mall, and yet I'm forced to stand there refolding the same pair of jeans for my entire shift. While I work, I need to find some way of entertaining myself, (not in that way, perv.) So, I have created some games, like Mom or Girlfriend. It's pretty self-explanatory, but for all you slow-pokes, when I see a woman come in with a young guy, I try to figure out if it's his young mom or his cougar girlfriend. Fun, huh? I also play: Foreign or Retarded, (sometimes it's both!) and Deaf or Bitch, (I got it wrong the other day, I felt bad for my glares at the poor girl.) I also play Dad or Kidnapper, but that one kinda freaks me out a little.
Sometimes, though, we actually get customers in our store. Now, let me tell you something about customers: They are stupid. Let me share some quotes:

"What does the one before the zero mean?" "It means they are a size ten."

"When will you be getting that size in?" "Oh, we don't know. Just whenever they ship it to us." "Okay, but when will it come in?" "We don't know." "Well, do you know when they'll ship it?" "No." "What about when they'll come in?"

"How old do you have to be to work here?" "Sixteen." "What if I'm fifteen?" "Then you can't work here." "Oh. Really?" No I'm freaking lying. "Really." 

Yes. Those actually happened. They are exact quotes. Stupid.

Now, I know what you are thinking. When you go shopping you don't ask stupid questions. You're not stupid! Okay, not all are stupid. But, the ones that aren't are just bitchy. Example, you ask? One part of my job is to greet people as they come in.

 "Hey, how's it going today?" Silence. "Is there anything I can help you find?" Silence. "Are you shopping for anything in particular?" Nasty Look. "No." 

What the fuck man? Do you think I want to be asking you all these questions? Do you think I enjoy talking to complete strangers about what they are shopping for? I mean, they aren't paying me to do this or anything. I'm there spending my Tuesday nights talking to some store's customers for nothing. Just a fun past time. Whatever. Just don't be such a bitch. Whatever happened to common courtesy? And just so you know, when you act so bitchy, I'll return the favor. I won't leave you alone. I'll keep coming up to you every two minutes and ask, "Are you still finding everything okay??" Or, "Can I help you find certain size in that??" Until you leave. Or when you want a fitting room. I purposely make sure I keep you waiting. Bite me and I bite back.*

I guess I should also include the customers that aren't stupid or bitchy, those would be the perverts. Yes, I get those, too.  The ones that don't realize that I have eyes or the ones that open the fitting room with out a shirt on, even if they are only trying on jeans. You know, the ones that step a little too close, popping the comfort bubble or touch you arm while laughing, or the ones that want you to measure their inseam. Perfect example is this short conversation I had with an old man:

"These come with a zipper-fly." "Oh, no no no no no! That too dangerous!!" 

Pervert.

So, next time you are shopping or getting fast food or at about to tip your waitress or whatever, be nice. Don't ignore, give glares, hit on, or ask stupid questions, because despite that quote, there are stupid questions, so just keep them to your self and Google it if you have to!


*Nomnomnomnomnomnomnom.

It's not a whorehouse- It's a sorority house!

"A brothel, also known as abordello, cathouse, whorehouse, sporting house, gentleman's club." (Gotta love Wiki.) I live in Wayne County, Michigan. Now, Wayne County has laws, like everywhere, one of which is that brothel's are illegal. Understandable. I mean who wants a house full of dirty whores soliciting their bodies to dirty old men? Not me, at least. The dirty old men probably want it, but not the rest of society. Did you know that brothels are legal in Nebraska as long as they have a permit? CRAZY!*  So, what is Wayne County, Michigan's qualification of a brothel? Six or more women living together. Yep. That's the qualification. Hence why University of Michigan Dearborn can have all the frat houses they want, but a sorority can't have one. Unless the sorority only has five members, but I don't think that really qualifies as a sorority. I mean, I was knew sorority girls were whores, (okay, Carrie, Hanna and Sweets, I don't mean you guys!) What if my six best girlfriends and I decide we want to room together. We get a house. We live together. Um. FAIL! What happens when we get arrested? I know we can be slutty, but we aren't whores. I know that we really wouldn't be arrested. I'm sure they don't enforce it, unless it's a real whorehouse. But really? Why would a law be that six women can't live together? And I'm not so sure, but is it six females? Because if it is, does that mean that a single mom and her five beautiful girls can't live together? What if a guy lives there? What if he's the father of the six girls? What if he's the pimp? What if he's one of the dirty mistresses love child? If you can answer and of these questions, I'd love it!

*Okay, not that crazy, but kinda weird. And of all places, Nebraska?

Yackity Yack- Don't Talk Back!

 Time to share about my living situation. I live with two roommates. A guy and girl. Very nice people; I've known them for as long as I could remember, but honestly, living with them sometimes makes me crazy! I think we would all be much better friends if I didn't live there, but frankly, rent is cheap and it's close to everywhere I need to go.
 Why do they push me to brink of insanity, you ask? Well, I have the perfect example for you, and it happened only a moment ago. Today was my day off. I didn't have school or work. I did have a little bit of homework to do and a few loads of laundry, but I really just wanted a day to relax. So, I felt lucky when my roommates told me they were going out with some friends for dinner. I was going to get to just sit back, watch movies, and relax. I had Carrie over and we watched Dustin Huffman's gayest performance ever, (and I mean that literally) in Tootsie, and just we had a few laughs. Then she had to part and I was alone. I was looking forward to see a young Renée Zellwegger in Nurse Betty. Not two minutes after Carrie left, my roommates waltz through the door. Fine, whatever. They live here, too. I guess. But, who goes out with friends and is home at like 9:30?  Whatever. Well, my male roommate decides to go to his room. YAY! I have the living room to myself... Oh wait, no I don't my female roommate decides she's going to use our home phone, (yeah, not her mobile phone, which is called a mobile phone because it's, well, MOBILE!) And talk with some friend from work. Now, she is starts talking right as the opening credits start. Now, at that point I should have just taken the dvd out, gone to my room, and watched it on my itty-bitty laptop screen, but nope, I stayed and watched it on our 52inch high def. tv, (could you blame me?) So, she just started yackin' away. Loudly. I repeatedly tell her to "Shush!" and turn up my volume, but that prompts her to yack even louder! I just waited, figuring a half hour -tops, she would be on the phone. Nope, she yacks for 109minutes and 31 seconds. How do I know this exact time? Because the movie was 110 minutes and she stopped right at the Where are the characters now part. You know, the part that's typed up on the screen? The part that you don't need to hear, because you can just read it.
 Now, was that rude? I feel like that was rude. I missed half the dialog because of my roommates yackin'. While she was yackin', I began to imagine myself ripping the phone out of the wall, throwing it to the ground and silently returning to my movie. Let me just say this, she's lucky it was just an alright movie, if it had been some kick-ass movie, I would been to a new level of pissed that even drunk Mel Gibson wouldn't have ever seen.




*A fun game for my readers: How many times did I say "yackin'"? Winner gets a surprise!

Hello Ms. Bradshaw, can I wear your Manolo Blahniks for a mile or two?

 The other night, my friends and I, in a desperate attempt to do something remotely fun in our extremely boring town, went to a park after hours. I know, nothing scandalous, but where I live, this can be a big deal. If the cops come, you can a good scolding. So, as we laid in the middle of a soccer field with Snuggies*, glancing up nervously, ready to bolt with every car that drove by, just in case the po-po we on to us, we had a deep conversation. We just stared at the few stars we could see, (thanks damn light pollution,) and spoke freely. During these moments what we say seems to just glide out, without control, as if secrets were balloons in a child's hand on a windy day, in the blink of an eye, they'll be floating into the sky without hesitation, and before you realize that they've been let go, it's too late to get them back.
 So, what was my balloon? Well, one of them, that I am willing to share with you, Internet World, is that I often I envy others. Maybe, envy isn't quite right, I want to be other people. It's not my own insecurities that over-shadow my positive qualities; it's not a self-esteem thing. I love how people have just these special qualities that make so unique. Okay, after I wrote that I realized how cliché that sounded, but seriously. People are so different, no matter how similar they seem, despite the similarities in how their raised or their socio-economical status, or even in their clique. People are never the same. How they deal with things, how they express emotions, what they find relaxing, among thousands of other things. It's cool. So, sometimes I wish I could experience how other people live.
 But, I would really love to lead the life of a character. I'll see a TV show or a movie, and I just melt. I put myself their shoes. From any character in Sex & The City, (I mean, who wouldn't want hot sex with gorgeous guys and the most beautiful shoes in the world?) to Sandy Bullock's character in The Blind Side. I know she was a real person, but come on, Sandy played her beautifully! And I know you may be wondering why I am calling her Sandy, well in interviews, all of Bullock's coworkers and friends, call her Sandy. I have always imagined that if I ever met her, we would become very best friends, hence calling her Sandy. Anyways, I put myself in these character's shoes and I just imagine what my life would be like. If I got to be the one that "Choose me. Pick me. Love me." to McDreamy. Or if I could have been telling a group of men full of testosterone and pent up sexual tension that the first rule of Fight Club is that you don't talk about Fight Club. How cool would that be? I mean, it would be really cool. Like really cool! 




*Yes, I own Snuggies, but they were gifts! I did not buy them for myself, let me make myself clear!

Vita Nova

For the past few weeks I have been dreaming. Not unusual. In fact, according to psychologists and people who do sleep studies, we dream multiple times a night, it just doesn't tend to be anything worth remembering. Well, lately I have been remembering a lot of my dreams, and they all have one common factor: someone is pregnant. Not me, but someone close to me. My mother was pregnant, along with my grandmother, and last night, two of my closest friends were pregnant. Strange if you ask me. I haven't been pregnant in any of these dreams, just other people. And there is always some challenge. My mom said she was too old and she wanted to abort, my grandma had to travel far to get to a hospital to have the baby, and Carrie and Hanna* were going to have their babies a day apart (for some reason, in my dream this was a really bad thing. It was a dream, just go with it.)  So, I decided to go digging into my subconscious and look up what my dreams were trying to tell me. I'm not saying that dreams have meaning and I'm not saying they don't, I just want to know what Freud thinks my subconscious is trying to tell me.

So, I went to the most reliable source I know, the internet, knowing that whatever I find must be true! Most websites were telling me the same thing, that in dreams pregnancy means new beginnings. They are telling me this is positive. I am about to start my new life, my Vita Nova (Latin for New Life). Now, does this mean that since I was seeing everyone else pregnant that I feel like everyone is moving forward, starting something new, while I'm some hamster on a wheel running, and getting no where fast? Then again, some dream-analysis people will tell you that everyone in your dream is a reflection of some part of yourself; so am I about to embark on some new life? 


Let's take a peak at my life: I am starting my sophomore year of college. One of my closest friends, Samantha*, just moved two hours away for school. Not horribly far, but for someone with school and work and a car that can't go on the expressway, so it would take even longer to reach her, it makes things a littler harder. I've begun to mature my routine. Wake up early, shower, meditate, eat right, do whatever needs to be done, and be in bed before midnight. Let me tell you why this is not me: I sleep in late, until at least one in the afternoon, mainly because I am up until 4am the night before, watching movies, talking with friends, yada yada yada, not being productive. I shower at night to relax me enough to go to sleep, not will me to wake up at an unbearable 7:30 am. Meditation, how great it is in theory, is really hard. It's suppose to help you clear your mind, give you better posture along with being a relaxed, more tolerant person. Instead, I just go all A.D.D. and start twittling my fingers, and begin getting pissed off because my back hurts. And finally, eating right is the worst thing that is good for you. I hate it. I decided that with a new school year, I will cut out delicious drinks, and consume only water. No more snacking for me, just three meals, that only seem to be keeping me satisfied for like an hour. And I'm eating good foods, but I used to eat A LOT! (Quick tell all your friends, the Freshman 15 is real.) Oh, also, I added working out. One word: ouch. So, now, I'm hungry, tired, sore, cranky, and lonely. Vita Nova, right?


*Names have been changed for the privacy of my friends. But, names have been chosen from a character, (TV, movie, book, etc.) that best represents them.