The Curse of the Intelius

I just discovered Intelius today which in itself is an almost-funny-if-it-weren't-quite-so-creepy story, the essence of which is that I was checking to see if there was public record of a certain someone having died.  If this person has died, then this person has successfully kept this person's passing a secret from every Internet-based public record mechanism.  Keeping one's death under the radar would be a spectacular feat to accomplish posthumously, therefore I can only conclude that this person lives on, albeit with greater ignominy for having failed to maintain contact with yours truly.  The point is that I was directed to Intelius through a series of searches whereupon I, most reasonably, chose myself as a test subject and entered my own name in the available fields.  

What I found is that there are three Jennifer Sassers in California, myself being one of them.  Not content with acknowledging my existence, it also lists my relatives, by name, and if you click upon the "more information" button as I did, you will find that you can order reports detailing, among other less interesting factoids, my personal history of lawsuits, sex offender status, small claims filings, address history, and criminal history all for the spectacularly low price of $49.95.  For less that 50 bones, you too can violate my privacy.  So perhaps you see why I've entitled this post as I have, although I was a bit conflicted about using the word "curse."  It's not like they've wished a pox upon me (however, in my experience proclaiming a pox upon people is wildly ineffective), but nonetheless I am experiencing a bit of leery anxiety.  As a matter of fact, I actually get chills when I think about it too much... then I realize it's probably just from the shadow Big Brother casts while he looks over my shoulder.

M'Lynn, You Got a Reindeer Up Your Butt?

I just woke up to ubergrossness: dog barf.  Our sweet little princess, Zsa Zsa was nicely snuggled up next to me for awhile - then got up and left.  Upon waking, I discovered why: DOG PUKE.  The little mongrel regurgitated some nastiness and fled the scene.  My bedding is all in the washer right now, but I am not done pouting.  I mean really?  Canine vomit? EW.   

I told Tawny what happened and she quoted some tv show people who, after losing a competition claimed that the winners had horse shoes up their @$$e$.  We agreed that I must have a black cat up my @$$ considering the way things seem to be going these days.  

Ugh, I'm still utterly grossed out.  

Play-Doh vs. Plato

I don't know when this blog became my "confessional" of sorts, but it seems as though there are some things that I just can't keep to myself. To be fair, you're not really getting any of the "good stuff" when I confess - just little perturbing peculiarities that plague my days.  For example:

I do not like fast food.  There are some things that I enjoy eating, but as a general rule, I do not feel good before I eat it, nor after.  Furthermore, the satisfaction I experience while consuming it does not come close to matching how I feel when I eat things I really love, like edamame, Dubliner Irish Cheese, Pita Chips, lattes, etc.  There comes a time, however, when it is incumbent upon me to acknowledge that I crave certain things that I don't particularly love.  Case in point: McDonald's French Fries.  I've been told that they were my first solid food, so I'm currently working on a theory that draws a connection between a tangible link to my post-infancy state and the preparation of my body to carry a child.  Simply: when I want babies I want fries because I ate 'em when I was a baby.  Curiously enough there is no such correlation to explain why I need ice cream - most perplexing.  

So, my body has been readying itself to experience the wonder of procreation over the past few days - and although I keep explaining to it that there exists no immanent hope of fulfilling that expectation, it refuses to take a merciful sabbatical from its cyclical course.  Which means that tonight, on the way home from a 12-hour work day, I stopped and got McDonald's French Fries.  I did not finish them, and I already feel mildly sick, but the deed is done.  For shame, says you... and I agree - what a sad way to live... which brings me to my next point.

As I was getting ready for work 13 hours ago, I was reading through some interesting BBC News articles and ran across this one: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7767877.stm  I could summarize for you, but I think you should probably get the full effect of the article for yourself.  Please follow the link and read before continuing.

Okay?  Now that you've read, know this: I am ridiculously attracted to intelligence.  I've been fond of some awfully strange looking men and found myself desiring them based solely upon their intellectual prowess.  It's a curse, but I've come to accept it.  Then this article happens to be written and suddenly the world makes sense!  Biologically, we tend to be most drawn to those who will be the most efficient/successful propagators of the species... Intelligent men who have better quality swimmers are (contrary to the article's conclusions) likely to be more successful breeding partners.  Additionally, men who possess such distinguishable mental acuity will ALSO be more likely to be adept at talking me down from my french fry precipice!  What a phenomenal find this is - Smart men will turn me off of french fries and give me babies.  Bad hermeneutics aside, I think we can color this mystery solved.  Until soon...

Yeah, I'm Totally That Girl.

Okay, do you ever do something that seems more than a little bit out of character... like bordering on bizarre... but it's so out there, that you just have to try?  I do.  Or, I did... just this once.  My story begins thusly:

It wasn't a dark night, it wasn't stormy, and it wasn't particularly interesting in any sense except that I was a student at an itty-bitty Bible school in Jackson, MI and had made friends with other students.  One of these friends knew of a band that was playing in Grand Rapids and insisted that I join her and others to trek across the snowy plains to hear them.  It sounded like a horrible idea, so I readily agreed to participate.  I had to be at work at 4 the next morning, then attend class, but I figured I could work it out - after all, I was young and wasn't this what living was all about?  

So we drove, arrived, were seated and in the cavernous auditorium at Calvin College, I was introduced to Over the Rhine (www.overtherhine.com).  I have been wildly smitten ever since.  They were mesmerizing in the way that only people who speak to your soul can be.  I listened, loathe to miss a single note, or lyric, knowing I'd never retain it all - but afraid that it was just something about that day and that stage and those people.  I needed to soak the entire experience into my being.  

We drove home that night and I slept for an hour or so in the very back of my Jeep Cherokee, smooshed in like a sardine.  I went straight to work when we arrived home, but still, the feeling wouldn't shake.  I didn't get a chance to see OTR again while I was in the Midwest, but when I moved back to California, they were playing in San Francisco.  Not only that, but they were playing at my favorite venue: Cafe du Nord.  This is one of those small, cramped, intimate clubs where the acoustics are terrible, but the soul is rich.  When I heard the familiar songs flow out of their fingers and mouths - I was cut to the quick.  Turns out, it wasn't just Michigan, or a certain chemistry... it was the band. There's something about this music that's just beyond my descriptive abilities.  They are brilliant.  I don't think you can quite grasp it, just by listening to the recordings, but when you see them live - it's poetry acted out in front of you.  They have all the playful, whimsical charm of an "indie" band, but there's this undercurrent of intense, visceral, slow fire.  I love them.

Which more or less establishes the context for today's events.  Are you still reading?  I hope so, because this is where it gets good.  I have been checking OTR's website periodically for CA tour dates for about the past 7 months... finally I realized that they'd be in San Francisco on December 4 about 4 months prior to the fact.  I waited to move to Redding & get my class schedules before buying tickets, and it's a good thing I waited - I don't get out of class until 6 pm on Thursdays, and there was just no way that I'd be able to make it to San Francisco in time to catch the show.  No problem, says I, I'll find the shows before & after & see what I can see... I saw a show on December 2 in Klamath, OR.  I thought I had found the perfect solution, until I got a job that had a big event on December 2, which I really would be hard-pressed to miss.  I was so bothered - the annual West Coast tour was driving right past me, and I'd be bum outta luck for both shows.  

I looked at a map, wondering how I could arrange ANY possible way to catch the group's show - when it occurred to me that they would, literally, drive right through Redding between gigs.  I did what no normal person would ever do.  I emailed the band and invited them to stop by for a couple of glasses of wine on their way through.  I also included the caveat that I was painfully aware of how creepy this could all sound.  They replied, graciously, that they weren't sure what their schedule would allow, but would certainly consider the pit stop.  I thought that was kind, and moved on with life, content to look forward to another show for the duration of 2009.  Then today, I walked into work and my buddy Will said, "Hey, Mike from some group called & said they'd be here in about 20 minutes."  That's when my guts started seizing like an overactive epileptic.  I went about my business until I saw Karin and Linford actually walk up to the front door.  SERIOUSLY!!!!!!!!  This amazing troupe of audio artisans walked into my place of work & sat down & tasted some wines.  They whole crew hung out for an hour or two and we got to chat and just be for a little bit.  I didn't want to gush too much - so I tried to joke around and relax a wee smidge.  I guess I could close with this: there's something about humble, genuine, kind artists that restores my faith in the beauty of humanity.  When beautiful people create beauty, the world seems right again.  And, at least for tonight, right it is.

Oops, My Bad Mr. DARE Officer

Darling, faithful readers: I apologize for my absence.  There can be no real excuse, just pathetic appeals to your good natures and merciful benevolence.  First off, I dislike being pathetic.  Secondly, I have reason to question the goodness of your natures and merciful benevolence.   As it turns out, I do not hold those qualities in high regard in this particular forum... your attendance, attention, and accolades are really all I care about.  Speaking of which - why no comments?  Speak up, good people!  Let me know that you're out there! Moving right along...

I have had a rough patch these past few weeks.  Please refer to my aforementioned distaste for pathetic-ness and accept it as reason enough for my sparing you the details - suffice it to say, sometimes life will grab those proverbial cajones, twisting and mangling all the while, for the sole purpose of leaving one (figuratively speaking) utterly immasculated.  Well, color me eunuched.  I was bemoaning my difficulties to Tawny, who is ever the patient listener, and managed to sneak in this bit of sartorial gold: "I'm just tired of school... I've been going my entire life, living for the approval of subjective standards, writing redundant papers, going deeper in debt without any promise of lucrative future earnings and I am just plain tired of it.  It's all a scam.  One, big, fat, sleazy scam.  I think I need to start taking drugs." 

I expected that to be more or less the end of it until Tawny burst into hysterical laughter.  Through her mirth she managed to eek out an explanation, "Do you realize that you just reviled school and advocated drug use in the same sentence?"  Indeed I had.  Decades of "Hugs, not Drugs" indoctrination had failed in that single train of thinking.  My "DARE to Keep Kids Off Drugs" certificates, filed away in some cabinet full of meaningless accomplishments must have been decaying to dust under the disappointment.  It's remarkable what life will make a gal think.

As it turns out, I've lived in such a way to avoid drug dealers.  I don't even really keep in touch with any pharmacists.  Alas, my days of wanton chemical abandon are postponed yet again.  Perhaps I'll look at Berkeley for grad school...