A very short period. That, sadly, was clearly the pinnacle of any “Game” I may possess.

Shy-Boy did not respond to my e-mail. So he’s clearly Not Interested. I’m not crushed, but I am definitely disappointed. I’m sure I will be over this sooner, rather than later, but it is one more disappointment.

And not to get all emo and over-dramatic (but clearly I will anyway) but it would be nice if one thing could go right. Just one. Of course, I’m sure if one thing were to go right, I’d want two, and then three, and so forth. But right now I’d settle for one. Right now, I wish that he would just write back and say “Sorry, not interested” because then I could stop wondering about it, but I’m sure that if I were to recieve that email, I’d be upset. Not so much because of WHO is rejecting me, but just because feeling rejected sucks.

I could just really use some good news. I’m sure that the zen like answer to this is that there is good news and good things to be found in everything. Which is a lovely little thought. But not, at the moment, a particularly effective, or useful one.

He is very, very cute. And the emails we exchanged definitely expressed an interest. (Yes, yes, I know, the internet, emails are not indicative of future success, etc) But he was (seemingly) painfully shy. Like there were some long-ish, mildly awkward silences. Is that normal? Aren’t you supposed to just “click” if it’s going to work out? I have no idea if he liked me or not. And due to lack of comfortable interaction from him, I’m not sure, if I “like-like” him either.

But he seems really shy, and from what little information I have on him, perhaps his awkward social interaction is understandable.

Or he could just not like me at all. Like, he didn’t so much as try to give me a hug at the end of the night.

And now I have no idea where to proceed. Forget him? Wait and see? Or write an email saying that we managed to do pretty well for two ridiculously shy people and ask if he wants to do it again?

]]> http://rachelnotrebecca.com/2010/06/27/i-have-no-idea-how-to-date/feed/ 2 http://rachelnotrebecca.com/2010/02/23/that-is-just-so-typically-me/ http://rachelnotrebecca.com/2010/02/23/that-is-just-so-typically-me/#comments Wed, 24 Feb 2010 00:31:09 +0000 Rachel Not Rebecca http://rachelnotrebecca.com/?p=6606 I made plans to go to a Monday meeting, with the intent of “running into” Just-In-Case. Partly because when I actually ran into him a few weeks ago, he told me I should. In anticipation of this (and also, just because I felt like it) I fixed my hair and dressed all nice. I wore this shirt, because Keithers described the color (Fantasia Blue) as “I want to have sex with that.” I recieved several compliments.

Just-In-Case, was of course, not there this Monday. Typical. At least my hair still looks pretty today.

The days are dragging this week. I feel like Toni Collette in Clockwatchers, which is a wonderful and very underrated little film. The movie was made in 1997, so while the internet existed (we had it at my house. My family had internet before Al Gore, probably) it certainly hadn’t infiltrated every aspect of the workplace like it does today. There’s one line in it

Sometimes it hits you how quickly the present fades into the past, and you question everything around you. You wonder if anything you’d ever do would matter.

Which pretty much sums up what I feel some days. I was driving to work this morning and it’s already almost March. 2009 was the year of Just Surviving. Last March, I said that I knew it was going to be hard, that “this year” was going to be really, really, really hard but that I would get through it. And now I have, and it’s like “ok, what next?” and while I clearly have some ideas of what I want for “what’s next,” the present is speeding away as I try to make the future happen.

This is quickly veering towards angsty-existential crises territory, where it seems to go a lot these days. I think back on when I was temping, at this time, five years ago. Sure I’m older and wiser, but I am so jealous of my 22 year old self sometimes. And then I remember what it was like trying to get a job just out of college, practically having to beg someone to give me a chance, and well no, I’m not jealous of that, but then again, is it really that different from what I’m doing now? That I’m offering to answer phones and make copies for an abysmal salary just so I can finally work somewhere that I feel relevant?

That was a major run on sentence.

I guess part of it is that deep down there is still this fear, that maybe This Is It. That all I am ever going to be is a glorified secretary. And while that’s not the worst of fates (or pays) it’s certainly not what I ever wanted or imagined for myself. Maybe I just Don’t Have What It Takes. To do what, exactly, I’m not sure, but for now I use the sentiment broadly. It seems entirely possible that it isn’t going to matter how many carefully crafted cover letters I send out or how smart I am, or how capable I am of doing any of these jobs; I might never get one because of all that is still missing from my resume. And maybe, it’s missing from my resume, not because I choose wrong or differently, but because I am just not the type of person who saw those chances, or opportunities in the first place. David is always pointed out that every ponderance of “what would have been if I had taken another path” requires you to question whether you, being the type of person you are, could have done anything different anyway.

This started out as a lighthearted post. I swear.

It’s funny how doubt hides itself. It follows behind you. It waits in every corner. You never see it coming. But you feel it, on the inside. Maybe it was just that office. Or maybe it was bigger than that, it was all around. A million eyes. Watching. Judging. The whole wide world even. You feel so small.

-Clockwatchers

I am only about 10% kidding here. Maybe 15%. I don’t like the outdoors. I am not an outdoorsy person. I like concrete and steel and darting across the street against the light.

I cannot sit still and concentrate on anything. I have to be multi-tasking to get anything done. All my papers in college got done with 3 AIM windows open and probably a couple of websites for good measure.  It takes me forever to write a blog entry because I keep checking my email or going back to the drawing I was making while on hold before.  Same deal with cover letters. I find it absolutely cringeworthy to pound out paragraphs on how wonderful and uniquely qualified I am and how it applies to this particular organization, so I can only stand to write a few sentences at a time, and then I have to minimize the window because it’s just icky.

This entry has been brought to you by the newly created ‘Neurotic Jew’ tag.

Also, lately, in the moments when I’m trying to fall asleep, I find my brain running over incredibly embarassing things I’ve done over the years, including the things that I didn’t have enough sense to be embarrased about then (read: Middle School) but were horrible and I can’t believe I dressed/talked/acted like that. I have no idea why I’m thinking about these things, but they have just drifted out of my memory to torture me. Memory lane indeed.

It is already almost February and I have accomplished exactly one of my January goals. I really need to join a gym and go to the dentist. And kick my own ass.

This is why I haven’t had a date in about a year. And the “dates” I had were not really dates, properly speaking. On one hand, this means the disaster with O-L-B last Thanksgiving was almost a year ago, as was the mini-debacle with Peace. Apparently the mini-debacle with Peace was so cringeworthy I never wrote about it, but the CliffNotes is, I got drunk and made out with a (Libertarian) Muslim who had never kissed a girl before, because anything other than holding hands before marriage is against his religion. The fact that I’m Jewish probably made it even more of a sin against God.

It’s too bad you can spell “Disaster” without “B-O-Y-S.” Anyway, the point is, except for the one time I went out with The Writer in February, the last time I had anything resembling a date was…way too long ago.

If you were taking notes on the four main approaches to U.S. Foreign Policy (neo-isolationism, selective engagement, cooperative security, & primacy) wouldn’t you use four different colored pens too? For example, I used purple for primacy, because purple = royalty, and primacy is basically a desire to be king of the world.

It annoys me that the phrase “king of the world” still reminds me of that cringeworthy scene in Titanic where Leonardo DiCaprio shouts the phrase from the bow (stern?) of the ship. Yes, that movie made me cry (I was 14, but it had nothing to do with Leonardo DiCaprio, who I never found hot) but I always thought that scene was embarrassingly awful.

I’m sure I should do something like laundry today, or figure out how to prepare for my second phone interview, but the former probably won’t happen, and the latter, I really don’t know what I can do.

]]> http://rachelnotrebecca.com/2009/11/15/im-a-total-catch/feed/ 3 http://rachelnotrebecca.com/2009/11/06/this-week-flew-by/ http://rachelnotrebecca.com/2009/11/06/this-week-flew-by/#comments Fri, 06 Nov 2009 15:31:44 +0000 Rachel Not Rebecca http://rachelnotrebecca.com/?p=6353 I suppose that I am attempting NaBloPoMo (hence why I have posted hurried things all week) but now that I’ve said that I will likely FAIL. I know it’s NaNoWriMo, but I don’t write fiction, so it’s not really my thing. I HAVE participated in NaNoWriMo in varying capacities before, but those are some long-ish stories and had very little to do with the writing. (Read: they had to do with a boy, usually)

For whatever reason I am not particularly concerned at this moment with the fact that I have not heard from the Libertarians (I’m pretty much resigned…this doesn’t change the fact that I will cry at official rejection, but at this particular moment I’m in a “life will go on” sort of mindset) or from the State of New Jersey. Maybe someone has been slipping Xanax into my Red Bull.

The Yankee Parade is today. The only reasons I wanted the Yankees to win over the Phillies was North Jersey pride (South Jersey, which is a different country, goes for Philly) and because of how much Red Sox fans hate the Yankees.

Almost the weekend. I have no plans, although perhaps I will watch more of the West Wing. I never watched it in the original run and have no idea about what happens throughout the series (AND DON’T TELL ME) so its like an entirely new show for me. I’m only about half way through the first season, and it’s amusing how dated some of it is – it’s very, very Clintonian.

Now, I grew up in suburban New Jersey and I HATE Boston and the Boston Red Sox, but I have never been a Yankee fan (indifferences wins, usually) and  I have always hated Derek Jeter. The reason I hate Derek Jeter is purely contrarian.

I was in middle school when Jeter was a rookie, and he was the new guy in town, and all you heard about was how he was So Hot.

There was this girl in my grade, I’ll call her Kasey. I did not like her. I don’t really remember why other than the boy I had a crush on seemed to pay her a lot of attention. I’m sure there were other reasons. I got picked on a lot in middle school and disliking people was a defense mechanism, of sorts.

Anyway, Kasey was known throughout the grade for her huge crush on Derek Jeter. I was quite the self-righteous little 8th grader (I probably deserved to be punched in the face) and already thought that crushing on Derek Jeter was stupid, but because Casey had a crush on Derek Jeter, is moved from stupid to despicable. Not that I ever said anything beyond the lunch table that I shared with my loyal band of nerdy boys and not like I was doing anything more valuable with my time, but it was the principle of the matter.

So, nearly 15 years later, I don’t like Derek Jeter, because some girl I didn’t like was very vocal about her crush on Derek Jeter.

Clearly, I am the principled one in this situation. I stick to my ideals, damnit!

I am so bored. I have been so bored all week. With occasional bursts of activity such as writing blog posts and still trying to fix my imported archives. It is an exciting life I lead, I know.

I am retrospectively convinced that one of the reasons I liked Dawson’s Creek so much in high school was that it gave me ideas for how to create drama in my own life and thereby make it more interesting. I was really bored and didn’t want to do my homework, so instead I had boy drama. This kept me busy for a good number of years.

However (however) the overwrought, dreadfully angsty entries I have written on boy drama; I am conflicted on what to do with them. I am somewhat embarrased by their existence, but not really enough to delete them. At the time, all those things seemed Terribly Important, and even though my overly rational brain was whispering “…you do know that you’re pulling the strings on this, don’t you?” I kept at it. I guess  I needed something to do in college given that I was painfully, terribly shy.  (Despite this, after a year and half, I did manage to make out with the boy I had a crush on. And then we had a lot of drama. He will conceed that this was partially his fault.)

Oh, right the point of this, is that I really wish I were young enough to casually manufacture some drama, because it would make life in suburbia a lot more interesting.

I am afraid of talking on the phone.

I am awful at it. Either I lose my train of thought and stutter, or I panic and start talking too fast and don’t make any sense.

Just the anticipation of having to deal with phone calls that I am loathe to deal with makes me sick with anxiety. Sometimes, it even drives me to the verge of tears. I have tried every trick there is to get over it, and nothing has worked.

And then, I sound like a crazy person, because it’s a phone call, grow up, get over it.

I don’t think I’ve always hated the phone. When I was twelve, I was content to spend hours on the phone with N.A; we had mutual crushes on each other, and I cannot tell you what we talked about for all those hours, but I know I thought it was important enough to campaign for my own phone line. My parents said I could, if I brought up my grades in Spanish and Math. Therein lay the dilemma – I couldn’t get my own line and spend unlimited time on the phone until I brought my grades up, but I certainly was in no place to bring my grades up when there was a boy who wanted to talk to me on the phone.

Luckily, he lost interest in me, I got straight As the first marking period of 8th grade, and I got my phone line.

Since then, the phone has been a primary form of communication (in high school, before AIM was the standard, and WAY before texting), a form of connection, (in college, to my friends who were far away) and a form of torture (carrying my cell phone around, willing it to ring when I was hoping that HWSNBN would call me.) But in college, other forms of communication became more important. AIM meant I could talk to several different people at once. Email was more convenient than picking up the phone. Making and recieving phone calls just fell out of practice.

It wasn’t until after college that phones started to make me nervous. I was temping at a company that to this day, I have no idea what they did. My job was simple: answer the phone, direct the calls. That’s it.  Sometimes they let me put labels on files, but as a temp, I wasn’t allowed to do anything real.

Anyway, for whatever reason some of the people at this company (engineers? technicians?) were often recieving Important Phone Calls, and the person on the line would request that I page them. I’ve always hated the sound of my own voice, and having to do this several times a day was cringeworthy. Then there was the time — it was my first day actually – when I mistakenly dialed the number for the head of the company just because the delivery guy had his number on the receipt. Luckily, his assistant picked it up and explained what was what. In my own defense, I was only 21, barely out of college and naive to the fact that if someone’s extention is 01, then they are probably pretty important.

In search of health insurance, I did manage to land a full time job. Actually, they didn’t hire me at first. They hired Charice. But poor, unknowing Charice got promoted after two weeks there. As she said once “I sold out. Rachel got hired.” I was still a receptionist, except now I was a receiptionist with health insurance. It wasn’t too bad. Mostly, I just directed people to customer service.

Then I got promoted. It was awesome! It was to a job I actually wanted to do! It was more money! And I wouldn’t be tied to a desk, which to me, was at least 50% of the appeal.

The Friday before I was supposed to start my new position, my supervisor’s boss, without even bothering to pull me aside, told me “oh by the way, we don’t have the money to pay you. So we can’t promote you to that position.”

I was crushed. While it was probably a good thing (it motivated me even more to finish my grad school applications) I felt totally stuck as a receptionist.

By then head of my department liked me. He knew I was smart and felt bad about the whole promotion debacle. He started giving me projects. At first, I was happy at the chance to prove myself and I accepted the admin role in spite of the fact that the new title didn’t come with a bigger paycheck. And the fact that my extension was still 0, I was still tied to a desk, and there were beginning to be mumblings about my phone mannerisms.

It was May, because it was right before my birthday when the suggestion box had a note in it, for probably the first time in its existence. “The receptionist” (it read. not even my name. Just “the receptionist”) is a black hole of despair. would it kill her to fake some charisma ” While this incident is retrosepctively hilarious, I got written up and went on a quest to find out just who the hell cared whether or not I smiled. (the answer: 40 something washed up wannabee opera singer. I got him back though.)

It only got worse from there. Two years later, at the Job-That-Wasn’t, I had to make a lot of phone calls, to people who I could barely understand on the phone, on topics where I had no idea what I was talking about. Additionally, there were times when I was supposed to “pressure” people into getting things done. Mind you, Job That Wasn’t was a tiny company and I was on the phone with Big Important Company that could have cared less about my request, but that did not mean anynoe in my department understood any better why the request was going to take the standard 24 hours.

The last guy I dated refused to call to make plans, instead preferring a barrage of back and forth text messages. That was a little extreme, even for me. But that also didn’t mean my heart didn’t pound wildly whenever I decided to grow a spine, call him, and call him out for being kind of a jerk. (I have regretted most of these phone calls. Don’t keep the phone numbers of people you used to date in your cell phone)

Really, the phone has never done me any good these past few years. All it has done is given me the means to call boys that I shouldn’t call, given me a cell phone that I feel lost when I don’t have, and given various Powers That Be a means to torture me.

When you think about it, texting is kind of like a more advanced form of telegraphing. So clealy Thomas Edison had it right and Alexander Graham Bell ruined everything.

I liked him immediately, not in the like-like sense, but just in the ‘he’s good people’ kind of sense. And actually, I have a hard time grasping that his name is Scott. He looks like someone else I know, and I keep thinking of him by that name instead.  Anyway, from dinner out that first night, it was very clear he has a girlfriend. 

But anyway, Scott is nice, and I ran into him on Saturday night, and we have mutual acquintences. So we were all standing around, doing the typical suburban stand around outside and  attempt to make plans, and he’s like “You don’t want to go out do you? You want to go home? ”

And he is right that normally this is my MO, to slink away home, and to get fed up as the girls stand around endlessly debating the next set of plans. 

(and he didn’t say it in a judge-y way; there was one other night when both of us were cranky that no one could seem to make plans and just gave up and went home)

But tonight, the girls weren’t around, it was just Scott and a few other guys, No ulterior motive, just wanted to go out for the sake of going out, because I am anti social as hell. 

Dinner was uneventful, good food at Blue Moon, listening to some other guy preach, and having Scott apologize to me for having to listen to it. On the ride to my house we were just talking about work and I said something about wanting to go to law school, and how it will be a lot of debt, and he said “You never know, with Obama we might all wind up being able to go to school for free.” 

And I said “That’d be nice, but I don’t go for universal education. I’m a Libertarian.” 

And

(Wait for it) 

He said “You are? So am I!” 

Head, meet desk.

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Anyway, I thought this line was perfect:

“So you gave your number to a guy you were not remotely interested in, and then YOU called HIM and asked him out?”

I think Brenty has probably said extremely similar things to me.

On second thought, lets go to the AIM log.

Just Rachel 129: i’m going out with [nice] Libertarian boy again tomorrow night
NascentIgnorance: i was going to ask about that
NascentIgnorance: but figured no news is good news
Just Rachel 129: no, no news is technically bad news, in the sense that i’m pretty sure he’s too nice for me
NascentIgnorance: oh right
NascentIgnorance: he doesn’t treat you badly or make believe that he doesn’t like you
Just Rachel 129: well hey, at least i’m going out with him again
Just Rachel 129: and giving him a chance to prove that he can be emotionally manipulative and infuriating
Just Rachel 129: plus his voice kind of annoys me, it’s too enthusiastic
NascentIgnorance: oh you need something droll and fatigued
NascentIgnorance: you should ask this guy if [way too inappropriatete]
NascentIgnorance: maybe then that’ll get something going
Just Rachel 129: it’s too late; he already calls me before midnight and wants to hold my hand in public
NascentIgnorance: well what do you expect?
NascentIgnorance: you went out with him because he reads the economist and probably voted for badnarik

“Yes. You are definitely an idiot,” Brent agrees.

“I know! And I have like, the need to keep repeating it, because it’s like, I know I’m an idiot and I don’t want you to think I don’t know I’m an idiot.”

“Well, your problem is that you didn’t see how this would turn out.”

“Actually I did,” I confess. “I was just being consciously naïve.”

“Consciously naïve?”

“Yeah, like Cassandra in “I Capture the Castle.” Actually, last summer was consciously naïve, this was just more like, ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, and I shouldn’t do it, but whatever.”

“You really are an idiot,” Brent says, shaking his head.

“I know!”

“Why do you tell me these things?”

“Because, I know they’re like, shameful, and I can’t NOT tell you, and I know that you will agree with me that it’s shameful.”

“Right. I tell you it’s shameful. And give you more reasons why it’s shameful,” Brent says helpfully. “I bring a fresh perspective to the situation.”

“Exactly!”

And, I get all teary eyed. Because he walks away, whispering to himself “Enough. Enough now.”

And then Emma Thompson calls her husband out on cheating on her and yells “you have made my life ridiculous,” and I lose it, because Emma Thompson is awesome and her voice is all raw, and then she has to pull it together to meet her kids. So, I cry. Again.

“You are such a sap,” Evan tells me. “Is this why you won’t watch movies with other people?”

I suppose I could try to blame my bout of mawkishness on PMS or my stress over my impending graduation, but by now, my friends and my readership have probably divined the truth about my outward thorniness: namely, that beneath my grouchy, cynical cloak beats a sentimental heart.

I may be a rational, resilient woman, capable of pulling myself out of a depression, slogging through collegiate misery and still graduating with honors, but when it comes to manipulative movies et al., I will cry at the drop of a hat.

Yes. I am a sap. I am not, however, an equal opportunity sap. I hate weddings, but I’ll choke up at a Seinfeld episode. “Where the Red Fern Grows” had little affect on me, but I sob every time I read the end of IT, by Stephen King.

Even though I’ve read Atlas Shrugged through a dozen times, and wrote an entire essay regarding this scene, I still get ridiculously upset when Hank Rearden goes to tell Dagny he loves her, and that he knows she’s found someone else, but that’s okay, because loving her will be enough (and my wasted heart will love you….). And speaking of Rand…“We the Living.” is the saddest book ever written. Irina and Sasha watching each other’s trains taking them to different prison camps. I was reading that book in Starbucks over Spring Break this year, and shaking, because I didn’t want to sob aloud. That entire book tore me apart. I wanted to re-read it this year because I was studying that historical period in my Russian class, but I absolutely could not read it. That is literally one of the most upsetting pieces I’ve read in my life.

The original proof that Rachel is not the stoic she likes to pretend she is:
Titanic: 4 Rachel: 0

I will say in my own defense, I couldn’t have cared less about “Leo” and I was 14 at the time. I did, however, cry at that scene where crazy Rose jumps off the life boat and back onto the ship because she doesn’t want to leave Jack, and he’s all like “You’re so stupid, why did you do that, you’re so stupid.” And she’s all “I couldn’t go, I couldn’t leave you Jack!” And then they play that Irish hymn and you see all the scenes of the people who aren’t going to make it onto the lifeboats, and there’s the couple on the bed who are holding each other, and obviously terrified, and the mother reading her children to sleep and fighting to keep the panic out of her voice as she waits to drown – well, it just about killed me

In movies, it’s almost always worse than books, because there’s the damn music to accompany the tear jerking parts. I don’t have a prayer of getting through touching vignettes without at least choking up. Like in Armageddon, when Bruce Willis shoves Ben Affleck back on to the space ship and sacrifices himself, and then they show the montage of all the people celebrating back on Earth, with awful music in the background.

(…yes. I cried at Armageddon)

I also have a thing cheesy sports films. I think I have way too good an understanding of what it’s like to be part of a team from decathlon, and really, sports isn’t that much different from decathlon! Mention that scene in “A League of Their Own”, where Dottie drops the ball, and there’s a good chance I’ll leave the room. I can’t stand the end of that movie. I sit there, and anticipate it, and worry about it, and then I have to turn the TV off for the entire World Series. I got all weepy watching “Miracle” when the coach is like “Who do you play for” and they’re all like “the United States” and then they kick some commie ass. Ah, team camaraderie. Rousseau would totally approve. Oh, and Angels in the Outfeild gets to me too.

Somehow, my true hysteria is reserved for very sappy romantic comedies. I have this deal at Hollywood video where I pay $9.99 a month and can rent as many movies with the blue stickers as I want. This means, I have been able to indulge my secret like of pseudo romantic comedies and Mandy Moore movies. I love Mandy Moore. I totally felt for her in the scene in “Chasing Liberty”, where her date ditches her, and she whispers under her breath the line she had been practicing while getting ready: “Of course you can kiss me.” Oh, and “Saved”? Throw in a teen pregnancy plot and I’m guaranteed to bawl. And of course, the British had to go and make a movie out of “I Capture the Castle” a book I adore, not so much for the plot but for the narrator. The movie was disappointing, but the last two scenes killed me. I completely understood what Cassandra was going through with Simon, and it was a perfect portrayal of the “follow the leader” love-game. Poor Cassandra. Stupid Simon, you blind idiot.

But it doesn’t take that much, usually.

There are all the episodes of Dawson’s Creek that left me sobbing. The first episode. The last episode of the first season, where Joey comes to tell Dawson she’s totally in love with him, and Jen’s in his bed. I still can’t hear the song “I’ll Be” without thinking about that scene. When Pacey breaks up with Joey at prom. And, of course, the finale. I hadn’t watched the show in two years at that point, but come on people; I’m not made of stone. Jen died! Dawson acted like a semi-human being! Joey chose Pacey!

Then there’s the little story of the time I saw “Blood Brothers” in London. “Blood Brothers” IS a sad play. But you’re not supposed to cry until the end. But alas, the unwanted pregnancy theme Scene 3, Act I, and the tears started flowing. I was sitting next to Jimmy K, who just kept rolling his eyes and passing me tissues.

Oh god. And I cry during “Pretty Woman” when she’s taking the limo home, and he’s standing on his balcony doing the clichéd romance movie “thinking about the girl he just let go” and “It Must Have Been Love” is playing in the background.

And I can’t help it, ok? I hang out with a bunch of cynics, but I’m a sap. But you know what, I don’t care! Cynics are just failed idealists anyway and just because I cry at the end of “Homeward Bound” does not mean I can’t be a tough as nails bitch when the situation calls for it. My emotional reactions towards movies are pretty indicitive of who I am as a person. I can be the sweetest, most supportive person you know, but I’m apt to throw an ashtray if you push me too far.  Just ask Jon. I can handle whatever real life throws at me. Crying at sappy romantic comedies is cathartic.