Three boxes of tissues, 300 Q-Tips, ear-ache medication, peroxide, olive oil, apple cider vinegar*, Advil Cold & Sinus, NyQuil tablets, three OJs from McDonald’s, soup from Panera — all items purchased since germs began to fester last Friday.

First, the boyfriend was sick. He shivered and sweat on the couch as the weekend ushered in. He emptied an existing box of tissues and swirled through nearly a half-roll of toilet paper before I bought a three-pack of 75 tissues (each box) Friday night for his aching nose. Two of those boxes are now in the trash, thanks to the sickness he passed along to me.

As his fever broke on Sunday, congestion creeped throughout my head. By Monday, my throat was sore, feeling as though some small animal burrowed its way to the space beyond my tonsils. With the sickness strengthening its grip on my body, the boyfriend continued to fend off symptoms. He lay on the couch Monday night, droplets of olive oil and vinegar sliding down his ear canal.

He woke up feeling better on Tuesday. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite as lucky. Sore body? Check. Runny nose? Check. Throbbing head/sinus pressure? Check. This early Valentine’s gift from the boyfriend was certainly unappreciated.

Today, the boyfriend is at work, tolerating the subdued achy-ness** lingering within his ear and thanking the sickness gods for dissipating quickly. I, on the other hand, am powering through box #3 of tissues, drowning myself in glass after glass of water to avoid the cotton mouth that has refused to quit since my alarm rang at 7:40 a.m.

Will I wake up tomorrow miraculously healed? Doubtful, though I’m hopeful. Will I sneeze my way through Thursday? Will the remaining 65 Kleenex see Friday unused? Will I be able to taste the wine I’m super excited to drink with friends this weekend? Will I feel well enough to cheer for the Packers on Sunday with every ounce of energy? All unknowns thanks to the silly little germs causing my sorrows and sniffles. What I do know, however, is I’m ready to trade in these tissues and bowls of soup for my mundane, fairly-healthy day-to-day existence. This winter illness thing is for the birds.***

* Yes, you read both “olive oil” and “apple cider vinegar.” Boyfriend found some home remedy online for an ear infection that required both items. I try not to ask too many questions.
** Is that a word? If not, it should be. Someone alert Webster.
*** I could’ve just said, “I’m sick. Boyfriend’s sick. It sucks.” That would have saved several minutes of your life. But really, where’s the fun in that?

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Is it the fault of the coach, or the players? Do you blame the guy calling the shots, or the huddle of helmets on the field? Make accusations about inadequate training and management, or poor performance and lack of ability?

As the NFL season moves into playoffs these are questions swirling in the minds of many football fans like myself. On one hand, you have coaches such as Wade Phillips and Brad Childress losing their jobs due to consecutive lackluster game days. On the other hand, big name players such as Michael Vick and Eli Manning are taking on the fault themselves, asking for the assignment of blame to team members instead of their sideline leaders following fumbles and failure to score. Numerous teams throughout the NFL are being shaken up this season with both sides of the coin — coaches and players — taking the heat … to some extent. For so many of us it likely hasn’t gone unnoticed that those coaches yelling plays and boosting team morale as best possible are the ones encountering the brunt of the blows.

Do some coaches possibly deserve these repercussions? Likely so. But in what other venue do bosses find themselves unemployed due to employee shortfalls? Very few careers seemingly face this issue, yet this football season has proven that game loss after game loss can quickly become job loss for the men at the helm. Coach John Fox from the Carolina Panthers is an example of this obvious trend. Despite leading his boys to more wins than losses throughout the past nine years, Fox coached his last Carolina game yesterday following a few years of less-than-ideal player performances. Was Fox to blame for the many interceptions thrown by quarterbacks Jimmy Clausen, Matt Moore and Jake Delhomme? When defensive players succumbed to injury, such as linebacker Dan Connor* earlier this season, was Fox at fault? As teams from Pittsburgh to Tampa Bay ran laps around the team in Charlotte, did Fox encourage his players to admit defeat? I think not. Blame cannot solely be assigned to coaches such as John Fox, and perhaps it hasn’t been. However, they are the ones whose lives seem to change most when players poorly perform.

Am I saying every coach whose team can’t manage a W should merrily continue on in his job? Not at all. But perhaps a bit more emphasis should ride on the shoulders of players. They are the ones who have to take the coach’s words and teachings to the field, turning those training sessions into points and wins. When it truly comes down to it, the players are the guys who have to perform. Coaches cannot do it for them. Coaches cannot run on the field and run a quick play, cannot kick a field goal when three points are needed, cannot sack a quarterback or even block a punt. They can only teach, train, encourage and educate. Blame should be equally divided and repercussions should apply to all parties involved. I know that’s unlikely and I know my words would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears, but these are the musings of one frustrated football fan who wishes the word “fair” was part of the NFL vocabulary.

* Penn State alum, woot woot!! My fave Panther!

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$25. A harmless tarot card reading in the middle of an annual Renaissance Festival. Yet I keep wondering how much truth the “predicted future” truly holds…

I tend to be a nonbeliever when it comes to a variety things, including fortune tellers. But when immersed in the 16th century, dropping a few bucks on the gypsy tent seemed like a fun idea, and it was … for the most part.

As she began to flip my cards, the first words out of her mouth were, “Did you recently switch careers?” DING, DING, DING, indeed, I did. I was shocked that she could’ve so accurately discovered something so unapparent by simply saying hello, telling her my name, and forking over the cash. After a few moments discussing that aspect, she moved to the next question: “Has anyone close to you passed away in the last week or so?” It was a Sunday afternoon, and less than one week beforehand, a good friend from college died.

She had me at that point – hook, line and sinker.

The reading continued, mentioning things that were a bit more grand such as taking more time for myself among all the responsibilities I’ve taken on. Some things were precise and definitely seemed to fit into my life. Other things, eh, I stretched to relate to, but still considered if they were more important than I ever assumed.

Eventually she finished with the first round of cards and inquired about specific questions I might have. I asked about my brother — and her words seemed kind of spot on — as well as love, which provided the most “future-telling”; a future I sort of hope isn’t true.

She said I’m interested in someone — duh! — then asked if I was in a relationship, to which I replied I am. She continued by saying she didn’t see it lasting. I was “settling,” and the coupledom I know now would likely end in the next six to nine months.

WHAT!? So not what I signed up for!!!

I like my boyfriend. I love my boyfriend. We share an apartment together, we’re both incredibly happy. Including Sophie, we have what I like to call a “wittle famwee.”* To some extent, I plan to keep him around a very, very long time, if not forever. But it’s going to end somewhere between April and July?** Oh, awesome…

For the most part, I’m taking what ideas spawned from those tarot cards with a grain of salt. Can the future really be predicted? Eh, I’ve never been convinced of that. But she was so spot-on with other aspects of my life that it was difficult not to accept every word she uttered as near-absolute truth of what is to come. At the same time, I don’t want that fate to be my reality, but now I have to wait six to nine damn months to find out how honest those readings are.

I’ve always generally believed that we create the paths our lives take. They are not predictive, they are not set in stone as we enter this world. The road we travel is of our own making, and I’m hoping more now than ever that my long-held beliefs are correct. I suppose only time will tell though… I’m far too impatient for this.

* That’s “little family,” but I say it stupidly for some reason… Don’t ask questions.
** This has become a fun fake-argument line in our home though. “Oh ya? Well we only have another six months together anyway.” Ha. We’re super lame.

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Another day, another plane crash.

As morbid as it may sound, that’s starting to feel like the truth. Everywhere you turn in recent years there seems to be news about yet another plane tragically descending toward the ground. Today’s headlines about the “miracle” crash in Colombia — one death among 125 passengers and six crew members — is just the tip of the iceberg. After all, just days ago, on Aug. 9, former U.S. Senator Ted Stevens was killed when a small plane he was aboard crashed in Alaska. And his fatal flight was in addition to another fatal Alaskan accident and the death of 14 passengers on a Russian plane earlier this month. It’s almost as if “Final Destination” has been turned to repeat as flight-related incidents become increasingly reported.

Out of curiosity, I headed toward Google in search of plane-crash statistics. And after sifting through pages and pages of data and terms I barely understand, here is what I’ve sort of gathered:

• The number of U.S.-based crashes — both “general aviation” and civilian flights — decreased from 2008 to 2009, according to the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB). Fatalities also decreased. However, these notes, as written in an April 2010 press release, were about all the information I could really summarize because their tables are ridiculously confusing.
• PlaneCrashInfo.com reports more than 51 crashes in 2009 alone (I counted through a list though I am unsure what type of crafts they specifically note). Sixty-three in 2008, 54 in 2007 and 51 in 2006. Now, on this same site, you look back a decade or two and you find that there were 76 crashes in 2000 and 72 in 1990. So why exactly does it feel as though the news today is littered with these events when they were, obviously, more abundant in years past?
• The Geneva-based Aircraft Crashes Record Office (ACRO) shows similar results — though they solely count vessels which contain six-or-more people. They note that 1918 had the fewest number of crashes at only 18. Though one must consider that was toward the inception of air travel, so 18 could potentially be quite high. The year 2009 appeared somewhere in the middle at 127 crashes, with each of the 2000s coming toward the latter half of the listing, showing significantly fewer incidents than the record 528 in 1943.
• Even looking more closely at a particular month, 2010 seems to be on the decline for failing flights. The NTSB noted a decrease in U.S. Civil Aviation flight disasters in June 2009 and June 2010 (170 to 152) as well as 11 fewer general aviation accidents (166 to 145). Though June 2010 unfortunately marked a midair collision, which 2009 did not.

So what does all of that babble mean?

Well, if you ask me — and you must be considering you’re still reading and I’ll be shocked if that’s the case as I assume this only interests me for some crazy, insane reason – it shows that these incidents are bizarrely attracting more media attention than they did in previous years. Why else would it continually feel as though crash after crash, collision after collision, was occuring? The only fathomable explanation is an increase in news exposure (so I believe).

Perhaps this comes as a result of the undoubtedly most tragic air-related event in American history, Sept. 11. Maybe the media influx is a product of “miracles” that have occasionally popped up, such as this new one in Colombia or last year’s “Miracle on the Hudson.” Or all of this is possibly my own perception and these items have been reported just as often in former decades, yet as my 20s emerged, I only then began to realize it*…

Whichever reason this turns out to be, I know at least myself and one of my coworkers have noticed a change. Considering all the data points toward fewer flight disasters recently than throughout the years since Orville and Wilbur Wright first lifted off the ground, the only logical notion is some unexplained shift that thrusts more of these dreadful incidents into the spotlight. But what could that be? ::Shrugs:: I wish I knew.

* This is entirely plausible, in which case, I just spent way too much of my life researching plane crashes.

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I sorted through the clothes that no longer fit or were too tattered to save. I packed the boxes of belongings I’ve had for years and those I recently purchased. I tossed food that lingered in my cabinets past expiration dates. I dusted, swept, polished and mopped an entire house just to bid it farewell.

But none of it felt the same as the other dozen times I moved in my life. Hell, it didn’t even feel the same as the last instance where I decided to share my residence with a boyfriend. This moment was much different, and I could pinpoint exactly why.

I was closing a chapter of my life — a two-year period based on independence — that held more importance than any other chapter before it. Sure, I have two diplomas to signify my college experience and albums filled with photos of those nearest and dearest to my heart. But that house and those walls, they were my security blanket, one that sheltered me as I changed and matured and developed from a confused post-grad with an uncertain path to a confident, organized, career-oriented person whose future had finally found clarity among the shades of grey.

Four hours into the move, with only a few boxes remaining but much cleaning to do, I stood in the center of my newly-bare living room talking to my mom and I completely broke down. I hadn’t wanted to move, but it wasn’t because of the situation at hand; it was because the house meant more to me than a place to live and leaving it behind carried more weight than the thousands of pounds of luggage I carried to my new home.

I moved into that humble abode on Harris Street in March 2008 following a breakup with my boyfriend of three years. He returned to Pennsylvania and I was suddenly left in MoTown, 600 miles away from everyone I knew only one year beforehand. I was living on my own, with the exception of a small and furry black roommate who only became a member of my tiny family days beforehand. I owned little more than a TV, futon, desk and kitchenware at the time, and had dealt with nothing but my credit card bills up to that point. At the age of 22, I was forced to learn how to budget my finances to ensure survival from day to day without seeing gas, electric or water services cease. I juggled being a new “mom” to my Sophie, teaching her not to pee in the house and not to eat my shoes, with two jobs. I cooked for one, cleaned for one, grocery-shopped for one… I learned who I was simply by taking care of myself, my household, my dog. The independence came easily, though the transformation within was masked.

And as I stood there in the empty room, my belongings en route to another town and a new residence, the swift realization of how much growth those walls saw in me and my life was overwhelming. The tears were inevitable so I let them flow for a few minutes before wiping them away and picking up the mop to clean another floor.

I’d lived in apartments before, lived with a boyfriend before, lived in a new town before, but this move was different because I was different. I wasn’t that same girl who was nearly homeless in a barely-known state two years ago, or the carefree new post-grad who moved to NC, or even the frightened yet eager college junior moving into her first apartment with friends in State College, PA; I was a real adult with life under her belt, ready to take on the next experience knowing that if it failed, I could make it on my own because I had done it before.

To everyone else, I was moving onto better things, leaving a small house in a mediocre part of town for a lakeside apartment in an upscale neighborhood. To me, I was turning the page onto a new adventure, looking back on the last one and seeing how those years and those four walls of my former home shaped every day henceforth.

It was more than a two-year residence. That house, humble little 413 Harris Street, was where I became me and although I’m not leaving that girl behind, it’s still a bit tough to bid adieu to the place that allowed her to emerge.

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It was nearly two weeks ago, but I still remember that evening vividly.

I was curled up on the couch, empty bowl in hand that once contained some delicious chicken and rice. I set the bowl on my coffee table and took another swig of my Coca-Cola. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it — the green box, taunting me as it scarcely peeked out of my purse. I tried to look away, attempting to forget the momentary vision and the saliva that was already forming in my mouth. But it was too late.

Half an hour later, all that remained was the empty foil, the remnants of a formerly filled sleeve of Thin Mint cookies. My shame was heavy, my stomach full. What began as a meager hope to help a coworker’s daughter ended with nearly 700 calories I simply did not need. And another sleeve awaited…

While other organizations are out there, regularly discussing the hazards of both adult and childhood obesity, Girl Scouts of America send demure, innocent young girls to our doorsteps, peddling cookie-deliciousness containing more calories than one should likely consume in a typical day. And at $3.50 per box, we fall for their schemes, thinking of little more than the mouth-watering goodness that awaits. Sure, we may pretend that we’re merely making a purchase to aid some child attain a merit badge that will undoubtedly end up in a drawer seven years from now, collecting dust. But we’re all in it for one thing: The delectable Caramel deLites (aka Samoas), the scrumptious Peanut Butter Patties (aka Tagalongs) and the chocolatey goodness known as Thin Mints, my true weakness.

Despite any hopes we carried into the new year of fitting into our jeans that became a bit-too-tight over the holiday season, the Girl Scouts strip us of our desires, reminding us that their season of choice – Cookie Season – lies just around the corner. And as February arrives and we finally pull those size 4 jeans out of the closet, watching them glide easily over our thighs, butt and waist, those girls in brown and green appear to remind us that our bodies are meant for a size 6 forevermore.

I entered that evening with a skewed thought process – “If I just eat them all now, they won’t taunt me any longer. I must make the entire sleeve of cookies disappear.” – but I carry it no more. Those little ladies won’t fool me. I know the damage their cookies can cause and damn it, I refuse to be a victim ever again!

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From an early age, we are told by our mothers, grandmothers, teachers and countless others that “it’s what’s inside that counts” and ”don’t judge a book by its cover.” Well, one new dating reality show on ABC is pushing those idealistic concepts one step further by proving that looks truly do matter regardless of what people may want to believe.

“Dating in the Dark” premiered two weeks ago on Monday nights and, if you’ve yet to see it, I suggest tuning in for at least one episode* if you have an hour of your life to spare for non-thought-provoking television.

So what’s the general gist** here? Three male and three female contestants move into opposite wings of a house for several days, never having a single opportunity to see each other until the very last moments of the dating scenario. Rather, they meet in “the dark room” on one group date then single dates to decide if chemistry exists sans appearance.

Through the use of infrared/night-vision cameras, viewers are able to watch each awkward moment the contestants experience in the darkness. Yep, we see everything from the sad attempts to eat food in the pitch black room to the ass grabbing and haphazard kissing they engage in. Personally, I find this both amusing and somewhat intrusive, all which keep my eyes glued to the television.

Outwardly, one might think the reality show proves that you can fall for someone without having a clue what he or she looks like. Whether the contestants discover that through fun activities – eating an assortment of fruits or dancing, for example – conversation or simply making out, they are able to judge each other based on personality alone.

This is what we see, thanks to the infrared cameras. They, however, see complete blackness. Creeeeeeeepy.

… That is, until the big moment where each individual’s appearance is revealed to their “match” and both persons have to decide whether or not to continuing dating now that physical attraction is a factor.

The final ten minutes of each episode I’ve watched – three total, in case you were curious – have been more superficial than anything I’ve yet to see in my life***.

The majority of these men and women seriously grapple with the decision to “stay with the person they fell for in the dark, or leave them behind,” as the ABC Web site states. The viewer actually witnesses people experiencing a strange yet real struggle to decide how important the other individual’s appearance is. Some daters choose to depart while others stick around because the connection formed in the blackness prevailed. But did it?

I haven’t exactly watched enough episodes to completely judge, but, thus far, it seems as though the men and women who claim not to be entirely attracted to their date (yet choose to “meet them on the balcony” and continue dating) have this self-righteous attitude that they, unlike others, were able to put personality above appearance. As if they are doing their dates this huge favor by sticking around, and that part certainly disgusts me a bit****.

Either way, I find it all quite intriguing because the show, to some extent, does ask the “is love blind?” question, forcing us all to somewhat think about how important appearance is to a relationship. If in their shoes, would we be able to continue seeing someone we aren’t exactly lusting for just because of an emotional connection? Or would we, too, depart the house, never to see that person again? It’s something viewers likely cannot help but consider while watching.

If you’ve seen “Dating in the Dark,” I’d love to hear your thoughts about it, good or bad. And if you haven’t watched yet, do you think it’s something worth checking out? Lastly, what do you guys think about a reality show trying to answer relatively deep questions about the role of physical attraction?

* Unless you hate reality TV and/or dating shows. Then go watch CSI.
** Until this very moment, I thought “gist” was spelled with a J. Oops.
*** That’s likely a bit hyperbolic, but it fit well into my sentence.
**** Although, perhaps I’m simply reading into this television program a bit more than necessary, which is always a possibility.

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I’m often behind the curve, unfortunately, but I was shocked yesterday* when I realized how truly far away I was when it came to the context of this particular Britney Spears song. Truth be told, I didn’t understand the song’s meaning so I didn’t entirely care for it, until I was informed last night what “if you seek Amy” actually means.

“If you seek Amy” = F-U-C-K me. Say it once or twice and you’ll catch on, too.
Love me, hate me
Say what you want about me
But all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to
If you seek Amy.
Love me, hate me
But can’t you see what I see?
All of the boys and all of the girls are begging to
If you seek Amy.

Needless to say, the pop tune’s connotations were obvious once that brief tidbit was discovered. And as I further thought about this earlier today** I realized how knowing just a bit more about a song, a book, an author, etc. can vastly change not only one’s perspective on the piece, but its framework, subtext and even general meaning.

When I was in high school, an English teacher of mine frequently asked us students to disregard the author and his/her life as we read a book. He wanted each of us to look at the words as they were on the page without any prior knowledge of how the author’s life might have played in a role in the text’s creation. An excellent example of this from my senior year AP English course is James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. You can either take the text at face value, or you can delve into Joyce’s life and an entirely new novel is seemingly born. Honestly, I think knowing about Joyce’s relationship with his homeland is crucial to understanding that particular book whatsoever.

And that seems to be the case with Britney Spears’ tune. “If you seek Amy” was one of the songs I’d easily change the radio station to avoid or I’d skip over on my iPod. Now, however, knowing the subtle message she’s actually attempting to convey, I strangely have a greater appreciation for the song and I can better understand it as a whole.

So what are some other songs or books that require some “outside” knowledge to comprehend? I can’t seem to think of any at this moment, but if you can, feel free to share.

* “Yesterday” is actually Sunday. I started this post on Monday and simply haven’t had the time to finish it ’til days later.
* Why it was still on my mind, I have no idea…

NOTE: If you’re extremely bored – and I’m talking boredom bordering suicide – you can explore this topic much more in depth. English professors often refer to it as “authority,” such as “who truly has authority over the text?” I studied this briefly as a junior at Penn State*** and it’s honestly a quite interesting discussion (unless you don’t really care, and then it’s just a bunch of useless college crap being tossed your direction). The crux of “authority” asks if the reader has the right to interpret the text in front of them however he or she chooses, or if the author’s initial meaning is the only true interpretation of the words.

Okay, okay, I’m a huge nerd and I find this a valid and thought-provoking argument, and in reality, it’s that “authority” that changes the meaning of Britney’s words. Plus, for once in my lifetime, I actually applied a somewhat trivial concept that I learned in college to something a bit more mainstream and “real life,” if you will. It may never happen again, so I’m taking this moment to make a note of it.****

*** Truth be told, it’s the ONLY thing from my horrible rhetoric class I remember.
**** It may have literally taken me five days to finish this post, but WOOHOO, I did! And just as I was about to give up on it…

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