And if that's what you have in mind, yeah, that's what you're all about, good luck movin' up because I'm movin' out.

I feel compelled to clarify because it's getting frustrating how many times people ask. I'm not. . .let's put it this way. Just because I wish a tree would fall on me doesn't mean I'm going to start dating a lumberjack. Make sense?

It's amazing to me how many new things I can find to organize in my apartment. I got so excited yesterday, during helping Carrie and Frank clean out their house, because I found a cord that looked like it would fit my camera exactly. The battery of this camera doesn't come out, so you have to plug it up to the computer. I've almost bought a new cord on eBay three different times now, but I keep thinking, no, as soon as you buy one, you're going to find your old one, and then you're going to be pissed. So when I found this cord, I was thrilled beyond all belief. Finally, I said to myself, you will be able to videotape the thoughts you feel you should share with the world, because blogging just isn't enough. The world needs to see you in technicolor motion!

Just now, when I retrieved the cord from the car, I discovered that no, it does not fit. It's ever so slightly too big. So I'm still camera-with-microphone-less. And that makes me sad.

I have also discovered, for those of you keeping track, a new allergy. Along with dust, pollen, most cats and some dogs, add "feather pillows" to the list. I'd taken two from Carrie and Frank's, and couldn't figure out why my throat was closing up and I was sneezing all over everything. Removing the pillows from my room and, ultimately, my house cleared up the problem nicely.

I took out my spring and summer clothes today. I left a couple of sweaters in my closet, in case we have another weird and random frigid cold snap, along with a hoodie or two and my lighter jackets. But generally, the lighter stuff, I can layer if I need to. Or wear a jacket. I got rid of some stuff (it's going to the yard sale) and was pleasantly surprised to find that some of my clothes, dresses especially, fit me better than they did last year. Some of it was too big, and I just went ahead and got rid of it. I was also pleasantly surprised to find three pairs of shoes in the container. They're all sandal-y wedges, so that's probably why I'd put them up for the winter. You don't want to be tromping through five inches of snow in sandal-y wedges.

So, I made a recipe today that I've been wanting to try for months called Chicken Loredo. It was. . .I don't want to say I was disappointed, but I kind of was. Don't get me wrong; it's delicious. But something about the way it looked really bothered me. I had in mind more of a casserole-solidity to it, but it's more like a spread. Like, I could see putting it over chips and calling it Chicken Loredo Nachos, which is what I may end up doing. I did my usual thing of substituting things to make it (in my opinion, of course) better. I traded Velveeta for Pepperjack Velveeta and pinto beans for black beans, both because I don't really like pinto beans and also because I had a can of black beans in my cabinet. A can of frijoles negros, if you will. Because that sounds sexier than "black beans."

Anyway, if you're looking for a way to clear your sinuses, I would highly recommend the Pepperjack Velveeta. It almost killed me. And by that, I mean it was amazing. This dish has quite a bit of kick to it, between that and the tomatoes with chilis and. . .there's something else that makes it kicky, but I can't remember what it was. But yes. It had that kind of heat to it I like in dishes, the kind that makes you take a swig of water after every other bite, but that keeps you eating it. But I definitely think I'm going to get some tortilla chips to eat with this stuff. Also, something that bothered me about it was the fact that the cheese wasn't evenly melted. You're supposed to cut the Velveeta into "thick chunks," but all that happens there is that you get chunks of cheese. Or, "cheese." It's just not aesthetically pleasing. But now I have another. . .4 meals or so this week.

Got a job interview Tuesday. Not going to go too much into it, but it's there.

If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman? If I'm alive and well, will you be there a-holding my hand?

So long since my last post (like a week). So much to tell (like a lot). I'm probably going to forget something or leave something out, but I'll do my very best.

First of all, I started my new job yesterday. I, admittedly, got off to a rocky start, but it had nothing to do with the job I'm going to be doing, but the job that I was doing before. I don't feel like going into the inane details, but suffice it to say that we need better management.

I LOVE having an office. I've only been in there for a day, but it's. . .kind of amazing. I like having a place to pace around (as I do when I'm thinking), I like having a whiteboard where I can make notes, I love my big desk and I love having a door I can close. I haven't closed it yet, but I could if I wanted to. I also took the microwave from my old desk, since it had been Allison that brought that in and Allison is no longer there. Come Sunday, I'll have a fridge in there as well (random fact about me. Whenever I write out "fridge," it's because I truly have no idea how to spell the entire, spelled-out word, and I don't want to look dumb or take the effort to figure it out) because the one I had in college is at my grandparents' house, and I will, in fact, be in Greensboro Sunday for my mom's side of the family's Thanksgiving soiree. (I can spell things like soiree properly, but I can't spell the entirety of fridge.)

I have written my first Last Word. The Last Word is a column at the end of the publication that is normally humor-based or whatever. Carrie wrote her last Last Word last week with her Thanksgiving issue of the mag (in keeping with my "anonymity," I'm just going to refer to it as the mag. I'm aware it's not a real magazine, but I think I'm allowed.) which, in my opinion, was one of her best issues to date. It's right up there with Folkmoot and last year's gift guide.

Anyway, I'm going to put the Last Word here, to give you a preview, since it won't actually come out until Tuesday. Karen's already seen it, but the rest of you can be surprised:

I was having a conversation with some of my colleagues the other day and we started talking about what you don’t know about people. One reporter, Kim, said that when you fill out a survey on one of those social networking sites, like Facebook or MySpace, one question typically asked is, “What’s one thing people don’t know about you?” Kim said this was a dumb question, because, “There’s probably a reason you haven’t told people some things.”
I thought about that for a second and said, “Well, things people don’t know about you aren’t necessarily secrets. They’re just things you don’t think to mention.” The example I gave was that I don’t really like Oreos without peanut butter on them. It’s not something I’m ashamed of; it’s just something that doesn’t come up often. Incidentally, a couple weeks ago, one of my favorite people, not actually knowing my preference, presented me with an Oreo that had peanut butter cream in the middle instead of regular cream. The question here is, how had I gone this long without knowing such a thing existed?
Anyway, I decided that, as the new mag editor, I would share with all of you, the readers, some things you probably don’t know about me. It’s a bonding experience. We’re going to be, in one form or another, in each other’s lives at least once a week, pretty much indefinitely. After this, if you see me walking down Main Street, you can turn to whomever you’re with and say, “Hey, did you know she [enter name of fact here]?” If they read the mag (and hopefully, they do), they’ll tell you they already knew. If they don’t, you will have given them a completely useless nugget of knowledge they will most likely remember, even though they’re not sure why. Some of these, those closest to me would know, but I feel, again, that we’re bonding here, so I’ll share them with you as well.
Let’s begin.
There are two movies that will cause me to tear up every time I see them: Armageddon and Sesame Street’s “Follow That Bird.” I think Armageddon is understandable. It’s at that one part where Bruce Willis and his excess of testosterone are about to save the day and he’s saying goodbye to Liv Tyler? I tear up every time. It just happens. Follow That Bird, on the other hand, is an interesting story. Apparently, when I was 2 or so, I would watch the movie over and over, paying most attention to the part of the movie where Big Bird, who has been kidnapped and painted blue, is forced to sing this incredibly sad song about why he’s so blue (figuratively). My mom worried about masochistic tendencies in her daughter because I seemed to watch it just so I could watch that part and cry. Cut to 17 years later. I’m 19 and home after my first year of college. I’d recently discovered Netflix and had rented Follow That Bird, just for kicks, and to laugh at 2-year-old Sarah and how overly sensitive she was. Imagine my horror when, at that part of the film, I felt my eyes well up. I definitely cried through the entire song. Thinking it was a fluke, I went to the part of the DVD that just showed the songs and watched it again. I swear it was some kind of Pavlovian thing, because the tears started up. I have, in fact, not watched it since.
The sound that I almost literally cannot stand to be around is the sound of packing tape or duct tape being either ripped off the roll or off a box. Before I moved here, I worked for Pepsi in Raleigh. I sat in a cubicle in the middle of the room and the IT shared a cube wall with me. I never knew this guy’s name, but apparently a big part of his job was to put packing tape onto or rip packing tape off of boxes. He would begin at approximately 11:30 a.m. and rip tape until 3:30 or 4 in the afternoon. The sound almost drove me out of my mind. I had to start bringing in my iPod and put it up to an ear-shattering volume to cover the sound that made me want to jump out of my skin. Have you ever gotten so intensely agitated about something that it made you feel itchy? That was me at Pepsi. More recently, it was when my work friend Aron was making his Halloween costume that he learned about my tape aversion. His costume this year was “Duct Tape Man,” which, obviously, required the use of duct tape. Lots and lots of duct tape. After about half an hour into the construction of the costume, I said to Aron in what I hoped was a conversational tone of voice, “Did you know that the sound of duct tape being ripped off the roll is one thing that kind of makes me a little crazy?” Apparently, the tone wasn’t as conversational as I might have hoped, because Aron looked at me with something resembling fear on his face. Since Halloween was the following evening, he had to finish the costume, so I ignored it the best I could. Incidentally, we are still friends and I managed to not tear out all my hair.
I really, really wish I could speak French fluently. This might not seem like such a weird thing. There are plenty of people who wish they could speak a foreign language. I guess the weird part about it is that I‘m unable to do it, seeing as to how I took three years of French in high school and, collectively, four semesters of French in college. The four semesters in college were a requirement, although to this day I’m not certain why you need two years of a foreign language to get a degree in English. But despite five years of French classes and three half-semesters where I dropped midway through because I realized at the rate I was going, I would kill my GPA if I continued, I still have the most rudimentary grasp of conversational French. I can read it sometimes and I have a few choice phrases I can understand and speak, but in general, it’s an epic failure. As a result, I sound like someone really pretentious when I randomly drop the French words I do know into conversation (i.e. “Would tu aimer to go to déjeuner at Nick and Nate’s avec moi?”) I would, however, love to be able to bust out entire, correct, sentences in French. It’s a dream of mine, really. But despite my best efforts and my GPA, ultimately, being knocked down to just below 3.0, I can’t do it and so, for now, people will have to deal with hearing things like, “J’adore what you’ve done with your cheveux.”
So there you go. Three things about me that you most likely didn’t know, and might not have even cared to know. But now that I’ve shared, I’d like to ask you to share, too. I want to know what you want to read in the mag. I’d love to hear your ideas for things you’d like to see more of, things you’d like to see less of and what I can do to make your reading experience as enjoyable as it could possibly be. You can e-mail me at [my work e-mail] with anything you’d like to say. You can even come by my office to chat. If you do this, though, I’d like to ask that you bring Oreos. Also, peanut butter.

So there it is. My first offering as BigShot Editor. I'm rather proud of it. I miss writing columns. I got to do it weekly in college.

What else? I know there's more.

Oh! I've discovered a clothing brand that J'adore. At Target, they have this brand called Converse One Star. Since it's the Converse brand, it's ridiculously expensive. However, if you wait for things to go on sale and clearance, it's palpable. The only thing is, their sizes are kind of weird. I got a white shirt there a few weeks ago that was a medium, the long-sleeved polo I've got on today is a large, and a tank top I bought there is a small. So. . .I'm not sure about that. I think they tend to run big, because the shirt I've got on today could probably stand to be a size smaller. But even though I don't like everything in the collection, the basis of it is exactly my casual style. (My casual style and my "professional" style are kind of two different things.)

You know those weird, random things that you remember that you really have to reason to remember ever? Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" just came on my Pandora radio, and I was reminded of a time in. . .it was either 8th or 9th grade, because I was in Latin class and those were the only two years I took Latin (due to having been forced by the school, not due to any kind of burning desire to learn dead languages), but we were, for some reason, playing charades, and my teacher, Mr. Walker (who also taught English one year, I believe), was up and was trying to act out a song title, and couldn't het anyone to guess it and finally began frntically pointing at this one girl, Stephanie Young, and as soon as he pointed to her, I KNEW what he was trying to get at but, for whatever reason, decided not to say anything. No one ever figured it out. And if I would have been like, "I figured it out," either people wouldn't have believed me, or they would have wondered why, if I knew it, I didn't say anything. That, in fact, is an excellent question. I really don't know.

I'm wicked excited that Katie is coming to stay with me tomorrow. It took us forEVER to convince our mother to let her come up, but we did prevail. It didn't help when my town was all over the news because of a flasher who decided to flash people ON MY STREET. Like, literally. On my street. I told my mother that he was only flashing men (true), but she still was hesitant. I'm saying, it's ok for me to live near Flashy McJunkerstein, but not Katie? I don't know. (Also, I think it's mildly funny that my spellcheck didn't pick up "McJunkerstein.") So when I go to Greensboro tomorrow for "Thanksgiving," I'll bring her back with me, and she'll stay here until Thursday, when we go BACK to Greensboro for Actual!Thanksgiving, and I'll drop her off with my father.

Another reason my mother gave for her trepidation for letting Katie come up was that Katie, "Isn't used to living the same lifestyle I do." . . .Really? I can tell you with absolute certainty that Katie goes out more often than I do. If I come home past 8 or 9, it's either because I'm at Carrie's, I'm still at work, or I'm out randomly driving around. I kind of wish I were living the life my mother seems to think I am.

Nick'll be back in. . .29 days. One more month. His family is going to see him this week and they're spending Thanksgiving in Paris. My question is, why am I not spending Thanksgiving in Paris? I think that's a valid question. It would make sense, really. As in, "I am THANKFUL that I'm in Paris!" Whatever. I'm sure he's aware that he needs to being me presents. If any of you are wondering, and I know you are, I have, in fact, picked the outfit that I'm going to wear when I see Nick again. I have to look fabulous, obviously, and I have just the thing.

And finally, ANTM. My poor Analeigh made it to the Top 3 and then lost out in being in the Top 2 by being beaten by weird, manly McKey and always-looks-like-she's-going-to-cry Samantha. Ultimately, as I predicted, McKey won. Homegirl is. . .not cute. Not pretty. She looks like a mannish duck. Maybe that's what the modeling industry is into these days, but if I were a designer, I wouldn't want my dresses worn by a man. But at least the cycle is over. Hopefully, I won't get sucked into the next cycle. My nerves can't take it.

Off to work and errands.

I can't wait to take you home, fingers through your hair, kisses on your back, scratch me with your nails.

So I've started writing on three or four different occasions, and I always get interrupted. I WILL finish this entry, damn it.

I also need to finish it because my computer at home has some kind of virus I need to get fixed, so it has the hardest time with any simple, medial computer task.

I'm back home, obviously, and I made a realization the other day, driving down one of Raleigh's busy roads. Raleigh can be compared, for me, to the love of your life that you lost for some reason. The one that got away, if you will. You know, a lot of people have that one person that they were madly, probably stupidly in love with, but that, for one reason or another, is no longer in their lives. But they still see that person occasionally, and every time they do, they remember exactly why they fell in love with them in the first place, and they're tempted with the what ifs. "What if we got back together?" "What if I/they just changed a little? We could make this work."

In my case, though, it's having that person that you see occasionally while you're actually happily in a relationship with someone else. I love my town. I love living in the mountains. But Raleigh is that sexy guy that you see every now and again and can't get out of your head for days afterward, even though you really are in love with who you're with at the moment. Raleigh is the person you find yourself thinking about while making out with the person you're with right then, who you really do love, but that doesn't have quite the excitement and passion of your previous relationship. I never got over Raleigh, you see. If I were to look back on living there, really look at it, I would remember why I wanted to get out of Raleigh in the first place. But I forget those things when I'm driving through the city, going more than the posted 35 that is present through most of the county I'm in now, with the windows down and a hundred other cars on the road. Raleigh is The One That Got Away, but with which I know I wouldn't be happy if we got back together.

No. Raleigh is that exciting, older married gentleman you met during your semester studying abroad in college that bought you things and took you out to expensive restaurants, but that you could never actually be with, because it wasn't practical. You still correspond occasionally and see him when he's on the odd business trip to the States, but you can't be together, because nothing about it would work out. He'd leave you eventually, for the next cute thing that came along. But you loved him.

Is it weird that I'm comparing a city to a relationship? It might be a little weird.

So, I have to say, yesterday was a high self-esteem day for me. I don't want to sound. . .braggy, I guess, but days like this are few and far between, so I figure I should document so one day, I can look back on it and say, "See? You were cute that day."

Despite the fact that I was coming back to a job I loathe after a fabulous four-day weekend in Raleigh, I thought, "I'm going to look cute today. I am determined to have my outfit match the mood I feel I should be in."

I don't know if you know this about me, but I love, love, LOVE clothes. I have entirely too many. Clothes and shoes. I know this is a very girl characteristic, but I'm ok with that. I like putting together outfits and, truly, the high point of many of my days is putting together an outfit that I love.

Yesterday's outfit was centered entirely around this pair of shoes I bought this weekend. I actually bought several new (to me) things at various Goodwills and thrift stores in Raleigh and Greensboro (Have I ever mentioned how much I love Plato's Closet? J'adore Plato's Closet.) I bought three pairs of shoes from a Raleigh Goodwill, one of which was a pair of Sketchers (my favorite shoe brand) boots that I got for $6. I don't know how much any of you know about Sketchers, but, essentially, $6 would pay for. . .maybe 1/4 of one of their pairs of sandals. It's ridiculous. Anyway, it was the shoes to the right.

I'd originally found them at a Kohl's in Raleigh, but they only had a size 6 1/2. By that point, though, I was a woman on a mission. I had to have these shoes. Luckily for me, on the way back home, I passed through Greensboro, and there are two Kohls' in Greensboro, and I was prepared to go to both of them in search of these shoes. Luckily, I found them in the first one, and while I would have preferred a 9 to a 9 1/2, the 9 1/2s fit as long as I stuff the toes. And they look amazing. I haven't felt this good about a pair of shoes in some time. I put them on and it was like. . .I don't know. I felt awesome.

That's a lot of power to give to a pair of shoes, but that's how I felt.

When I first saw them, I thought to myself, "You know, you have a shirt that will match those PERFECTLY." A purple V-necked Wal-Mart T-shirt went with the shoes and the outfit was topped off by this cute black skirt I have. I don't even remember where I got it. I want to say one of my mom's friends was getting rid of a bunch of clothes, and that's how I inherited it. Regardless, it's one of my favorites.

So I was feeling good yesterday, and I got several compliments, telling me of the awesomeisity of the outfit. When Carrie and I were coming back from a food event we were covering (more on that later), Carrie said, "You know. . .I don't want this to sound weird but. . .You've got really great legs. Those shoes make them look really good." That was basically awesome. My Ex used to tell me daily that I looked good and he'd compliment me all the time, but then that stopped and, to be honest, I've missed it. A lot. I like when people notice me, and God knows it doesn't happen often, so yesterday was a really good day for me, in that respect.

So the food thing. It was this event, a fundraiser for Habitat for Humanity, and it was a competition, with all kinds of yummy (sampleable!) food. I, for the first time in my life, had caviar. And I have to say, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but that wasn't it. It wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was just there. It didn't taste like anything. I don't really understand why people pay so much money to eat, you know, fish eggs that don't taste like anything. They don't even taste like fish. It was literally like eating little nodules of nothing. Very disappointing.

I took pictures while I was there, but I'm not altogether pleased with them. I need to, for one, get a better camera to use, and I also need to learn more about how light works within photographs. I'm a decent photographer, but if I were to learn the hows and whys of light and things like that, I could be 100 percent better, I think.This cake, incidentally, looks delicious, but it wasn't very good. Not only did it have nuts and weirdness in it, it just didn't taste very good, in my opinion. It was pretty, though.

This guy at work is having a Halloween party that I'm considering attending. There are, however, two factors that I need to have figured out before saying I'll go. First of all, I need a costume of some sort. Nothing fancy, but I haven't dressed up for Halloween since. . .junior year of college? And I want something creative. Secondly, there's someone that could potentially be there that I need to find out if they're going to be there or not. You might say, "But Sarah, are you going to let one person ruin a potentially fun night for you?" Well, yes. Because if she and I are both there, it wouldn't be fun for me. Call me petty, call me immature (you wouldn't be the first) but being in the same room with this person makes me so supremely uncomfortable, it really wouldn't be any fun for me at all. Especially now, because she's being overly nice to me whenever she sees me, and I don't trust that. You don't go from threatening someone to being really nice to them without some kind of underlying motive. I just don't trust it and, therefore, I just go out of my way to not put myself in situations that will make me uncomfortable. Discomfort = not fun. I'll have to figure out a way to find out if they're going or not before I confirm or deny my attendance.

Oh, and for those keeping track, there are 22 more shopping days until my birthday. (Yes, I'm kidding. I said that to someone once, and they told me how greedy I was. It's a joke people. I do that occasionally.)

One of my friends had a job interview today, and I'm wishing them luck. Mainly because I could also benefit from the person receiving the job. That's all I'll say about it, but keep your fingers crossed for all involved, and I'll be sure to keep everyone updated. Because I know you're all dying to know.

Oh, and happy birthday to Steph! I think she reads this.

So that brings me to my final thought. I'm not entirely certain how many readers I have. As far as regular readers go, I know I have at least six. As far as occasional readers go, I have around four. So that's 10-ish. What I would like to do is to extend an invitation of sorts. Sometimes I don't update because I don't really have anything to say, so I'd like to ask y'all to give me things to say. About what would you like to know? I'd be happy to answer questions, give opinions, post pictures, whatever. I like knowing people read my little corner of the Internet, and if I am to ever reach my goal of Professional Blogger (wouldn't that be awesome?), I'd like to be interactive. So give it to me. (That's what she said.) If you're dying to see a picture of, say, what shoes I'm wearing today or if you have a question like, "Sarah, would you like to see me naked?" I'd like to hear it.

(Incidentally, I'd rather you didn't ask if I'd like to see you naked. Because for at least two people, the answer would be, "I already have," and that would just be awkward. To ease your minds, maybe a little, for one of those people, it's been at least. . .15 or 16 years since that occurred, and we're also related. Or maybe that just makes you really concerned. I'll stop.)

But yes. And if you don't want me to know you're reading, I'm pretty sure there's a way you can do that anonymously. Although why you wouldn't want me to know that, I'm not certain.

Ciao.