What Drain-O doesn't power through

Lip liner pencils and nail clippers. And hair.

That's the beginning of what I'm sure would be a very long, smelly, gross list were I patient (and bored) enough to take the "experiment" further.

Two years (at least) and two bottles of Drain-O after I last saw those two items, I got fed up with my oh-so-sluggish bathroom sink and decided to tackle the U-bend in the pipes (I knew the nail clippers were there; I didn't know about anything else).

The nail clippers were now black with age and Drain-O affliction, but the lipliner pencil didn't look any different (save the grime that coated it). Both went promptly into the trash, and their emergence from the Bathroom Underworld was greeted with appropriate facial expressions of squicked-outedness and horror. Ick.

I decided there was no time like the present to tackle "cleaning" the rest of the drain (I still couldn't see through to the bottom of the pipe), and when a girl doesn't have the necessary tools to do as a plumber would, she improvises.

In this case, I improvised with a knitting needle which has now been washed and scrubbed at least three times, and I'm still not sure I can think of it as clean. The mess that it got out of the drain, though ... ick. ICK! It was nasty. It smelled nasty, too. I don't care what the commercials and labels promise - liquid drain cleaners do not get all the nasty stuff out of your drain. Oh, ick ...

I'll admit it - I raised my hands in victory when all was said and done. I felt as though I could tackle anything. It was 4 in the morning, so I may have been delirious, too, but I'll take success however it comes - including in my bathroom sink's U-bend. I have to thank the late-night episodes of "Ask This Old House" for some practical tips on taking apart any kind of plumbing - such as having a bowl or bucket ready underneath the pipe for the liquid grossness that's sure to come pouring out as soon as you've lefty-loosied the thingamajig.

how (bad) rumors get started

Matt: "How's Tom?"

Sarah: "Who's Tom?"

Matt: "Tom."

Sarah: "Tom?"

Matt: "Tom - the guy in Denver."

Sarah: "That's Tim."

Matt: "I thought Tim was Creepy Cult Guy."

Sarah: "That's Jim."

Matt: "I can't keep the men straight anymore." (this makes me sound, um ... well ... not good)

Sarah: "Technically, there are only two men in this conversation. Tom never existed."

Matt: "Fine. How's Tim?"

Sarah: "We haven't been dating for a while now. You need to call more often."

smile: you're in the sky

The moon tonight was a Cheshire Cat, grinning at me from the heavens with Venus as a bright dimple or a beauty mark on his far left cheek (I think it was Venus. I'll feel like an idiot if it's something else. Jack Horkheimer would know ... I really like Jack Horkheimer - he's super-enthusiastic about stars and planets ... how's this for a meandering thought?).

I didn't know it at the time, but he (the Cheshire Cat Moon, not Jack Horkheimer) was grinning because he knew that Fat Burrito was closed, and that's what I dearly wanted for dinner. I settled for Qdoba, which wasn't really settling, except that I had my heart set on Fat Burrito.

During that tour of Burrito Makers of Laramie, I noticed that there's a Subway across the street from each one. Conspiracy? I think so. That said, there's a Subway every ten feet in Laramie, so maybe it's not so much a conspiracy against burritos as it is a conspiracy to get us all to eat fresh for five bucks per foot of sandwhichy goodness. I also noticed today that we're getting a Quiznos (cue angelic host).

In other news, I need a new brain. If you hear of creative, cheap ways to bribe one's way onto a brain transplant list, let me know. Mine. Is. Failing. Just ask my boss.

In other-other news, I feel this week that I need new furniture.

Let me rephrase that: I WANT new furniture. Pure vanity. Pure financial stupidity. But I want it. Matt assures me that my apartment looks fine, but that if I feel the need to indulge some vanity, why not ... I like my brother's way of thinking. Like we're related or something.

I also felt this week that I might - just maybe - be able to get through The Lord of the Rings this time, and I am currently indulging that whim.

Fourth time's a charm, and I'm in Moria now. I got stuck in Lothlorien last time, so we're approaching a critical point. But it seems to be going well (and faster than I remember). This is good. I feel socially awkward when I admit that I've never read them (or all of them, at least). It's one of the lesser things that make me feel socially awkward, but still ... I'll be one of the cool kids soon.

The Flying Lawnmower

I hate flying out of Wyoming's regional airports. Regional airports in general, actually. I always have. Miniscule airplanes seem a faulty alternative to handing out wings and teaching commuters to flap themselves from city to city.

Nothing leaves me feeling less secure than having a mere panel of plastic window separating my very beloved head from the whirring propellers of the aircraft that's supposed to safely deposit me on the tarmac of Denver International or on the tiny strip of runway in Small Town USA. Anything that sounds (and feels) like an outsized lawnmower automatically gets a FAIL in the category of making me feel secure during my airborne travels.

The safety demonstration does nothing to allay my fears. I know - deep, deep down - that these planes are small enough that, in a Worst Case Scenario, the pamphlet is useless. I won't survive whatever misfortune befalls our plane long enough to look for the oxygen mask that may or may not be dangling in front of my face or to find the illuminated strip running down the aisle.

I think I'm better at hiding my angst than I used to be. I can pretend to read pretty convincingly, making it appear that my miniscule iPod headphones really are drowning out the head-splitting drone of the plane's engines, which happen to give my seat a not-so-soothing vibration/massage.

But in reality, my ears are following every dip and rise in the rhythmic hum of the engines. My stomach is accutely tuned into every millimeter of the plane's climbs and falls. I'm constantly looking out the frosted-over window at the blender blade which I'm certain will be flung through the cabin at any moment. Jesus and I are getting reacquainted, and the cover of my book now bears the indelible imprint of all ten of my digits as I clutch it in a death grip, checking my watch for the fifth time that minute, wondering whether it's possible that time has actually stopped and I'll never really arrive at my destination.

This is hell, or limbo, and I'm stuck, eternally anticipating a painful Ending via Propeller Blade.

I used to think I was odd - not quite unique in my fear of regional planes ("puddle-jumpers," my roommate Debbie used to call them), but certainly not in the majority - because my fellow travelers seemed so much calmer than I felt.

But according to an article in msnbc.com's travel section, I'm far from being in a minority in my loathing of Flying Pencils.

I don't know whether I feel better about that, but at least now I know that should my worst fears come true while encased in that tiny flying tube, I won't be alone in thinking "I knew it all along," for whatever cold comfort can be derived from that.

And the angels sang

So ... I'm pretty much convinced that, as wonderful as DTV is for the rest of the world, we who are nestled in the valley between the mountains will be a long time in being able to appreciate it.

I bought my converter box with my government-funded coupon (read: I'd already paid for the coupon, so why not use it) months and months ago, and despite clever Antenna Gymnastics throughout my living room that involved intricate poses with my television, antenna and digital converter box, each time I did a scan for available channels, I came up empty handed. And frustrated. And slightly out of socket where some joints were concerned. And very much out of humor.

The kind but dim-witted folks who run the dtvanswers.com site were bold enough to suggest that in addition to my $50 converter box, I might need a more powerful antenna. A "Smart Antenna," they called it. With printed Q&A page in hand, I trundled to Wal-Mart in search of a Smart Antenna, which is as existent as the Tooth Fairy, which is to say that it may exist, but I'll never see one. Frustrated all over again, I opted for the most expensive set of rabbit ears I could find, set them up and performed The Antenna Olympics, Round 2.

No dice.

Returned the antenna, swore a good bit, cursed the idea of a digital transition, and gave up.

Until this weekend.

On a whim, I did a channel scan, cynically expecting the zero at the bottom of the screen to remain unchanged ... until a "2" suddenly and magically popped up.

I have two - TWO! - channels found by my digital coverter. I swear I heard voices singing a jubilant chorus. Or maybe that was just me singing. Out loud. They're both Wyoming PBS, so I now have three PBS signals (Count: 2 from Wyoming, 1 from Colorado, all usually with different content on each) ... Woo!

Two channels.

DTV sucks, but it sucks a little bit less this week.

(enter silly name here)

A friend's recent advice (and test trial) was to replace an ex's real name with a ridiculous one, thus helping the ex seem much less appealing in her mind while also helping her remember why it's a good thing that she's not with him anymore (with Billy Bob, in the friend's case). A cad, a rake by any other (very ridiculous) name has less of a draw on the heart.

I'm attempting to adopt this habit.

Unfortunately, as easy as it is to pick up a bad habit, the good ones take a long, frustrating time to form.

But I'm working on it.

Selfish

It was, perhaps, a bit selfish, but I spent Valentine's Day appreciating ... myself.

The bitter joke is that February 14 is really Singles Awareness Day.

I, however, am already quite aware that I am single. And for the first time in a long time - perhaps ever - I was appreciative of my unattached status on the Day of Love. I decided to celebrate it.

I changed the meaning of the acronym - SAD became Sarah Appreciation Day. I dressed up. I wore the pearls that Matt and Molly gave me. I went shopping. I bought myself chocolates and two Agatha Christie mysteries. I rented a movie. I fixed a fabulous (and pretty) dinner and had my first-ever steamed artichoke (I liked it, but that's a lot of work for not very much artichoke). I felt vindicated, though, in steaming and then ripping apart the artichoke, as it was the same one that attacked me at Safeway a few days ago. Vengence was dipped in melted butter and tasted pretty good.

I wished almost every person I ran into a Happy Valentine's Day. It felt like Christmas. I was brimming with good cheer and determined to share it. I was contemplating the different kinds of love that we experience in life, and I was thankful for the love I was reminded of yesterday.

My dad sent flowers (tulips!) to my office Friday. I ran into a former professor and mentor (and current friend) in Wal-Mart last night who had been snagged by a desperate-looking man in need of Rose Advice. Among the three of us, I think he walked away secure in a doghouse-free Valentine's Day, and then the professor and I caught up in a whirlwind of chatter next to the gourmet cheese case. I talked to Brooke. I talked to my mom.

I drank too much wine (the story of my Valentine's Day-affiliated life), but it was good wine, so that's (almost) OK. It'll be a lot more OK later today, after I've eaten something ...

I'm OK with selfish on a day like Valentine's Day. I've spent too many of them moping and feeling sorry for myself, wishing that this or that had turned out differently so I could spend that day with Someone Special, neglecting to look in the mirror and realize that I already was, and that in the continued absence of the Best Company (aka Mr. Right), my own company is pretty good to keep.

And, as Holly would remind me, a bigger Someone reminds us every day of His love, and that's worth celebrating, whether it comes cleverly wrapped with heart-spangled ribbon or whispered to a lonely heart on a bitter Valentine's night ...

Scar tissue

Some things just hurt worse than others. Longer than others.

I'm not convinced that Cheryl Crow is right, that the first cut is the deepest, but some cuts are definitely deeper than others. And they leave lingering, reminding scars.

And in matters of the heart, we either trudge on, looking for someone/thing else which we can trust and love more deeply (and which can potentially hurt us more deeply), or we lock our hearts up, give Cupid an emphatically gesticulated middle finger, drink lots of alcohol and pickle not only our physical insides, but the emotional ones, too. Well-preserved, but not really good for anything but observation. Not fit for interaction. Smelly and cynical.

But I wonder - for those of us who tend our wounds, get some emotional healing and support from friends and family and attempt to move on - whether we intentionally inflict shallower, less-meaningful injuries to our hearts, attempting to either a) divert ourselves from the deeper, lingering pain that can still cripple us in unguarded moments, or b) to add enough pain to our lives so we can't really discern which wound is hurting the worst. Do we even recognize that we're doing it? Or is it done in the hope that the next one will be the one without realizing that there's a reason that the word "rebound" is used in relational terms ... and we're living it out?

And then I wonder - is this healthy? It's done frequently enough. An internal, emotional form of cutting, I guess. But does "normal" make it healthy? Is it fair? To anyone involved? Do we have the right to engage another person's heart, inflict wounds bearing our signature on someone else in a selfish attempt to dull or divert our own pain? Aren't we perpetuating the very pain we're trying so hard to escape?

It's just something that's been on my mind lately. Scars are interesting to examine and reflect on ... and, when the pain is sufficiently dulled (healthily or otherwise), they're one more story that makes us who we are ...

musical memory

I got my first Enya CD a couple years ago. Listening to it reminds me of that time ... It's beautiful, calming music that reminisces what was actually a pretty low, tumultuous time in my life. Strange how that is ...

Discriminatory

In light of yet another injured squirrel being reported to LPD, it has come to our attention that there is a serious lack of squirrel-sized rescue facilities and apparatus (that's one of the two acceptable plural uses of the word, too -- just a side vocab lesson).

If any concerned citizen has stumbled upon this, I urge you to form a political action committee (PAC) to head up a citizens' survey of whether Laramie-ites (Laramians?) would be willing to pay an extra penny in sales tax for the next two years to make up for this serious lack of preparation.

The results of the survey should be compiled by the PAC, which will then have to hire yet another consulting firm to tell them what the results mean. These results will, then, be used to form a new PAC, which will then conduct another survey to determine how to best use these new funds.

The tax will come up for vote as a special ballot issue and be soundly defeated. This process (PACs, consulting firms, ballot issues) will be repeated at least twice more over the course of the next six years or so (during which time, several similar funding requests will fail in the city council) until, finally, eight years from now, the health rights of squirrels throughout the greater Laramie area will finally be vindicated, and a half-dozen squirrel-sized stretchers will be purchased and each ambulance in Laramie will be equipped with one, while one or two stretchers will be sent to Centennial and Rock River, with the understanding that they can also be used for injured small birds (pigeons, too -- we don't discriminate), prairie dogs and field mice.

This action will then spur on another group of concerned citizens who will demand that a special wing at the hospital be built for the specialized care of injured squirrels. Laramie, in the course of the next 50 years, will gain a regional reputation as the home of a premier squirrel injury rehabilitation center, with similar facilities and techniques in the works for injured volls, porcupines and badgers.

Or people could just back up, run over the half-dead squirrel again and call it good instead of calling the police.

And the woman prayed, 'LORD, keep me single!'

I had a bad date Friday. A very, very WEIRD date Friday night. I don't know that I'll ever share the details, but it was three hours of wanting to hit this guy with my teacup, but being so fascinated that someone could be so off the wall that I couldn't NOT listen ...

My prayer, as a much younger woman, used to be that God would send Prince Charming ASAP.

My prayer now as an older (wiser, I hope) woman is that God will keep me blissfully single if crazy, cultish men are my alternative.

Side note (for the fellas): You can gauge the success of a first date pretty easily, and pretty early, simply by noticing what and how much your date has ordered and is eating.

I walked into the restaurant thinking that a full meal was OK. I was kind of hungry.

I met my "date" and decided that a smaller meal might be OK.

He started talking (he did ALL the talking. For three hours ...), and I flipped to the salad portion of the menu.

He started telling me about how he doesn't eat bacon, sausage or ANY kind of pork (or shellfish, for that matter), because it's unclean, and he believes in keeping ALL of God's laws (and then went off on a rant about Peter's visions of unclean food in the New Testament. And this was as mild as he got ...). I contemplated a side salad and another side dish.

He kept talking, and by the time the waiter took our orders, I simply asked for toast. Had it been possible to ask for one piece instead of two, I would have done it. I was not going to owe this guy anything more than a cup of tea and a couple pieces of toast.

So for three hours, I drank cup after cup after cup of Lemon Zinger tea, piled the used bags on my empty toast plate, and tried (oh, I TRIED) to keep a straight face, to keep from walking away mid-sentence, to keep from throwing something at him ...

I will say this: If I ever suddenly and inexplicably disappear, call the FBI. Please. And call my parents.

Forget the new year

The problem with New Year's resolutions is that we expect them to last throughout the year, and we expect phenomenal, science fiction-quality things to happen in the span of a year.

Seriously.

You're not going to eat chocolate for the rest of the year? Are you a Sadist?

You're going to go from a flabby couch potato to running a marathon (in a bikini) by the end of the year?

You're going to undo ten years of fast food and lethargy and look like a body builder by Christmas?

You're going to ready every dusty book on your shelf? AND Write the Great American Novel? AND start and finish your Ph.D. in some obscure level of science? (Don't forget single-handedly saving the Amazon Rain Forest. Forget sleeping, friend)

Nah.

Forget one-year goals.

I'm starting small. I'll start with New Week resolutions. By the time I'm eighty, I might have worked up to New Year's resolutions, but by then, I'll be senile enough that every day will seem like a new year. Lucky me. My goals then will be to find my (own) teeth and to Name That Mystery Jell-O Flavor.

This week, I will:

Go to the grocery store. Not eat all the baklava. Stand my ground when that 100 mph gust of wind comes up. Read a bit more of Cokie Roberts' "Founding Mothers." (Not all of it, mind you -- but a bit more) Take a multivitamin sometime during the week. Try to remember to take my meds every day. Or almost every day. Drink coffee. (And lots of it) Watch a chick flick. Do laundry. Not overdraft my checking account. (Note that I did NOT say that I'm going to balance my checkbook; I don't want to get out of my league here)

Wish me luck, friends. A week can get pretty long, you know. But at least there isn't anything about a bikini in there. Or running a marathon.

Speaking of marathons, I just read a letter from a cousin in his early sixties (yes, a first cousin. I'm a baby in the family in so many ways ...). He's getting ready to run his 23rd marathon. On that note, the leftover brownies in the breakroom look tempting.

Mundane me

So ... Sunday was good.

I was late for church (as usual) which was more embarrassing than usual, because we now have a later service ... and I still missed most of worship. Eek. My keys did an unfortunate disappearing act as I was trying to get out the door, then my Bible ran away ...

But I sat with Adrian and Paul (though I didn't actually meet Paul 'til after the service).

Paul, it turns out, works with the Navigators here in Laramie and does recruiting for overseas missions work.

The New Thing I learned on Sunday: You can teach English as an overseas missionary with the Navigators. I thought it was all campus-oriented-type work, like what I experienced here in Laramie -- leading Bible studies and doing on-campus witnessing and discipling fellow students.

Oh, no -- you can be the confrontational weenie that I am and teach English and still tell people about Jesus ... which is cool. Paul started talking about a guy who teaches English in Djibouti (seriously -- when was the last time Djibouti made the news?), and since he's, like, the only person there teaching people English, he knows all the higher-ups in the country, and since the U.S. is eager to form relationships there, they helped him out, too. Very cool.

So that was Paul.

I had McAllister's for lunch with Adrian -- and ate the ginormous-est potato to ever grow in Earth's dirt. I had to take a picture of it. Actually, I found out today that it was likely two potatoes made to look like one, but for five bucks, I got the mondo Veggie Spud with cheese and tons of veggies, complete with friendly service by a thickly accented guy from Georgia who highly recommended the sweet tea (which, it turns out, you can buy by the gallon ...).

And then we went ice skating, which turned out to be a non-terror. I wish I had the on-ice confidence that some of the hockey skate-wearing kids had -- I did the I'm-going-to-fall-ungracefully windmill a few times, but I managed to stay upright and moving forward, which was better than sliding on my arse into the wall ... as I saw one fella do. I kept my dignity and my tush intact and unbruised.

The rest of the day was kind of dull, but considering that my legs felt good for nothing after an afternoon of sliding around on frozen water, dull was OK. I did watch the first installment of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" on Masterpiece Classic, which is a depressing story, but it was also a good Sunday evening. I can't believe it's already been a year since the last installment of Masterpiece Classic, when they started with "Jane Eyre" and then kept us happy with film adaptations of all six Jane Austen novels. This year looks as though it will feature a lengthy tribute to Charles Dickens, so I made a trip to Night Herron to beef up my Dickens collection. I'll let you know how that goes.

Bailout-less

"For some, there is no bailout"

That's the tagline for the latest World Vision ad campaign, and I think it's appropriate.

I whine and joke that I wonder when the newspaper industry is going to get its bailout (or when the morons who claim that they "get their news" from news aggregation sites will realize that without legitimate news sources [absolutely including newspapers], there is no aggregation of news)

But seriously, I have to look on the positive side.

I have a job
Granted, my employer had to take some drastic steps for the coming year to ensure that we would, indeed, all keep our jobs, but in an age when newspapers are cutting back, shutting down and dying, we're hanging in there. No one's losing their job here because of the economy. Viva family owned papers.

I'm not broke
I may say that I'm broke on occasion (usually after I've visited the mechanic), but seriously -- I do have a savings account, I haven't overdrafted the checking account, the debt is (slowly) going away ... considering where a lot of others are in that regard, I think I'm doing okay.

I'm still able to help others out
This leads me to the thought that started this meandering of my mind: Despite the rotten economy, despite feeling broke as a joke some days, despite not wanting to eat leftover meatloaf tonight and leftover chicken tomorrow night, I'm still able to use my un-brokeness to help other people out. And on days when I wish I had that extra cash in the account, I look through the profile of the little girl in Ecuador whom I support; I read the letters her dad sends; I read the letters from friends who are in ministry, who live solely on the support of others to remind me why I cut back where I do ... and why I'm happy (or should be happy) to do it.

Which leads me to this:

If you find that you, too, aren't that broke after all; that you're doing alright; that you're able to help someone out, I encourage you to make a New Year's resolution to do it. Give to Interfaith-Good Samaritan (here in Laramie), to the Salvation Army, to the Southern Baptist Kitchens. Sponsor a child. Give a goat to a family that needs it.

A goat! I can't imagine things being so tight that a goat would make all the difference in the world, but there are people in that type of situation. So if you can give a goat (or clothes or a cow or whatever), then do it. Make it your resolution to realize how nice and cushy you really do have it over here, with or without a bailout, with or without a new car, with or without a fancy dinner out every night or a trip to the movies every weekend.

You already know that I advocate World Vision, and that I advocate faith-based organizations similar to World Vision. You can find out how faithfully organizations are using their donated funds at the Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability Web site and make your decision from there.

Bottom's up

As I waited in the Albertson's liquor store to buy my share of holiday happiness, I marveled at the line, which began at the registers and went to the back of the store, around the back of the store, down the far aisle and almost back to the door.

"There sure are a lot of alcoholics around here," one guy in line behind me observed.

I turned around.

"There are a lot of in-laws around here," I said.

He nodded sagely. "The two go hand-in-hand, I guess."

I agreed, then plunked my liquid happy on the counter and was promptly rung up.

"Did you need my ID?" I asked. They always need my ID. I'm perpetually 12.

"No," the lady said wearily. "And if you decide to turn me in for that, it means I get out of here a little earlier today, which would make my day."

Merry Christmas

Mrs. Claus ... seriously

My dad takes every December off from work, partly to play Santa at the many parties and family get-togethers in Gillette throughout the month; partly just to brag at Thanksgiving that he's not coming back to work 'til the next year.

And we always tell my mom that she needs to get a Mrs. Claus costume to go along with Dad's very elaborate Santa costume.

But whether she has the costume or not, my mom is a true Mrs. Claus, especially when it comes to veterans and active military in the area and their families.

Every Christmas, Mom organizes a Christmas party for Gillette-area kids whose parents are in the military or the guard, deployed or not. "We don't have a base around here, and these people lose out on a lot of stuff because of that," she told me over the phone. The kids get bags of toys in addition to generous gift cards. Their parents got gift cards this year, too, so they could have a nice dinner out.

She organizes an "angel tree" for veterans now living at a veterans' retirement home in Buffalo (Wyoming). This year, she also organized a "forgotten veteran" gift drive and blanket drive for patients at the VA hospital/rehabilitation facility in Sheridan (Wyoming).

In short, my mom wears herself out at Christmas. If Dickens had written a fourth Christmas Spirit, I would vote that it be The Spirit of Christmas Patriotism.

She writes fundraising letters. She gets on a local radio talk show to raise awareness and support. She and Dad pound the pavement and talk it up to raise the thousands of dollars necessary to buy the gifts and gift cards. She'll speak at any civic organization that will have her. She organizes armies of volunteers, half of whom back out at the last minute. She organizes "backup plans" for people who forget to return their gifts for the veterans they've adopted.

And sometimes, she is the backup plan.

She spent all day Thursday buying the gifts for the children's party and the last-minute gifts for the veterans whose gifts hadn't come back yet. She spent all Saturday morning with six other women wrapping the presents for the kids' party, then spent Saturday afternoon at the party itself.

With or without a costume, my mom is a firecracker of a Mrs. Claus whose heart bleeds red, white and blue. And at this time of year, with almost a thousand Wyoming guard members getting ready to head to Afghanistan in 2009, I can't think of a better Christmas Spirit to have working on behalf of the military here in Wyoming.

A (Gillette) News-Record story about the party can be found here.

If it's all that goes wrong with my day, I'm doing alright

I'm having difficulty laying out my page; the vector in all the photos is looking Stage Left (um, that's the right of the page, to someone reading the page ... sorry). With three pieces of art to play up, I'm either going to have someone looking/walking off the page (a no-no, according to The Big Boss), or I'm going to have pictures sidled up right next to each other (another unforgivable).

And if that's as bad as the night gets, I think I'm okay.

You can get back to whatever you were doing which, I'm sure, was much more important.

Chicken Little is broke

The sky is NOT falling. But it's not raining dollar bills, either.

So ... I never look at my investment statements.

I get the envelope.

I toss the envelope in a pile.

Three months later, during a manic cleaning tear, I find the envelope again.

I take the papers out of the envelope, flatten them and cram them into one of a dozen manila file folders tottering precariously in a tower on my kitchen floor at three in the morning.

Those papers don't make sense in the middle of the day after sensible amounts of espresso; I'm not about to attempt unfogging my financial future while sitting cross-legged on the cracked tile in my fluorescent-lit kitchen, bleary-eyed and distracted by thoughts of how I'm really going to stay on top of the housekeeping "this time."

I've had this particular account for three years next month. And I never look at the statements. Ever.

Insert the new-fangled InterWeb thingy.

What idiot picks a recession to first look at her 401(k)?

This idiot.

I cried.

That was two months ago.

Tuesday was Meet With Joe the Investment Guy Day. And (for me) it was Print Random Pages From Your Account and Weep Day. And so, for the first time in three years, I met with Joe. The meeting is mandatory for all employees who've been here at least a year, elective for everyone else ... I elected to listen through the spiel of "This is a 401(k). This is what it does. This is why you should have one." I clutched my sheaf of papers which said, essentially, that I have been making very nice contributions to someone other than myself, and I listened very intently to Joe's speech, wondering whether I had slept through something crucial the first time around and was now being punished for it.

The meeting finally over, I took my papers up to Joe, who asked what I was worried about.

"I've lost a fifth of my money this year," I said, the tears welling up in my eyes.

He laughed.

I'm not kidding. He laughed.

"You wanna trade?" he asked (still laughing). "I'm down thirty-seven percent this year. I'll take your nineteen percent any day."

My publisher was still sitting there. He laughed.

"Do you wanna trade? (to Joe) I'm down fifty-one percent."

And really -- really, that's all I wanted to hear. That someone is worse off than I am. Well ... that, and that I'll someday get that money back. And whether I should rearrange my distributions. "I filled out the form thingy in the back of the booklet thingy," I said. "And then I filled in the distributions by what it told me to ... but maybe I was high? Because one of these things has lost 51 percent this year. That can't be good."

"You're young," Joe said. "Your risk tolerance is high." Which, according to the questionaire that I filled out three years ago, is true. On paper, statistically, my risk tolerance is high. But it's one thing to have a high risk tolerance when your account is making money every quarter; it's a completely different thing to read that a fifth of your money is gone and still tolerate any level of risk. On Tuesday, I had no risk tolerance. If it's possible to have a negative risk tolerance, that's where I was. I wanted to run - screaming - from risk and never see it again. I do not have a constitution that can handle the stock market. I sometimes don't have a constitution that can handle the supermarket.

"Stop looking at your account," Joe said. "What you were doing before was just fine. Don't read it. Just stick it in a folder and let it sit there. In thirty years, you'll have your money back."

And I believed him. I'll hide the investment folder, the way I hid "Crime and Punishment" under my sofa so I wouldn't be reminded that I didn't finish reading it. I'll hide the folder so I won't be reminded that some big, cosmic black hole is getting rather rich off of a naive copy editor in a frozen Wyoming valley.

Which brings me to another pondering:

Do we trust people in situations like these because the advice they offer is sound and worthy of our trust? Or do we trust them because we want to trust them, because we want to believe that it'll all be better, even if the tiny voice of common sense is screaming at the top of her lungs in the back of our mind that we're crazy fools, soon to be broke crazy fools?

Life, a la Facebook

Sarah is thinking that she's perhaps a bit odd ...

I often find myself thinking in the third person. And, recently, in terms of Facebook status updates.

Sarah is sliding sideways through the intersection at Fourth and Harney ...

Sarah's jeans froze to the side of her car while she scraped her windshield ...

Sarah is drinking Stash Tea's 'Christmas Eve' loose tea and savoring every miniscule drop of it ...

Sarah thinks that the light at 24th and Grand is, quite possibly, the most incompetent thing ever put in place by someone claiming to be an engineer ...

I don't know which is (or ought to be) more worrisome -- the third-person references or the Facebook-type ponderings ... either one could, I think, rank right up there with talking to my plants, though (another couple of which have gone to the Great Compost Heap) ...

Am I the only one who does this?

Sarah is going to attempt getting some work done ...

Pain in the ... ribs

So I have this pain.

In my ribs.

And as far as I know, it just appeared last night, feeling like someone had decked me real hard in the middle section of my ribs. I hadn't done anything to warrant such a pain, and I spent the majority of the night clutching a heating pad to my side like a talisman and reading the only medical source I own -- a 1970s-era American Heritage Dictionary. I now know where my liver is located and what a Douay Bible is ... and that's about it.

Still hurts, though. A bit less, but it still hurts. I'd like to think that coffee helps. I like to imagine that coffee helps everything.

Enter WebMD.

After clicking "yes," "no," "maybe," "I don't know," "before this," "after that," twirling three times and shouting "Hail Mary!" ... WebMD told me that I could have any one of about 20 problems, ranging from gas pains to colon cancer to heart attack (female). I really appreciated the distinction of the (female) heart attack.

Yippee.

Seriously.