Monday, February 28, 2011

growing some green.

I'm going to be a real-life gardener!!!!!!!
Having a a garden to tend to is on the life-goal list. However, since I'm kind of a vagabond and always on the run renting, I've never felt compelled to sink a bunch of money into a garden that in three or four or six months I'll be leaving, forever. 

This is kind of an unfortunate fact, since I've been semi-obsessed with plants and soil- dwelling growth-forms since I can remember.

You see, it all started because my grandparent's had this lake-cottage in northern Michigan while I was growing up and I'd spend most of my summers there. It was the best thing, ever. The place in all honesty holds about 85% of my fondest memories from not just childhood, but life. STILL. So anyway, without dwelling on the fact that the cottage has now been sold to a pair of annoying young-rich from Texas who don't even LIVE THERE ALL SUMMER, thus sending myself into a downward spiral of depression that would be further perpetuated by reading all my old letters from friends and lovers and listening music from my late high school/early college  Bright Eyes phase, while subsisting on nothing but Nutella and boxed wine for the next several weeks until Manfriend runs an intervention on me, I'm going to get back on track.

My grandmother, we'll call her Nan, because that's what I call her, had the most glorious of gardens at said lake-house. Talk about colorful. This woman has a true green thumb. I would follow her around, learning plant varieties and helping her weed for HOURS every day. As a semi-ADD child, this was a fairly major accomplishment. Anyway, she'd teach me things and point out new buds on plants and we'd spend a large portion of each day tooling around the garden.


So anyway, that's where my love of gardening developed, and since I'm only a quasi-adult and not a full-blown-adult, I still use my parents' address as my "permanent residence" and I rent, so gardening hasn't really been in the cards for the past seven or so years. 

BUT, I do have several plants that I've been schlepping around with me for years, the most impressive of which is named Cash, who I acquired my sophomore year in college when he was merely twelve inches in height and is now AT LEAST four feet tall. And yes, I name my plants, and I also talk to them, because they're practically pets to me. Cash is getting REAL heavy. And I have to keep putting him in bigger pots so that his roots can breathe an whatnot. It's a love-love situation. I've kept him alive for SIX YEARS.
SIX YEARS. That's three times longer than my longest relationship. Cash and I are a TEAM. We've come a long way from me forgetting to water him for days at a time then stumbling home drunk and pouring half of my before-bed beer in his pot.  I think he stayed alive then just because I was willing to share. And a 19 year-old sharing their last beer with a plant in need of hydration is nothing short of heartwarming.
There are a couple other plants too, but Cash is my finest acheivement.
ANYWAY, I've been not only ansty for Spring to get here and defeat Winter, but I've also had this compulsion to dig around in the soil and deposit some seeds lately, which is kind of a drag because my lease is up in the middle of May and Katherine is moving to South America to escape the shitty state of affairs here teach English and frolic happily for an undisclosed amount of time down south. Manfriend will also be moving relatively soon, so that location is also a bust. 

My my desire to breed new life in a location completely outside of my own body cannot be squelched. 

There's a great deal of pride for me in making something grow, giving it life.... something that ISN'T a human child. And apparently in being really creepy about it, too.

So, this weekend, Manfriend purchased me a mini-greenhouse.

And I almost lost my shit right there, because WOAHHHH.
I'm now the owner of a mini-greenhouse!

This is going to be AWESOME, look at all those spout growing-holes.  

I plan on growing vegetables, so I can feel like I'm 'living off the land' and whatnot. 

I have no idea how long it's going to be before I need to start transplanting these little suckers, but I'm really hoping I have my new living situation figured out before their roots need more space to grow and I have to transplant all of them, because if I have to re-pot all of them before I move it's going to be like 348972398473978 pots and a total pain in the ass..... if they even grow to begin with.... which they will, obviously.

After all,  Cash survived!

I'll let you know how it goes. 

XO Sare

Friday, February 25, 2011

i mean, it's friday.

OK, ok, I admit it, I suck. Pretty badly.

But I promise you're not missing out; I’m really not even forming complete thoughts today, and you can thank the snow/ice storm for that.


See you Monday.

XO Sare

Thursday, February 24, 2011

the first thaw

***Updated: I just re-read this and Ii'm moderately embarrassed by the number of spelling and grammar errors in this post... it's worse than normal. I'm sorry. And also, we got dumped with four inches of snow and ice last night, so despite my assertion that I'll be running in shorts outside.... I won't be. I'm practically illiterate and also a liar. Fuck.

Gotta confession.

And it's not exactly one brimming with pride, so hang in there.

In the winter I'm a sloth.

I don't exersize, I rarely return phone calls, I go to bed earlier than the Golden Girls; that is, if the Golden Girls go to bed any later than nine pm. I'm generally a waste of space and kind of a buzz-kill to be around... unless I'm given a bottle of either champagne or Jim Beam, and then I'm just kind of an annoying drunk. It's really disappointing to me that I'm as downright lame as I am for a quarter of the year. I sometimes make feeble attempts at cheer, such as planning mini-trips, purchasing a multitude of items I can't afford and/or don't need, and attempt to convince myself that I'm not as cold as I think I am... but for the most part, I suck. I just..... can't.

BUT WAIT, that's not even the confessional part.

Every year, without fail, at the first thaw I get annoying. Like, real fucking annoying.


As soon as the temperature guage tips over forty degress, even for one ever-loving day, I'm all gun-ho about making life changes, eating right,  putting my best foot forward, and never spending another unecessary moment indoors ever again.

I'm not even unhappy with my body... It's like I just HAVE to be moving all the time... I've got all this frigging pent-up energy that apparently sex and yelling at terrible winter drivers didn't expell. AND I MUST EXERSIZE. And encourage ALL of my friends to join me, because I get incredibly bored running by myself.

It's almost the end of February, that first thaw has come and gone, my friends. I'm practically engineering the fitness train, and I can palpably feel my pitiful mental state shedding the thick outter crust of winter bitterness.

It's like I'M A CAGED BEAST and I'm ripping the chains off my body.

Now I've been tempted with more livable temperatures.... and I'm going to be right pissed if I wake up in the morning and there's snow on the ground. Mr. Local Weatherman says we're getting snow tonight, and I bite my thumb at him. I'm not buying it.

But I know what's going to happen anyway, because every year we get AT LEAST one more snow storm/bout of frost-bite inducing cold that threatens to send me over the edge... almost  forces me to desert the midwest for sunnier climates... FOREVER.  It's like trudging around the mall all fucking day, and feeling completely exhausted and finding NOTHING to wear to this huge party you've been looking forward to FOR MONTHS where you're trying to impress someone, but everything looks cheap on you and your skin looks all sallow in the flourescent lights and you decide to give up and go home, and then you agree to try on one more thing apiece with your friends and you come out of the dressing room wearing the most PERFECT fucking pair of jeans, and you know they look fucking bomb on you and you start dancing around in the changing room all excitedly and your friends look sort of chagrined that YOU were the one to find something perfect... and then you notice the price tag says "Don't even fucking think about charging that to your Dad's credit card because he will skin you alive and you know full well that you will NOT make rent this month if you buy these with your own money."

And then you leave the mall all downtrodden and pissed off because you're SURE no pair of jeans will ever look that good on you again. And you actually feel physically ill thinking about how you just left them there, in the store, when they were CLEARLY meant for your ass. And you borrow a shirt from one of your friends and end up wearing some old skirt you had in the back of your closet, and you still look really good at the party but you totally don't go home with that hot guy, probably because you didn't have the perfect outfit.

But then like six weeks later your mom offers to buy you a new pair of jeans, so you hurry back to the exact store where you found THE pair and yep! they still look fucking hot on you, but you didn't get to wear them to the party....... but it's still awesome... and you'll have a good run together for several months until something happens to damage them irrepairably.... I'm getting a little carried away here... but this is how Spring is for me.

It's like it's playing Just The Tip with me.

And I'm over it.

This first thaw has tempted and teased me, shown me fifty degrees and threatened to take it all away with a blanket of snowfall, the way that it does year in and year out and this year I'm rebelling.
I WILL run in shorts OUTSIDE, by god, and nothing is going to stop me.

At least until next November.

The ultimate battle.

Spring = LIFE


Winter= Death



And so will I.... hopefully.

XO Sare

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

mirror, mirror why'd you fall?

Sooooooo. Guess who has two tits and seven years of back luck, starting today?! !


At the bottom of the stairway from the second to first floor, or vise versa, of the house I share with my friend Katherine, there is a door. It's kind of annoying, but also kind of cool because it's the original wood from when they built the house in 1895. Anywayyyz. Usually said door is propped open with the floor-length mirror. It's not a heavy door, so the mirror serves this purpose just famously- or did, until I caused the little bastard to shatter.


This morning, I, in a mad dash to get out of the door, attempted to carry all the shit I had to take with me in one trip. Usually, I do not mind making more than one trip. I am the kind of person that unloads groceries languidly, not trying to over-exert myself at the task. I don't want to break or bruise any of my purchases or myself now that I've managed to get us all home in one piece.  Quite the contrary is Manfriend. He, come hell or high-water, will be damned if he has to go back out to the car to retrieve the case of bottled water that he couldn't carry with the other eight bags of heavy purchases. I say this is how disasters happen, he says it's a skill he's perfected with time. Tomayto, Tomahto.

I digress.

So I'm carrying all my shit down the stairs because I'm late and I'm in a hurry. I make it to the bottom. Katherine is asleep in her room at the top of the stairs. I silently celebrate the victory of making it from my bedroom to the bottom of the stairs without falling/hurting myself/breaking anything/making any noise.


My ridiculously heavy and overstuffed overnight bag, for my premeditated stay at Manfriend's tonight, just barely kisses the edge of the mirror. And it teeters. And it tips. And it hits the ground and makes a WAY louder sound than I would have though a mirror that that kind could ever muster. And I'm already late, so now I'm officially FUCKED.

This is why I never over exert myself when lugging my belongings around. Disaster strikes!

So I drop everything and don't even let myself look at the clock because I know with every passing second of cleaning up shards of glass in my business casual attire at seven goddamn thirty in the morning, my chances of scoring a croissant breakfast sammy on the way into the office is diminishing. Quickly.

So I finally get this unfortunate broken glass situation taken care of, and scurry out the door.

And then BAD LUCK STRIKES almost immediately.

Because I was all flustered and in a tizzy about my imminent seven-year prolonoged demise and fixating on trying  to remember exactly what I have to do to reverse the bad luck even though I'm really not even a very superstitious* person...I left my phone at home. Just left the house and drove off without it.  And didn't even realize it until I was way past the point of no return.

Normally, not a big deal. I can't talk on my phone at work and texting and whatnot is 'frowned upon,' but I'm really into Words With Friends right now... like slink into the bathroom to hide that I'm playing Scrabble on work time kind of 'into", and I've kind of over-extended myself with current games... aka I have more than several going, and so now my opponents are going to get pissed at me for taking so long to make my next move and/or think I'm intimidated or less intelligent than them... neither of which is the case.

Really, having to go back and retrieve my phone from the house after work is cramping my style.


So, although today is my unlucky day, it is your lucky day, because you're about to get a close look at the interactions that occur between myself and Manfriend, via email.

AAAAAAAnd as a disclaimer, I'm going to go ahead and point out that I know it's weird/disgusting that we call each other Boobie. One time we were driving somewhere and that word came out of my mouth when addressing Manfriend and of course it was hilarious that Sara even had that word in her verbal vernacular yadda yadda yadda, DON'T HASSLE ME. Just know that it's in jest and we're not really those people... if you know what I mean. Okay I'm not really sure where this is going, so without further ado:

From: Sara
To: Manfriend

Hey Boobie.

I'm so annoyed that I left my phone at home this morning. At least I'm assuming it's at home. I was literally tearing through my bags this morning on my way to work, trying to find it while on the interstate. UGH. I just really thought I had it when I left the house.

OH, and get this. I fucking broke that floor-length mirror that props open the door going upstairs this morning. I was trying to carry all of my SHIT downstairs at once because I was running late and seriously needed to stop for a croissant and I fucking knocked it with my duffel bag. Anyway, It fell onto the floor and just shattered. SHATTERED. How weak can a mirror be? It's not like I slammed it to the ground! UGH. So then I had to take MORE TIME to fucking take care of it and get it outside safely so no one cuts themselves going downstairs. I hope I got all the glass. I'm getting worked up just thinking about it.

Anyway, whew. I stopped and got my croissant anyway and everything is fine.

I REALLY WANT TO BE IN A GOOD MOOD TODAY, but motherfuckers wanna mess with me and make demands and treat me like a secretary on the phone and it's making it reaaaaaaally difficult to maintain a good attitude. My favorite is when they demand the cell phone number of the person I was just polite enough to tell them is on vacation instead of just sending them straight to that person's voicemail. It's like 'I'M NOT FUCKING TELLING YOU ASSHOLE, IF THEY WANTED YOU TO KNOW, THEY'D HAVE GIVEN IT TO YOU. Plus, do you really like it when self important assholes call you for insignificant botherances when you're on vacation, probably sleeping in?" Whatevs I'm over it.

SWALLOW IT OR SPIT IT OUT. aaaaaaaaaaah hahahahahaha.

Anyway, I'm bored and I can't play phone Scrabble, so my time-wasting options are limited. So, write me back, like ASAP, STAT. RIGHT NOW.

Okay, I love you, Boo.

X's and O's.

Your nutty GF

From: Manfriend
To: Sara

Hey loverrrr,

Sorr about the bad luck. You need to find a ladder to walk under to reverse it. Pretty sure that will cancel it out.

How was the croissant? I'm hungry. Maybe I'll stop somewhere...oh wait, there is nothing for miles.

I fucking forgot to bring something to spread my PB&J with today, so it's either use my dirty fingers or buy lunch. Or not eat. But I'm hungry now.

Sorry about the dicks on the phone. Just start giving out random numbers. Or give them mine, then email me and tell me who to pretend to be. I'll fuck with them for you. I'll teach them!


That made me laugh. I'm funny. And clever. And modest.

Ok gotta bill this ticket. Love youuuu.



Some people just get me, you know?

Oh, and any advise on how to rid myself of seven years of shitty inconveniences like leaving my phone at home will be welcomed and accepted. Or just remind me that I'm not even mildly superstitious, just bad at managing time and relatively irresponsible. KTHANX. eh. I actually hate it when people say thanks with an 'x.' It's like, okay, thanks for being a total doucher and saving yourself one fucking letter at the cost of coming off totally disingenuous.  Whew, stepping down from soap box. 

Have yourself a wild Wednesday. 

XO Sare 

*But, I do like the idea of superstitions and old ladies throwing salt over their shoulders at every turn and whatnot. I have my palm read twice and both times left a little disappointed, but I think psychics fall into a different demographic than superstitions, but I'm really not up with all that magic and smoke-and-mirrors stuff, so I just lump them all together.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Happy Patrick Sharp Day!

I know that most people have to work today.

 But the fact that SOME people don't, because it's President's Day,  is causing me A LOT of ill will and pretty much diminishing my abilitiy to "Make it a great day!" As my father's voicemail greeting insists.

 For instance, all of public academia, from kindergarten to grad school gets to sleep in today. And it's raining, so obviously sleeping is the desired level of consciousness. My own father, who RUNS an olive company (read: mob? jury's still out) GETS TODAY OFF WORK. That's corporate America, people, respecting the presidents.

So all this basic INJUSTICE at the inconsistency at which some of us are forced to tolerate a five day work-week, while some of us get to bask in a four, has got me to wondering.

What EXACTLY, are these slackers fortunate fools celebrating, exactly, that can't be celebrated from their desks, per usual?

 And this is what I found:

President's day is practically bullshit. We're celebrating the birthdays of George Washington and Abe Lincoln, both of whom are DEAD and neither of which were actually born on February 21st. You know what else? Those Kanucks up north decided they wanted a long weekend to break up February and now a handfull of their provinces are celebrating two of OUR FOUNDING FATHERS', or at the VERY least, EARLY LEADERS birthdays.............. AND I'M NOT.

(Thanks, Wikipedia for the 30 second synopsis!)

 I'm a basketcase of emotion right now.

 Which is why, I'm CELEBRATING A CANADIAN on this, America's "Presidents' Day."

 Thank you Canada, for piggy-backing on our holidays as an excuse to have a day off of work, during which I'm still forced to be here, in my cubicle, posing as efficient.

 But really, actually, thank you for this guy, because I'll be googling pictures of him all day and trying to figure out a way to phase out his wife.

 How's that for efficent?

Everyone, meet Patrick Sharp. The reason I forgive Canada for stealing an American holiday, I, an American, don't even get to celebrate.

XO Sare

Friday, February 18, 2011

TOP FIVE FRIDAY: if i were in hiding.

I'm going to be rull honest here, I have pretty much run out of blog-writing steam by Friday of each week. If it's work day five out of five, I'm gunning for five o'clock and the first sip of my inaugural weekend cocktail.  

Plus, it's actually kind of a stretch for me to motivate enough to shower four times a week, let alone compose and publish and clever and well-worded blog post. 

So from now on, good ole' Friday will not only be the gateway to the weekend, but also the day that I release a random top ten five list of some sort**. I was going to say ten, but like I said, it's Friday. I can't be held accountable for much. Try me Tuesday.

It could be awesome, it could be awful.


Sooooooooo, without further delay, here you go!

The top five things I would bring with me if I commited was wrongly charged with a heinious crime and needed to remain anonymous for the rest of my days.

(Let's assume I've got the cash thing covered because hello, obvious!)

1.   Multiple fake passports.

Now, I'm not saying I'm going to be moving around a lot or anything, but I think these could come in incredibly handy. I mean, I'm trying to fly under the radar here. Plus, with America's Most Wanted being the entirely reliable and credible program it is, with every responsible American tuning in weekly, the U S of A probably won't really be my best bet. I'm getting out of here right quick, and you can take that to the bank.

2. Handy little tools.

Luckily, I already own this exact device. A thank you, TJ Maxx. I bought it right around Christmas time when I was running out of money and still had more than three gifts left to buy. Really though, I can completely rationalize this decision to myself. You need Pliers? CHECK. LED Flashlight? Check! Knife/saw/bottleopener/flatheadscrewdriver/philipsheadscrewdriver/wirecutters? CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK!

 I promised myself I would never leave home without this device, and although right now it's floating around in space somewhere, enjoying its journey back into my immeadiate possession, I would waste several precious moments of escape time to insure I had this little guy when I made a run for it. I'll probably go look for it tonight... or at some point this weekend, or at the very least before I plot my next heinious crime.

3.  Water purification tablets.

UHHHHHHH. Duh. I mean, I'm not really sure how remote/rugged this hypothecial scenario is going to get, but you bet your sweet ass I'm going to have clean drinking water. I've seen movies, I know how bat-shit crazy people get when they're depirved of hypdration, and I'm sure you have too. Now take those grotesque images, multiply it times ten and change the setting from desert to comfortable four-door SUV. Because I act WAY crazier than that on moderate-length car trips where I'm merely thirsty. When even the hint of the thirst gets to me, all bets are off. I'll go to great lengths and quite possibly be forced to commit even more heinous crimes over a sip of something wet. I'm not getting caught because I don't have a fresh bevy, so I'm not risking it. That's all there is to it.

4.  This T Shirt.

I'm no idiot, I'm not trying to give anyone something to identify me by or something, but the Buckeyes do in fact have the largest international network. So not only is it kind of blend-y, but it's also a lets-bond-over-our similarities-in-a-strange-place trigger. IE: kind strangers may will want to help me slash give me things for free just because I have a beloved alma mater in common with them. I just knew that expensive out-out-state tuition would pay off... someday.


5. Memories.. kind of

Nothing makes me nostalgic like a couple of stiff drinks. I'm not a loose-lipped drunk by any means, in fact I'm actually waaaaay more likely to start flat-out lying about everything I say, but when drinking alone, I'm probably the best I know of at recalling random-ass better times. So, Jim Beam, you happen to make the cut. Congrats.

Don't get me killed, or I'll switch you out for Manfriend... or something. Since I'll already be dead, I guess I can't really take it back, can I? Sorry Manfriend!

Make this weekend feisty!

XO Sare

**Oh, and also, I'll be accepting suggestions for next week's top five, so feel free to pop me with an email or comment and I'll take it and run with it. Thanks in advance!

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

fuck it, i'm getting a golf cart.

I survived the happy, heart-filled Monday holiday. In case anyone wondered.

I'll spare you all the happy, heart-filled details, but other than a fake-eyelash catastrophe, the evening actually was really fun and rather perfect, like a great snapshot from college where everyone is laughing and unposed amidst a sea of pictures with girls lined up to go out, eye makeup perfect, blinding smiles, an army of sameness. I got a beam-heavy pre-dinner drink, some red meat, and shrimp cocktail out of the deal. Not to mention the love and devotion of a stellar manfriend and of course, some chocolate...

Holy Sweet Moly I hope my parents haven't discovered this little venture of mine.

But yeah, Manfriend really went all-out with this one.  In fact, in addition to wooing me with pornographic material and various other undisclosed items, MY OWN MANFRIEND ORDERED A GLASS OF RED WINE FOR HIMSELF AT DINNER. What are we, cosmopolitan now? I didn't even think he knew the difference between Pinot Grigio and Cabernet. Oh, how wrong I was.

My, my , my. Times, they are a changin'.

So, despite my mind being blown to smitherines at being wined and dined and another thing that rhymes with that and describes a sexual position that I have never personally tried, Mom and Dad, I'm going to talk about something slightly more serious. Yep, you guessed it, it's the adult, or maybe just MY, affinity for driving miniature vehicles. Specifically, the golf cart.

By the way, I'm now so paranoid about my parents finding out my sexual exploits at age 24, by stumbing across my anonymous interwebz blog that I'm addressing them in my posts. Fuck, I need an anti-anxiety prescription of some kind.

BUT, the show must go on! And so I give you, my personal thoughts and musings on the awe-inspiring cart of golf!

There she is, in all her glory. No doors, all windows. Topping off at approximately 27 miles per hour, she sits in wait for the warm summer days when children and adults alike will abuse her wiles for anything but golfing.

What is it about dicking around aimlessly on slow-moving golf carts that makes them so appealing? Perhaps the universal key that allows all golf carts to be clicked to the 'on' position almost effortlessly? Or perhaps the fact that standard traffic rules don't seem to apply when putzing around in one of these vehicles? Maybe it's the complete lack of seat-belts, doors, and wind shield that gives the golf cart its sense of danger? There's really so many wonderful things about golf carts, despite the fact that they don't really have the speed OR safety factor going for them. It's an open invitation for as many people as can manage to pile on to find a firm grip and get ready for the ride of their lives. Or something.

As a child, who didn't fight with their siblings/the other ragamuffins running around with them over who got to drive the golden golf cart whenever one managed to make an appearance? Who didn't start driving one of these little death traps around, unsupervised for the most part, before reaching double digits in age?

I know I did, and just look how I turned out.


Our grandparents, for part of my childhood, had a house in Florida in a golf course community. That shit was REAL. I swear, golf cart was the primary mode of transportation. FOR GRANDCHILDREN. Come spring break a bunch of us hoodlums would meet up at the shuffle-board courts after dark to 'hang out.' Aka stand awkwardly in the shadows and glance surreptitiously at one another while only actually speaking to our own siblings.

And you know how all the cool kids got to the shuffle board courts? THEIR GRANDPARENTS' GOLF CARTS. Talk about a status symbol. Old people apparently have a lot of time on their hands to do things like trick out their slow-moving wheels, because shit, you wouldn't believe the chrome they can manage to trick out on these things. It's like middle-class street cred.

Or just sad.

I obviously prefer to look at it as CRED, WHAT?!

Oh also, when I was living/bartending/making a drunken whore fool of myself on 'The Island' in Lake Erie for two summers during college, golf carts were a quintessential part of island culture as a whole, adding emmensely to its reputation as "The Redneck Riviera." Although cars were welcomed and accepted, and semi-easy to get onto the island via the ferry, most tourists chose to leave their grown-up wheels at home and rent a golf cart to get them around the island for the duration of their trip. Because the only reason most people go to that island is to get drunk; it's a tiny strip of land covered in bars and bad hotels and dirty swim-up pool bars. And guess what? Apparently, drinking and driving is welcomed and encouraged in golf carts.

And people whipping around The Island were drunk on booze and DRUNK ON POWER. Or entitlement. Because of the golf cart and it not actually being a car, so therefore completely drivable despite those four Miami Vices the driver just slammed at the pool bar. Shit was seriouly unsafe on those mean streets after about noon on a Saturday when everyone started getting sufficiently liquored up and slurry. Plus, hitching a ride was a SNAP. If you needed to get from one end of the island to another, basically you just had to get someone to slow down enough to hop on a lap or hold on to the frame tight enough not to topple into the street.

I've actually seen the following conversation go down between a BRAH holding a coors light while driving, with a neck tattoo and VISOR and an actual law-enfrocement officer:

Johnny Law: "Ummmm, you're drinking a beer while operator a moving vehicle? And you just BLEW through that stop sign. Do you have your license on you somewhere?"

BRAH:  "Oh, that stop sign back there? No, no, no, I think you're confused, this is actually a golf cart...sooo, yeah, I think this conversation is over...."

Johnny Law: "I need to see your license right now please, and if you could just step out of the vehicle and sit on the curb there, that'd be great."

BRAH: "I only have that cart rented until five pm... so let's make this quick." (give's lisence)

Johnny Law: "This is wet? Why is this wet? Sir. You can't operate a vehicle by driving, it's illegal in all 50 states."


Etc, etc, etc, and then I walked away because I was bored and/or getting dumber watching this guy make a fool of himself.

But really, he was just under the golf cart's spell. Can we really blame him? I mean, yeah, obviously for the neck tattoo and visor... but other than that? It's hard to say.

It's really amazing there aren't more fatalties there.

Ah, but this isn't about The Island, this is about the GREATNESS that is feeling invincible when driving a vehicle that ISN'T a car, and therefore doesn't have to be treated with any semblance of concern for personal well-being or rules.


I'm thinking about trading in my Jeep because, come summer, I'm going to be in needed of a little recklessness, and a little chaos. And I feel like I'm kind of over the hump on my carefree, experiment-with-drugs phase, so to get my fix of the wild life, I plan on investing in a golf cart. See you on the other side.

XO Sare

Monday, February 14, 2011

love and wishing my life was a murder-mystery

I've learned the hard way that it's a bad idea to put a lot of pressure on one particular day, or encourage anyone around me to do so either. This is due to the unfortunate fact that usually before parties, reunions with out-of-town friends, or really grand hurrahs of any sort, I get stupid excited, like, hyperactive chihuahua excited, and run around the house making weird whiney noises, and/or get rather heavy-handed with my "calm down" cocktails and end up blacking/passing out before dark and missing the entire ordeal.

Mostly because, in all honesty, I conceive ridiculous illusions of grandeur in my mind and then put every ounce of pressure I have the ability to apply to almost every situation without even trying. IE: THIS WILL BE THE BEST NIGHT EVERRRR. Ah, the joys of neurosis.

I freak out a lot.

Like, A LOT, a lot.

This little fact directly applies at this very moment because Manfriend is taking me out on the town tonight, in honor of your favorite holiday and mine, Valentine's Day.
Let's celebrate all the love in our hearts as a distraction from the horrible and soul-crushing grips of February and endless winter in general!
Somewhere around the first week of January, my beloved Manfriend, bless him,  asked me what I'd like to do to celebrate this fateful day. At the time, I must have been feeling a bit whimsy and carefree, for whatever god-foresaken reason, and I remember replying with something along the lines of, "I'd like you to take me on a date."


That's all I fucking said.

I mean, I'm not picky, but I usually don't like to leave that much to chance- plus Manfriend has trouble making simple decisions, like pizza or chicken strips for lunch, so I honestly thought if I played my cards right, the evening would consist of us making dinner with ingredients weighing heavily in bacon and meat byproducts, a couple romps in the hay, and perhaps a new potted plant for the little indoor garden I have going on.
However, I clearly underestimated the accidental challenge I issued to Manfriend. And now, it looks like we're going fancy with this holiday for the first time in my 24 year existence.

So guess what's going on tonight? HAHAHAHA, your guess is as good as mine!!!  I've been instructed to adorn myself in my very best, (umm, vintage Dolce & Gabbana LBD I found at a boutique on vacation two summers ago, JUST BEGGING for an occasion dressy enough to make it's way out of my closet? uhhh, yeah.) and be ready to go grab a drink before our dinner reservations at nine. At some place apparently fancy and unbeknownst to moi. Reservations were made over three weeks ago. I'm not kidding. This shit is serious. Manfriend, my meat-and-potatos, deer hunting, beard-growing, flannel wearing, hunk o' MAN that he is, even purchased new clothing for this momentous occasion- New dress pants, new tie, new PURPLE dress shirt. The man has lost his damn mind.

So now, although I'm THRILLED that Manfriend is stepping up to the plate to wine and dine me, and yes, I said WINE, because last night he asked me if I'd like to get a bottle of wine with dinner tonight and was ACTUALLY browsing the wine list, I'm also taking this opportunity to panic.
We are not fancy people.

So, naturally, I'M FREAKING OUT.

For no reason, obviously.

This could just be one person showing another person a guesture of love on the one day a year that love is publically celebrated. Unless you count Sweetest Day, which I don't, because no one I know other than me really seems to notice when it's Sweetest Day.

He's probably trying to kill me or something. By luring me into an ultra-romantic setting in which my guard will be down and he can make his move without much of a fight from my end. I mean, I'm sure he's had plenty of opportunities over the past five to six years or so of our friendship/romantic involvement, especially since we sleep together almost every night. But I mean, he actually got a haircut yesterday, for me. Shit, I got drunk Saturday afternoon and discovered his electric razor whilst relieving my bladder and, having no other viable options, shaved one, okay both, of my arms. I'm not exactly a catch.

Thus, the only reasonable explanation for such ADO is that it's all a cover.


Sure, shake your head if you want. I'm just saying, if I wind up in the headlines, my body found (looking smoking hot in aforementioned curve-hugging LBD) at the bottom of a river somewhere, just know I called this.
I'm just going to go with it.

Happy Valentines Day to you and yours, however you choose to celebrate.

XO Sare

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

i can't even come up with my own thoughts on february

This month is like the final stretch before the light at the end of winter's tunnel. And I'm seriously struggling. It's more frigid in the Midwest than it's been all fucking winter, more snow and ice has fallen. The fact of days getting longer has provided very little consolation. I'm miserable. I'm neurotic. I'm not exactly a pleasure to be around.

For those of us clinging on to whatever baring we have on reality for dear life, I think someone else has put our sentiments more eloquently than I could ever muster.

"They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.

Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes - and you'll never catch February in stocking feet - it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.

However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.

February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine's Day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.

Except to the extent that it 'tints the buds and swells the leaves within,' February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.

James Joyce was born in February, as was Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, which goes to show that writers are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.

If February is the color of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you're small! Were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May."

And that's how I feel. And that's why Tom Robbins is my favorite author.


XO Sare