Good girls don't. But I do.

I once played a hooker in a church play.

Uh-huh.

When I was in high school, I went to a youth group at the very Dutch church where many of my friends went. Pretty much everyone in the congregation had a last name that started with V. Mine didn’t, and I stuck out. But the Dutch? Fairly welcoming as long as you don’t try to shop or mow the yard on Sunday.

Anyway. We did a couple of plays for the congregation. One was about the stresses of high school life. Why, I’m not sure – seeing as how all of the high schoolers in the congregation were actually in the show. So who was left to be inspired to go to school the next day and love the jocks, stoners, and artsy kids equally, like Jesus would? Those 80-year-old farmers?

The other play we did was something about Jesus being put on trial. I played a former friend of Mary Magdelene. I wore heels, a truly mini mini skirt, a tight sweater and about 20 pounds of jewelry. I was going to be a witness at the trial.

All of the witnesses sat randomly throughout the church. We sat down before any of the congregants arrived.

Evidently, the pew that I selected was The Pew of an older couple. They arrived at Their Pew and were flummoxed by my presence in what everyone else evidently knew was Their Pew. And, I imagine they were flummoxed by the fact that I was a whore. In church. And that I insisted on sitting on the aisle.

I played it cool, but I could tell the wife was disgusted and the husband was, umm, curious.

The play started.

BFF’s boyfriend played The Big Man, and his job was to sit on stage for the duration of the play and not laugh. When I was called to the witness stand, I waved to Jesus as I walked up. I chewed gum. And I made eyes at Jesus.

Just writing that hurts my soul. I chewed gum in church and I flirted with our lord and savior.

Obviously, it was an awful, awful play.

And afterward? Many of the 80-year-old farmers stood around talking about how great the show was. One man actually exclaimed that it was the best play he’d ever seen.

And for my role in that, I’m surely going to hell.

Shiny and miserable.

Tonight, I'm meeting with a friend and her high school senior daughter. The daughter is in the midst of nerve wracking college decisions, and is torn between majoring in theatre or English. Seeing as how I started out a theatre major and switched to English, they want to pick my brain.

At first, I was very flattered. And then I realized that I needed to find something worthwhile to actually say.

I've polled a few friends with theatre and/or English degrees. We agree that it doesn't matter what your major is. It matters that you find something you love and get experience and training. The rest will follow.

But the whole exercise makes me think of being a 17-year-old high school senior. I was so uptight and scared about everything. Scared of going to the "right" school. Scared of not doing the "right" things. Scared of not doing what "everyone" expected of me and thereby ruining my entire life.

Damn, girl. Chill out.

So, really, if I had a chance to address the 17-year-old me, I'd probably say this:

Don't pick a college simply because the process freaks you out and your mom says she can picture you at a specific school.

Forget about what you think people expect you to do. You won't disappoint anyone who matters. Really, the world is just happy that you're wearing pants. The rest is gravy.

You don't have to be perfect, and you aren't supposed to be perfect. Stop starving yourself.

Enjoy where you are right now. Don't stress out about the details - you won't remember them in 15 years anyway.

And finally, how do you get your hair so shiny? Older you has hair that is dry and she looks at pictures of 17-year-old you with glossy, magazine hair and wonders if Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies - one of two foods you eat - contain magical proteins that go right to the hair follicle.

Barack, your event people suck.

So, my fingers are shaking and it's hard to type. Why? Well, I've been outside.

It's 17 degrees, not including a very brisk wind from the north.

My current political boyfriend, Barack Obama, is speaking right now. A coworker and I went. Doors opened at 3:45. We got there are 5:05. My boyfriend was scheduled to speak at 5:45.

Now, I'm no dummy. I know 5:45 really means 6:30.

However, we stood and stood and stood, us and a couple hundred other voters, waiting for some movement of the line. It was cold, but there was great people watching. An incredibly diverse array of similarly disenfranchised people surrounded us.

I was amazed and invigorated that so many people - all colors, all ages, all socio-economic appearances - had ventured out into the cold to hear Senator Obama speak. One dad had three little girls and one box of Girl Scout cookies to keep them all happy. The feeling was festive. These were people full of anticipation, waiting to hear what this man had to say. People who were hungry for real hope.

And then?

And then, a woman walking the wrong way through the crowd said she'd been there since 4:10 and had never moved in line. And then about 10 minutes later, an Obama hack announced that the auditorium was full, but the senator would speak to the overflow crowd first.

Outside.

A mass exodus ensued. Coworker and I decided to hang tight in the luxurious 40 degree warmth of the staging area. Twenty minutes later, the Obama hack announced that the senator was on his way from the airport and would be arriving any minute.

We went outside. And stood in the snow. And waited.

And waited.

And then?

Then, another hack announced that the senator was running late and was speaking inside. He'd address the overflow crowd when he was done - in 45 minutes.

Did I mention we were standing in snow?

!##$%%^&^&*#%#$.

When my grandmother was born, women couldn't vote. People die for the privilege to vote. They walk miles and miles to the polls. They stand up against armed forces who really don't want them to cast their votes. I appreciate that standing in snow in freezing temperatures really isn't even a blip on the democratic hardship radar.

But seriously?

This is 2008. This is America. Get your shit together and get a venue that will hold more than a handful of people. Make some fucking signs that tell people where to go. And for God's sake, be honest when things don't work out according to plan. Don't go hide, you campaign goons.

I hope that none of the folks who waited in the snow hold this event management nightmare against Obama personally. I'm trying. I can't feel my feet, and it's hard not to be bitter.

Better living through interior design.

I love interior design. I love the colors and fabrics and the nuances of a well-collected space.

I've had the particular delight of decorating my house for me - no other opinions to consider, no vetoes allowed. After all, Geriatric Poodle and Foxie Doxie don't even see in color. They appear to love the vintage fabric valances even if they don't match a damn thing in the house.

With this love of good design in mind, it's been a particular point of shame that since I moved into my house last August, my office has been The Room of Shit. The only reason the rest of the house looks presentable is because anytime anyone comes over, I move all the crap into the office and shut the door. Ta-da! Clean house.

Except. Except I've had it.

I worked from home today and realized that I Am Done.

So, I just returned from Home Depot. I bought yet another quart of the yellow paint that shouldn't look so blotchy after three coats. And I scored some more Kilz, in my ongoing quest to hide the random stain by the window.

The clutter is being moved into the living room, where it will be sorted while the paint dries.

There will be new blinds. And a new desk configuration. And, if I'm lucky, some fucking inner peace.

Good morning, Angels!

All of the freak-out news people are calling today The Coldest Day of the Year. Round up your young and your womenfolk – we’re all going to die!

So, it was one degree below zero when I woke up today. Yikes.

As usual, I was running a little bit behind schedule this morning. I showered, washed my hair, and then commenced making myself presentable.

That’s when I learned that my hairdryer is dead.

Kaput. Gone. Off to the great beauty shop in the sky.

Luckily, my thickthickthick hair is shortshortshort, but it still requires a little help drying. You know, on account of the thickthickthick part.

So, yes, I drove to work this morning with the heater on full-blast to help dry my hair. And then I styled my hair in the ladies room at Corporate Behemoth.

You know it’s going to be a good day when packing your crap for work includes an array of hair care products. Although I do feel like I’m channeling my inner Farrah by having a big ol’ can of hairspray in my purse.

Give me your tired, your poor ...

I had a glorious realization last night.

I was driving to Mr. Wonderful's house from the gym. I'd just bonded with a treadmill and done my time with some weights. I was bundled up against the cold and huddled down in my Honda.

And then it hit me.

I've had some achiness in my right breast as of late. It feels like my boob is too big and too lumpy. It's just like last winter - I think I have more cysts. Shit.

But this wasn't even the dramatic realization. The dramatic realization was that this happened last winter. The same time as this winter. The same time that's always the most super stressful of super stressful times at Corporate Behemoth.

Son of a bitch. I have fibrocystic breast disease and it's stress related.

The good news is that based on my experience last year, I know that I don't have breast cancer and I'm not going to die. Worse case scenario, I could go for an ultrasound and a needle aspiration.

The other good news is that I have a concrete cause. Yes, I might be genetically predisposed to a lumpy ol' rack, but the stress? The stress is completely within my control.

The bad news is that this means I actually need to take steps to control this stress.

But the other other good news is that now I have concrete proof that reducing stress isn't a nice to have. It's a necessity.

(As a side note, raise your hand if you're sick of me talking about how stressed I am. Yeah, me too.)

I'm thinking this is beyond hot baths and the occasional glass of wine. This is a major lifestyle shift. This is meditation and acupuncture getting back with the yoga that saved my life and my sanity a few years ago. This isn't a "Hey, let's join the Y" -type of resolution. This is a "I can see this stress manifesting itself in my body in this way, and if I don't change, it's going to manifest itself in more and more destructive ways" -type shift.

Now the trouble is figuring out how to drive that shift.

There's a Louise Hay book with my name on it at the library. Any other recommendations? Help me out and I'll start blogging about stuff besides stress. Sounds like a pretty good trade, don't you think?

There she is!

I spent the weekend hanging out with my BFF in North Carolina. We had grand plans that fell through - more on that after I get some photographic evidence - but we managed to have a grand old time.

Like a pal who introduces you to an illicit drug, darling BFF introduced me to Miss America: Reality Check on TLC.

Oh dear.

I've written before about my love/hate relationship with Miss America. I'm a feminist with a women's studies minor, but doggone it, I love me some pageants, err, I mean scholarship competitions.

Yes, I am a complicated woman.

Miss America is this Saturday, and Miss America: Reality Check gives us a behind-the-scenes look at how the pageant, err, scholarship program is attempting to reinvent and reinvigorate itself. The contestants were basically told to forget all the pageant, err, scholarship program robotics that they had honed to get to this point. They were taught to walk like semi-normal human beings. And they were given make-unders to rid them of their hair helmets.

So, basically, they were given permission to be real people. And some of them didn't know how to do it.

This, I can understand. When you are told how to talk and walk and who to be and you pretty much master it, it has to come at the price of your personality. My cousin had a college friend who was Miss Illinois, and she said it took about two years for her friend to regain her pre-pageant personality.

Why are we trying to turn our young women into future Stepford Wives? And why do I continue to be so fascinated by the women who manage to pull it off and/or succumb to the pressure? Is it because they appear to have all their shit together, and that's one thing that I simply can't manage in my life as a real, live woman?