Wednesday, December 29, 2010


Hi There!

Wow, I bet you just about shit your little Soffee shorts when you saw you had an email from me, huh? That's ok, if I were you, I would have done the same thing! I just hope you weren't taking a sip of a drink or using any sort of sharp object when you saw my name pop up. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself! Anyway, fear not, I'm not going to threaten to reach down your throat, pull out your lungs, and use them to make balloon animals. I just though I'd drop you a quick line to educate you a little.

So, instead of resorting to violence or sending you a pithy and passive-aggressive message like the one I got from you, I'm just going to be completely straightforward with you. Ok? Perfect!

Sweetheart, breakups are an absolute bitch, huh? You think you know a person! You let them in your pants, you give them cards signed with x's and o's and you introduce them to your friends, and what do they do? They just up and decide you're not the one! Then they have the nerve to start dating someone else after they break up with you! Just doesn't seem fair does it? Well, maybe that's because it's not, and don't I know it, I've been there a time or two. Fortunately, I learned this about the world and life in general: There are no rules. None. That is a lesson, and you're welcome.

People break up and get together thousands of times a day, all around the world. And my! It's a big ole' world isn't it? So yeah, you know what the smart ladies do when they get broken up with? They put on fuck-me heels and get liquor drunk with their girlfriends. They listen to emo-ass music and ceremoniously burn keepsakes of the lost love.  They watch chick flicks while simultaneously eating their feelings and crying. Seeing as how you're fairly young and all, you may be a tad new to this, so I thought I'd drop you a line, speaking from experience. When the person you've been in a relationship with was compeltely faithful, loving, put up with your craziness, and broke up with you because you aren't the right one for them, you thank your lucky stars that you made it out alive and that was as ugly as it got. It sucks, it hurts, but guess what?! It's been happening for years and ::somehow:: the world is still in orbit.

You know what you don't do after someone breaks up with you if you have even a trace of class in the blood running through your veins? You don't whip out your trendy little cell phone and start chatting up your ex's best friend for deets on their new life, and you certainly don't continue to do it for months and months on end, guilting them into responding to you.  You know why? Because it's not going to make you feel any fucking better and because that's how stupid little bitches ruin twenty year long friendships.

I've been really trying to find a way to play this out in my head in a way that doesn't make you look like a pathetic psycho.... but let's face it, there isn't one. And you know what I hate even more than that? The fact that your shitty judgement and character has made me feel anything in your direction. At all.

On the upside, my conscience is now COMPLETELY clear.

Were you really hoping to be thrown a few scraps of conversation to wolf down so you could let yourself pine away for however long you have left in you? Ew.

Hey, I'm not a mean girl. Well I definitely can be, but I'm not being mean to you.  I'm thanking you for making it so easy for me to dismiss you as a whack-job. I'm helping you.

If you are ever hoping to have a healthy and adult relationship in the future, you really need to mind your business, get over yourself, and move on. I don't appreciate being jarred from my happy life of x's and o's and basically complete bliss and harmony to deal with bullshit because you don't know the appropriate way to handle yourself.


Oh, and PS, babe, you probably don't want to eat your feelings too much, you know, if you're going to try to get back out on the horse anytime soon.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The yule log looks like a poop log, anyway.

Well, Christmas has called me up and its breathing heavily into the receiver like the cheap, tawdry, affair it is.  As much as I've been struggling to get into the "Christmas Spirit" this year, even my snarky attitude isn’t immune to its kitschy charm. It is Christmas, and this is middle America, after all. Lately I’ve found myself hesitating at the seek button when Bing starts crooning on the radio, and even signing my emails with a somewhat aggressive, yet heartfelt, ‘Have a great holiday!’ to even the most demanding of customers at the office.

However, if there's one thing I hate about Christmas, it’s trolling around a random Kohl’s or some other shitty store of the like that I would otherwise never set a foot into, because I'm desperately looking for inspiration for some stupid-ass gift that will probably be received with a forced smile and a quick glance back into the box to make sure I enclosed the receipt for easy returns. Which, I rarely ever manage to do anyway, because I have enough tiny slips of paper in my life and frankly, I can’t keep track of the damn things.

I’m no Scrooge; I like, no, I love giving gifts, don't get me wrong. I love it when I'm absentmindedly browsing a store during some downtime and I'm struck with inspiration or I see something that immediately makes me think of someone and have. to. buy. whatever it is for them. Those are the gifts I love giving, because despite how effortless they are, they're perfect, and if I care enough about you to think of you on my own time, then you deserve a gift. Seriously though, fuck forced gift-giving. Gift giving where I’m forced to rack my brain for something, anything to give someone else with my own meager amounts of cash is really not enjoyable for me.  I'm rarely struck with effortless inspiration in a panicked trip to an overcrowded Meijer, where I'm most definitely out of the spirit of giving before I'm even parked because I’m freaking out and some jackwad can't park straight, or at all, or created their own ::genius:: parking spot. This is especially worse in more affluent areas because for some reason the rich feel more fucking entitled than normal when they’re in parking lots.

Regardless. The stockings have been hung next to the refrigerator with care, because I'm allergic to the room Manfriend's chimney is in because of his ginormous dog.

I'm reaaaaaaaaaaally trying to get into this.

One thing I never have trouble getting into the spirit for is making Christmas lists. My own Christmas lists. For myself.  Usually I make them and then don't share them with anyone and end up getting things like a spare tire cover. (Which was very nice by the way, thanks, Mom and Dad) but it wasn't this:

Mama needs a partyyyyy dress, you know?, I’d spend all my money on you if I could.

Anyway, I've composed my Christmas list for this year, but don't feel obligated to get me every single thing. One or two items from each person will suffice. Thanks in advance!

1.    Go back in time and un-invent the Kindle, Nook and every other apparatus of the like.

Um, I'm sorry, but when did we as a society get so fucking wired that we can't actually pick up a print copy of a book and physically turn the page ourselves? I'm so annoyed with it that I can feel myself tensing up as I type this. I hate hate hate these devices. Blah blah blah yeah, it's so awesome, you can fit like 2834789237 ENTIRE BOOKS in one tiny hand-held screen. I don't care. I hate it on principle.

Books, they're tangible. You can write in the margins, you can fold the pages, you can smell the binding and get the corners a little wet in the bathtub, they can be lent and loved by others and they deserve due respect. They’ve got character. Electronic reading devices completely bastardize the entire reading process for me. If I see someone reading from such a device, all I can think about is tripping him or her and watching the blasted thing fall to the ground, with any luck, cracking the screen. A book could take the fall.

2. Concert tickets. And whiskey money for said concerts: one per month, for the year. I think that’s pretty reasonable. I also wouldn't be opposed to a sober driver to and from each event, and also maybe a t-shirt from each one as well. I like souvies. It’s all about the memories, you know? I’d be happy to give you notice on which concert I’d like to attend each month. To make this request easier I would definitely settle for Rothbury making a triumphant return, because that was, for all intents and purposes, the greatest four days of my entire life. I'm honestly not kidding. Frolicking around in a magical forest,  wandering, wasted, from awesome concert to awesome concert and basically throwing all hygienic concerns in the wind? Yes, please. 


Just get me season tickets to all home games at the Shoe, too. Watching games isn't the same unless I'm watching them with 110,000 of my closest friends. While you're at it, you may as well throw in the bowl game as well. I prefer A-deck, but really, there isn’t a bad seat in the place. Um, also, I wouldn’t mind a sober driver to and from these functions as well. Actually, you know what, let’s just say:

4. I’d like a sober driver on call, please.

5. The motivation to attend a gym setting and/or participate in gym-like activities on a regular to semi-regular basis. And I'm just throwing this out there, but being able to adorn myself with the latest and greatest workout attire certainly wouldn't hurt the cause. Also I think a kayak is a reasonable request because it’s exercise for my arms muscles and I immensely enjoy water settings. This is really just basic logic.

6.  Admission to grad school, the program of my choosing. I won’t even ask you to pay for it, because I feel like I probably should be held financially responsible for it. Just getting in will be more than sufficient.

6. I'd really like it if everyone of age would register and drag themselves to their polling places at least for the general election. I really don't feel like it's too much to ask of people to get minimally involved with the process that essentially rules their lives. It’s once every four years. I do other things I enjoy WAY less far more frequently than that. Plus, they give you a sticker when you leave now, they’re pretty much all the rage.

7.  My childhood lake cottage. Restored to its original beauty. Complete with hammock overlooking the water for afternoons of reading.

8. I'm 24 years old and I want a slumber party. Complete with pajamas and minimal makeup. I'd like all my girlfriends to convene in one place for one night and drink to excess and carry on and play games and act silly and have fun and go for brunch in the morning. No boyfriends. More importantly, no cell phones-I find them to be goddamn distracting and annoying.  The only people that matter are the ones there. Just once. It would be nice, you know?

8.  No. More. Allergies. This would seriously make my life. CURE ME, PLEASE. Between weekly allergy shots, fucking $60 prescriptions WITH INSURANCE, perpetual itchiness/hives/red eyes/general misery I'm really struggling. After 4 years of non-answers from referral upon referral to various ‘specialists’ and my manfriend's 130-pound Mastiff, who sends me into allergic fits within inches of death at the mere sight of her, I'm honestly at a complete loss here. I'm allergic to life; it would be really nice to be able to enjoy it instead.

9. A snapshot into the life of every asshole I have to deal with on a daily basis at work.  Maybe this would give me perspective when I’m dealing with them and ready to throw myself through the phone/computer screen at them. Maybe it would let me just give them the benefit of the doubt and let it gooooo. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t really want to know that they’re the kind of people that kick their dogs and feed their kids Mountain Dew with every meal and then give them cold medicine to ‘calm them down’ at night. OR MAYBE I DO, at least I’d feel superior.

10.  I’d like to meet Joan Root. Yeah, I get it, she’s dead. But she was also a kooky weirdo and a total badass and what can I say? I really like kooky weirdos and total badasses. Since I can’t actually meet with Joan Root, I’d accept a trip to her home in Africa and a séance led by a trained professional. Joan would eat that shit up.

11. Some seed money and a high powered financial planner to create and manage a portfolio for me so that I can make literally boatloads of cash doing essentially nothing and fund my various passionate, yet often short-lived, hobbies and wild adventures.

12. All that heartwarming stuff that makes the world go ‘round for me, and you. The ‘and you’ was basically me giving you half of one of my wish list items, so, you kind of owe me one…. Better get crackin’ on that, eh?

I think there are a couple more things, mostly odds ‘n ends, but they can probably wait until next year. Or at least my birthday.  Other gifts will be welcomed and accepted, but, you know, I’ve pretty much laid out what I want, so try to stick to the plan.

I hope you get everything on your list this year. Merry Christmas!

(…and if you don’t celebrate Christmas, I hope you get some presents anyway, but really, maybe you should at least pretend.)

XO Sare

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

I'd rather set myself on fire than sell myself in a letter to an admissions committee.

Well folks, I've finally had it with myself. I've been standing completely inert in the same place for so long, I'm genuinely surprised my wittle feetsies haven't grown roots and settled in for the duration.

You get that I'm being figurative, right? I actually really have a problem with standing still. In fact, my nine year old brother, Charlie, once diagnosed me with adult ADHD because I'm "So fidgity all the time."

Ok, sweet.

We'll say it's been about .....a year and a half, since I was "dismissed" from my post-college cash-cow job with no severance package. Not 'fired,' I was explicitly informed, just not welcome to spend all my waking hours driving around god's country eastern Kentucky and having more meaningful conversations with my gps than actual human beings for days at a time on their dime, anymore.  This was directly after working my ass off for a straight week on a 20 page report, that basically told our "director," and I use that term
very  loosely, everything I'd been doing for the past year... which made it REALLY easy for someone else to just step in and pick up where I left off. Did I mention that I had spent the last year living from hotel to hotel from a suitcase in my car? And that the closest thing I had to a place to lay my head at night was storage unit somewhere in Ohio that was basically just housing all my beer-stained possessions from college until I could find somewhere else to schlep them? Foiled, again.

Maybe if I was actually being a slacker per usual and NOT putting in 70 hours a week towards a cause I actually cared about, I wouldn't have spent the next year or so after my
dismissal walking around with a total chip on my shoulder about it.... but I mean, it's ME, so I probably would have done that no matter what.

So whatever, I ran into a hardcore bitch in a position of undue power that had it out for me no matter what I did (Probably because I was younger and better liked, and I like to think, way more competent), I'm sure it happens to a lot of people- but that kind of shit absolutely doesn't happen to me, so I've been a bit....
lost at sea... ever since.

Basically, I've been waiting for the magical job-fairy to come and offer me everything I've ever wanted in a job (aka getting paid mammoth amounts of cash to read books, kayak, and/or eat bacon, not necessarily at the same time) and know I deserve, for a while.

And..................................... I don't think he's coming.


Sooooooo..... In an effort to get myself rolling again, I've decided to look towards the ever-welcoming doors of academia to get me back in the general direction of the path that may or may not lead to the road that goes though some other moderately shitty places but eventually winds up at my own personal OZ, whatever that may be.

Basically, I'm lost, so instead of cowering in the great forest of unknown or wherever the fuck I am I need to get it together and start moving in one direction or another.

Damn. I feel like Dorothy or Alice. Or something.


That's probably the last thing I need, really.

Anyway, I'm thinking about getting my masters, just like every other motherfucker my age that can't find a job they like, which kind of makes me feel whiney and bratty, but whatever. I've been out for almost three years and guess what, it's only going to get harder to go back from here. Plus, I've got this current joke, I mean, job, where I sit in a cubicle and spend the majority of my time surfing the webz and fielding passive-aggressive emails and basically, as my father so eloquently put it yesterday, it's "killing my spirit."

Plus, I have to stare at this
boner who sits directly across from me for eight hours a day, five days a week. He holds his mouth half open when he types like he's in awe of something. I just want to be like "Dudeeeee, did you find a way around the porn domain blocks over there?! share the wealth!" But, seeing as how he's a pastor for a tiny rural church in the middle of nowhere who depends on his wife to pack him healthy snacks in little baggies in case he gets hungry during the day,  I'm doubting old boy would see the humor. A GROWN ASS MAN. Heard of Hot Pockets, dude? Live it up. Plus, he homeschools his kids. UGH.

I have beef with homeschooling, and although it may have to be a subject for another day, I just want to say this. Most kids are already painfully socially awkward. Actually, for that matter, so are most adults.  Why the
DEUCE would you further risk socially crippling them by completely removing interaction with their peer group? Shit's WHACK.

I NEED graduate school and learned minds and banter that actually contains something resembling wit. On a regular basis. Like, daily. These jokers are simpletons.

So Grad School, I'ma comin' ATCHAAAA. 

And true to Sara-form, I'm doing it all dangerously rushed and last-minute.

I've spent TONZ 'o time on the interwebz researching programs, because obviously, that's the easiest part. And boy, do I love to shop around. I've finally norrowed my search to one program. I'm serious. I'm only applying to one school, but that's just how I am, if I can't have exactly what I want, then you can count on a horrendous attitude and me basically not being willing to try anything else. I only applied to one school when I was looking at colleges and that worked out, soooooo... yeah, this will too.

I've also put in some hours studying for the GRE, even though I detest standardized tests and the idea of being forced to concentrate on a task for five hours with TIMED BATHROOM BREAKS sends me into panic sweats. I can't control my bladder, honestly. One minute I'll be dicking around, completely fine, and the next I'll be overtaken by the urge to urinate so badly that I literally can't concentrate on anything else but holding it. This happens frequently. I'm serious. It's probably an undetected health problem I'm carrying around or something. 

Um, yeahhhhh..... Now you know about my bathroom issues. Cool. Awkward. Cool?

As I was saying before I so rudely interupted myself, I've been 'studying' for the GRE.

Basically, that leads me to the following remaining steps:

1. Requesting my transcipt from Ohio State. And praying there was another person with my name that didn't almost flunk out her freshman year,  and they accidentally send her transcript in the place of mine, and it goes undetected for several years until after I've already got my masters and by that time it will be TOO LATEEEEE. Chances of this are slim so I'm just going to have to be kick-ass on the remaining steps to make up for my pitiful 3.2 GPA.

2. Conning a few suckers from my past into talking real sweet about me on paper for the admissions lackeys. I'm hoping I don't have to bribe people, but I'm not above it.

 ........and 3. My personal statement. (
cringe) ..................(visible shutter).............. complete and utter hope loss.

What I mean to get at here is that I have no idea how to write a personal statement. Most of my writing about myself falls into the category of "self depreciating attempts at humor." I can't brag about how
awesome I am, isn't that for the "professional references" section? How do I go about convincing a panel of people that have never had the pleasure of meeting me in flesh and blood that I care enough about the fact that I'm going to drive myself into upwards of $100,000.00 of debt that I'M NOT GOING TO FUCK THIS UP?

I mean, how do you let people know on paper that despite how much I drink and curse and generally allow myself to act a fool, I'm finally "maturing" and I promise I won't go back to school just so I can use and agree with sayings like "Wednesday is the new Thirsty Thursday, is the new Friday is the weekend?!!!! OMGZZZ." Because, I've grown. I've gotten most of that out of my system and now I think I'd really like to do something with my life that doesn't make me want to sneak back to the office at night and burn the whole dream-drowning building to the ground.

I mean, they want to know why I, of all people, want to choose their hallowed walls as a depository for my blood, sweat, and tears for the next 2+ years?



If I were being honest, I'd say something like this:

Okay here's the deal, guys. I don't really have any heartwarming stories of hardship or overcoming adversity. Actually, I've had a pretty badass life, and I'd like to keep it that way. So I'm asking you to please, pretty please, let me into your program.

I understand that in life you have to work hard and put up with loads and loads of bullshit, sometimes on a daily basis, both of which I do in spades. When I decide I'm doing something I work damn hard and do it damn well. I understand that if you let me in to your program here, there will be expectations of me, I'm willing to be held accountable for all of them. I'm a dependable, semi-responsible adult. I have my shit together. Kind of. I'll do the readings,
I swear!

I want this. I want this possibly more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life. I'm staking over $100,000 on
myself in your tuiton costs to succeed, and that's a-god-damn-lot for me because not only is that a mountainous amount of money, but also because my parents aren't going to be helping me with all. those. dollars.. It's all on me. Trust me, I'm not going to let myself fuck this up; I've only got one life and I'd like it to remain awesome, or possibly become even more awesome. And with your help, it can!

Choosing your program was a decision I actually spent time and researched. Uhhhh, aka I could have been googling pictures of Robert Downey Jr and instead I pored over hundreds of curiculums to find the right one for me. And this is the right one.  It's the only one I am considering. If I'm not in, I'm going to have to continue working a mindless job with a bunch of losers. I'm in love with this, and I want to do it and do it well, so let me, please.

K, THX!!!!!


(Not actually a mispelling of my name, but a phonetical spelling. "Sar" kind of looks like SARS and I think that would give them the wrong idea, plus when it's read, I think people typically pronounce it as the rhyme of 'car' which is definiitely not what I'm going for here. Anyway, I like to keep it casual, familiar, so I'd like them to think of me as "Sare.")

wish me luck!

XO Sara

Monday, December 13, 2010

Who knew Apps could joke around?

Hometown seafood options : 1. Actually viable hometown seafood options : 0.

Friday, December 10, 2010

I was a bossy-ass child, and now I'm a bossy-ass adult

This morning at approximately 6:25 am, in a terrifying turn of events, my vehicle ended up the wrong direction on an icy road that I shouldn't have even been taking, but I was determined to prove to myself that I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, snow-be-damned.

Thankfully, I was unharmed. Even more thankfully, I didn't cause any monetary harm to my vehicle. The event didn't even really phase me at the time. I started to fishtail, I over-corrected, I didn't slam on my breaks, I merely ended up pulling a 180 before I finally stopped. I took a breath, pointed myself back in the correct, work-bound, direction and I started back out at 25 MPH.

The only thing that really bothers me about the situation is that two seconds of feeling that are never really as noticeable as when you're losing complete control of something tangible, like your car. Other kinds of control loss are gradual, even subconscious. Sure, sometimes it's hits you hard, but not in an "OMGz, this is my possible last moment on earth!!! FUCK!!! they're going to see what a mess my car is right now!" That, my friends, is the feeling I fear most in life. Yup, I'm scared to death a kind stranger will rush to my smoking vehicle and peer in the windows at my limp and lifeless body in disgust, thinking to themselves, "UGhhhhh, two McDonald's bags, a discarded sushi wrapper, two plastic containers with unidentifiable  food products in them and four empty cans of Dr. Pepper? Dr. fucking Pepper?! What a slob!"

Nearly constant, my attempts at control are often disastrous, but through some force beyond my own explanation, it only fuels my almost-primal hunger for that very thing- and it has been that way as long as I can remember. I like to think I've mellowed out some or whatever, but the truth is, I just keep scenarios that I can't control playing out in my mind how I would have had them, and ignore the real life results. Livin' in a dream worrrrrrrrld.

Let me take you back to 1997 for a moment. Eleven year old Sara had huge square glasses and a near crippling asthma wheeze.

Sooooooooooo, I was entering the phase that about 90 percent of children go through for a few years between age ten and age thirteen or so where they're just... ugly. I was not in the blessed ten percent of perpetually attractive children, I was awkward looking. I don't really know why this phase mercilessly hits so many of us, but it's kind of the little splice of life between still being an all-out kid and kind of starting to become self-aware of your own appearance and it's fucking weird. The results are often horrifying.

 I started doing my own hair before school around fourth grade and would often take twenty minutes standing in front of the mirror in my parent's bathroom, trying to wet and fine-tooth comb EVERY SINGLE BUMP out of my pony tail- sometimes I'd break into my mom's hair spray to get the desired result. I had slicked-back hair. It was bad. It was worse than bad, it was helmet hair.



On the contrary, I just squirted Neosporin directly into my nostrils, at the office, in pain view, because shit is raw up in there and if they don't heal real soon I'm seriously going to go into a black-out fit of rage and literally rip my nose off of my face and feed it to Manfriend's dog, Hally. She looks like she enjoys a good nose now and then.

ANDDDDDDD we're transitioning.

It's 1997. I'm eleven. There are two 'Most Important Things' in my life and one of them is making sure I get back to summer camp come June so I can get my friendship bracelet construction and frog catching ON. NOTHING, I repeat, NOTHING, trumps summer camp. The other most important thing in my life, and something that has become an underlying theme up to present day is the need to control.

I can't exactly pinopint where this incessant desire to have everything my way started, but I am certain it was very early on. Seven year old Sara would sit in the backyard, singing songs, making them up as I went along to the animals around me- in full belief that they would become my own personal friends and pets, nuzzle me, and basically just, you know, kick it.

Opinions are actually varied on the most disturbing part of that little narrative, but I think the fact that I fully believed that the "animals" in our suburban Chicago back-yard, which included the common sparrow, squirrels, and the occasional bunny, were going to be become tame from the sheer power of persuasion in my angelic little voice is nothing short of alarming. Sadly, the elitest little bastards didn't actually become my personal playthings, giving me my first taste of control-related defeat, and thus fueling my need to have power over every situation.

Fa fa fa fa fa fastttttt forward a few years.
 Ahhhhhh. 1997. Fifth grade. Teacher's pet. Painstakingly cleaning every last spot of ink from the projection machine, organzing and testing each of the pens on my teacher's projector cart, silently sobbing to the dramatic conclusion of Where the Red Fern Grows during individual Read & Relax period after lunch. Good Times.

After school, pre-adoloscent Sara had shit to do. (The following list of actual events may leave you convinced that I would grow up to become the leader of the fascist regime, but nope, no no no, just the emotionally wrought, financially unsound, run-of-the-mill control freak I am today. Whew, what a relief!)

1. Compose congregation of neighborhood creatins... I mean children, ages 6-11 at the neighborhood field/park.

 This park was badass because it was huge and had a creek running through it on one edge with some woods and basically connected like three different little neighborhoods, and if you went all the way through it, you were at my elementary school.

2. Give moving and motivational speech on the importance of building us, the neighborhood kids, a fort in the woods by the creek. With branches. And discarded wood. And any old nails/building materials we could get our little hands on. (Where none of us actually had clearance from our parents to go....forbidden territory, risky.)

3. Delegate tasks to each child for construction, in the mean time writing a screenplay for a feel-good musical presentation for the "company" upon completion of my fortress.

 These little productions were occasionaly taped via my parent's video-camera and there is one particular show, still in my familes' VHS library, where I forced my little sister, Beth, to play the part of "White Trash Wendi with Baby on Hip." She was eight at the time.

4. Resolve common squabbles and address concerns of the rank and file.

5. Cease construction upon fortress due to an underlying theme of discontent among the crew.

6. Shift focus to assigning roles for theatrical presentation!

7. Break for dinner. Assign each member of the cast the task of finding a costume for their individual roles and to find out how many of their family members would be buying (!!!) tickets to the show.

Did I mention that not only was I a child prodigy, but also an entreprener? NO? How silly of me; I was probably just being modest! I often ended up making around four dollars for these ordeals, which I promptly pocketed despite my promises to "Buy supplies for the fort," and probably spent on something like the Waterfalls single by TLC at Walgreens, because that was the only place close enough for me to walk from my house. So apparently, I'm bossy and an embezzler, GREAT.

8. Rehearse. Insist everyone memorize their lines, as written. Throw fits and make pithy comments that will cause half of the role-holding neighborhood children to decide they'd rather go home and play in the safety of their own backyards.

9. Assemble remaining crew to build stage/set.

10. Watch the sun sink below the horizon and realize the entire thing is falling apart in my hands. Hear my father's, I kid you not, whistle- that served as a notificaton that it was time to come home.  Stomp home in a fit of rage, claiming "artistic license," without actually knowing what it means.

11. Wait approximately one week, repeat.

You know what? I can't ::actually:: believe I've been marking 'No' on job applications where they ask if I've ever had supervisory experience. What THE HELL is wrong with me? It's pretty much evident that I was born to lead.

Happy weekending, and never stop wanting more.

XO Sara

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Help Me Help You.

Happy fucking Winter.

Let's not shit ourselves, it can be awful.  I like to bitch as much as the next person about the blustery midwestern winter months, but in the past 24 years of enduring such trials and tribulations, I've come to semi-appreciate them and realize that this season is survivable, albeit not for the weak of heart. Relish in its eery beauty, warriors of the cold!

As a sort-of self proclaimed expert on cold weather survival for those eternal summer-y bound souls such as my own, I've compiled a list of guidelines to ensure this season causes you the least amount of misery possible.


Practical footwear is a must. While heels are more likely to get you laid than say, winter boots, save them for the big-ticket nights like New Years Eve, not every day attire to the office. That's actually the only night I can think of in the winter where I will be caught in footwear that isn't amply insulating my little tootsies from the cold. And that's only because NYE is magical and based soley upon drinking heavily and looking past the previous year's shortfalls with actual full hearted intent to do it better in the next 365 days. But seriously, no one at the office gives a shit what you're wearing on your feet unless you're Lauren Conrad circa Teen Vogue internship years. Get over it. (Is it just me, or was she an intern for an abnormally long amount of time?) 

Baaaaaack to my point, this advice is two-fold, so read carefully. Not only will it be worlds more difficult to feel sexy with a body covered in bruises and a black eye to match from getting schooled by a common and treacherous patch of black ice, the likes of which seem to coat every surface this time of year, but it's also not ideal to lose a toe or two to frostbite and end up looking like a past-prime ballerina come the elusive warm-weather months. Trust me, people will notice a marked difference in how much more pleasant you are to be around now that you've switched to wool socks = people will like you more = I just helped you become happier and more popular =  you're so welcome.

 Liquor. Drink lots of it. This should basically be self-explanatory. Shit keeps you warm- Or at least makes you feel warmer. I'm not sure which is more scientifically correct or more accurate, but it's pretty much a proven fact, so la la laaaaa do it. I prefer whiskey because it's potent and because I'm a total badass, but really, anything over forty proof in semi-large quantities will suffice. Just don't try to go the rugged route and wander outside to pee on the side of a house, passing out with your pants around your ankles in negative ten degree temperatures. Those kind of choices cause those who care about you to panic, and it's how people die from exposure.... you know who you are and you're still welcome for that rescue, by the way.

Shower strategically. I'm serious. It's cold, wet hair is miserable. Emerging from the steamy bathroom after a hot and emotionally fulfilling shower into the stark and freezing reality of the rest of the house is possibly the worst feeling in the entire world. My solution? Cut showers out whenever reasonably possible. I submit to the philosophy that the hair grease freezes therefore rendering grease a non-issue. Plus it's cold so you sweat less, right? Right?!

Keep your living area colder than is really comfortable. Honestly, wear a sweater, it's not going to kill you. There is logic to this. It's freezing outside. If your body is always just a little miserable, it will just get used to it and protest less when you subject it to the actual cold temperatures of the outdoors. Also, you will have less of an excuse to hole up in your little caves and cease to really live while the temperature is below freezing. Miserable is a state of mind. Keep it moving.

I hate douchebags who are too cool for hats and gloves. You look idiotic. Wear them.

One of my favorite things about colder weather, or maybe the only thing that I find actual joy in during the winter is layering. OMGZ eye lufff ewe, LAYERZZZZ.  God. Layering means you basically have 4+ outfit options ON YOUR BODY at a time. Choices are timeless. Choices are priceless. If you get hot in your layers, BOOM, take off a shirt and you've got a new look AND a new temperature comfort threshold. Cold weather makes it necessary and acceptable to pile on as many clothes as possible, hiding bodily imperfections and leaving a lot of body shape and size to the imagination. It's like saying,  'Oh, I'm really a size two, it's just these layers I have to put on to keep my tiny, taut, and slim little body warm that give the illusion of bulk, fooled ya!' Layers. Fuck, yeah.

Embrace the sport/outdoor activities that winter has to offer. AKA Snow, WTF?! Awesome. White stuff that falls from the sky in totally unique shapes. Yes, please. I don't know if people realize this, but when you're moving around, getting your heart-rate up, your body temperature actually rises as well, making you way less cold. So do it! Make a snowman, sled, hit the slopes for some ski or snowboard action. That shit is actually fun and will DEFINITELY take your mind off how depressingly cold it is.

Hot tubs. Hot tubs were created for this time of year. You know that semi-weird gal or fella on the outer cusp of your friend group? The one whom you vaguely remember once, in a poor attempt to win you over, mentioned their parent's hot tub? Friend them on Facebook, IMMEDIATELY. This person will be your new best friend until the weather breaks. You probably think I'm kidding. I'm not. They were the ones who brought it up first! Hot tubs = drinking in hottubs= hot tub parties with partial nudity and warmth= oh hello, unaldulterated glee, I haven't seen you since the temperature notch dropped below freezing, WELCOME to my hot tub party.

Cuddling. Cuddle up with your honey, cuddle up with your pet, cuddle up to a mildly desperate stranger if you have to; cuddling in the winter beats the shit out of shivering yourself to sleep under 89273489374 blankets that cumulatively weigh enough to crack your ribs and somehow manage to provide you with little to no actual warmth until you finally get comfortable and then, BOOM are hit with the sudden need to pee. Just me?  Plus cuddling in the winter isn't ridden with sweat and misery from the heat of bodies and the overwhelmingly stifling temperatures of the summer months in the midwest. You'll be glad you did.

Learn your car's ability on ice and err on the side of overusing the 4WD. Or, if you're a complete ass-hat behind the wheel, avoid driving to avoid pissing off a million people every time the slightest amount of snow falls. DO NOT PANIC. Also, pump-up music doesn't hurt. Try Hockey, they're pretty jazzy at that sort of thing.

 Don't become an amateur photographer this winter. It's annoying. Yes, yes, I get it, you're overtaken with creativity with the barren and desolate beauty of the season. I don't care. Now is not the time to decide you've discovered your inner artist at dawn at the community park while I'm trying to get my dog-walk on. EFF OFF.  This piece of advice is really more for my own benefit. Thanks.

FIND A HOBBY. Porn and lottery tickets don't count. Other than amatuer photography, the sky is pretty much the limit. Don't live your life by the commute to and from the office until late March. THAT will surely make you go crazy.

Good Luck, God Speed, and You're Welcome. 

XO Sara

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

oh, happy day.

Mannnnn, fuck this day already. 

I'm having a rough go of it today, thanks Universe. Just, thanks. 
I woke up this morning at 7:01. 32 minutes after my alarm was responsible for waking me up. Awesome. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal, since I don't really have to leave my house until 7:35, but not this morning. This morning I had to take a shower. It was honestly a necessity. I put some fucking hair repair gunk in my hair last night to try to fix some of the damage I have no idea how I'm even causing on my hair, and there was simply no avoiding the reality that I needed a shower. 

So I hustle through my routine and finding something, anything, to wear, and I arrive at work, with the help of every red light possible, five minutes late. I despise being late. I prefer to err on the side of early and I cannot stand when other people aren't punctual, so I feel that I should hold myself to the same standards. Whatever, I was late.  My bad for not waking up to my alarm. 

I didn't really have time to scavenge my house that I haven't slept at for two weeks to see if there was any salvagable food, so I ended up eating what I managed to grab for lunch on my dash out the door upon arriving to work. I have to have breakfast, I just have to, or I'm a danger to myself and others. 

I re-heated the last of yesterday's fetid coffee in the pot because NO ONE else seems to know how to operate the coffee machine, but everyone likes to drink it. The result was significantly less than a cup. Also, awesome. 

After a morning of pushing paper as fast I as possibly can and putting out fires from other people not managing to do their jobs whatsoever, I overhear an ignorant co-worker making generalizing statements about something that I myself practice. It's really worth not getting into an all-out debate, or really engaging this person in any type of conversation, so I basically ignore him after making it known in one sentence that I completely disagree and don't appreciate his feeble-minded and non-insighful opinion. 

Several hours later it is lunch and not only am I desperate to leave the office, I have no viable food options, so I scamper to my car for an hour respite from that bullshit-laden office of stress and bad vibes. 

I pull into an unnamed fast-food restaurant and order, learning when I arrive at the payment window that the $4.63 debit has been declined on my card. I quickly attempt to dig around in my purse, pretending I had absolutely no inclination this would happen. I don't think I fooled the cashier. I'm holding up the line. I"m freaking out. At one point I'm actually digging through my sticky-ass cup holders to try to make the amount in change. How the FUCK do they get so sticky? I'm serious. Maybe it's just my vehicle? This merciful fast food angel from heaven finally just says "Just give me whatever you have in your hand and we'll call it even." I'm wearing a brand new $250 North Face jacket and I can't pay for a frozen cheeseburger? I am a failture. I feel like an honest-to-god bum on the street begging for change. I have successfully pissed off everyone within a 25 yard radius of my person. 

As I pull away from the drive-thru, I realize I barely have half of a tank of gas and I don't get paid for eight more days.  EIGHT MORE DAYS. I instantly wonder how I will feed myself. I wonder how I will find a way to drown my realizations of wasted potential with ample amounts of booze. I wonder how I"m going to fucking get to and from this job that makes me want to kick kittens. 

It's now one in the afternoon. This day is just barely half way done. I really need some good news.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

and another christmas season is upon us...

Its official. It's Christmas time in the Midweast, where we celebrate to the extreme each of the four seasons and the holidays throughout the year. Weather considered, you can't beat summer time, but Christmas is probably my favorite time of the year. Waking up to snow covering the ground and the roads makes me feel claustrophobic. I just panic about not begin able to get places i need to be, considering that i'm about as good of a driver as Sara. Fortunately, its the weekend and I have absolutely zero obligation for 48 hours.

It's also the time of year to feel really restless and try to make deals with your friends that you're going to start working out, but you just start a blog instead. Brain exercise has got to be a better alternative to physical pain. You can get away with hibernating MOST of the winter, especially with a bottle of beam and a good book, but at some point you feel the urge to bust out and i dont know...venture down the rabbit hole? Sometimes that urge leads you to hit up the local winery for hippie music and wine to-go, pitchers of peach long islands, verbal arguments with random dudes at the pub about unions and other rabbit hole mischief. This particular rabbit hole night, we walked all the way back to the car, sat there and talked about how ridiculous it would be if we even tried to drive, then used the gps to walk to Beth's, where sara made eggs and let me fall asleep with my scarf and coat on.

If winter didn't last so long we would probably be a lot better behaved. November to March is entirely too long. There is, however, the opportunity to go sledding. Even better, sledding and drinking. I can't decide right now which is better, canoeing in the summer or sledding in the winter...but i guess if you add skiing and snowboarding to sledding, it wins. My one and only feeble attempt at (back-yard) snowboarding followed a trip to abscond some Pall Malls and half a bottle of vodka from someone's grandparents house. Definitely not my own. After we got all sauced and decided winter xgames were a good idea. I woke up with an incredibly sore back and my friend had peed her snowsuit.

Hopefully this winter can bring as many opportunities for scheming and plotting as last year did. There's no doubt we will get snowed in several times and I will definitely panic most of the winter driving to work. I don't like slush, you never know where its frozen and i like to drive fast. Snowy, slushy roads are very common. I really hate driving in the winter, now that I think of it. I just unsuccessfully tried to convince co-blogger Scott to take me to breakfast. I cant decide if i feel stronger about the bagel or not driving in the snow.

I think this is going to have to be it for now. I'm as excited as everyone else will be about this getting better and better.

Here's to a looong three and a half more months of snowy slushy winter full of diabolical debauchary, and to the new blog.

Landlocked and loaded. Y.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Sharp Teeth

I'm terrified of the dentist. Actually frightened to go anywhere near.

But not because I'm afraid of being in pain or the sound of a drill. Actually, aside from the blinding light, I quite enjoy lounging in the chair and the challenge of having an entire conversation using a limited vernacular of grunts and nostril flares while a pleasant and astoundingly well groomed mother-figure flosses my teeth for me. Sue me, I find entertainment in trying to drink out of a straw after a few shots of numbing agent; it's fun for me.

I'm scared to death of going to the dentist because I don't want to get stuck with an enormous bill at the end of the entire ordeal- And at this point I've let it go so long that the fear of the bill just grows as I'm sure the dollar amount does.

I stumble in for a teeth cleaning and all of the sudden they're telling me they simply HAVE to fix, fill, or whatever the fuck they need to do with these teeth of mine and I can't just opt out of any of it because it's my health. Whatever, dangling the "But it's your health" fear card over my head pisses me off. Because you know what?  It's all just a superfluous ploy to squuuueeze money out of me that I don't really have.

It hasn't always been this way, up until age 18 my pearly whites were cavity-free and ready to party. Apparently I'm not aging well or something. Awesome.

 I'm 24 years old. I've been off my parents' insurance for two and a half years. I have a college degree and actual work experience and I now make an hourly wage with an abissmal-at-best benefits package and no sick days. Three months ago I got a haircut at Greatclips for the first time since I started wearing a bra... times are TOUGH. I can't afford to have a dentist in a leased seven series BMW and two kids in parochial school tell me that he's got to "fix" half of the teeth in my goddamn mouth because he's seeing "Some deeper crevices that could lead to be trouble spots."

I honestly haven't gone to the dentist in over two years because the last one I went to fed me some crock of shit about how I HAD to come back the next day and get, I KID YOU NOT, eight cavities fixed. Not filled, FIXED, what does that even mean?! BULLSHIT. So I didn't show up for my appointment, never returned their calls, and have basically been leading a completely normal (for me) life ever since.

Sureeeeeeeee, my teeth can be a bit....sensitive to sugar and extreme temperatures at times, but I can't really complain. My molars are still mashing up that meat and whatnot just as they're evolutionarily supposed to do, and this way I'm not being forced to choose between eating nothing but ramen for six months and paying $75+ a tooth for a something that's not even really a problem for me at the moment. I brush (twice) daily, I floss (as much as any twentysomething with a million better things to do does), and I try to chew sugarfree gum- I basically feel that I'm doing my part.

Let's just say I'm banking on the zombie apocalypse.