Thursday, April 28, 2011

this good mood is brought to you by : THE SUN

HOLY SUNSHINE.


After two straight weeks practically an eternity of this:



AND EVEN BETTER:


THAT BEAUTIFUL BITCH, THE SUN, IS FINALLY SHOWING HER FACE AROUND THESE PARTS AGAIN.

I'm elated, obviously.

In fact, I've got a date with her tonight. Just us and a pair of running shoes and all the time in the world.

Cheers!

XO Sara

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

the way we were.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

She's the lady I can't seem to get off my mind, the long-lost friend from yesterday.

There are a precious few people I've met in my life who require absolutely zero discerning self-adjustment in the delightfully uninhibited category. As it sometimes is with important people in my life, I met Mary at the absolute. perfect. time. Just when I needed her. Everything came easily.

We met on Drama Island, Summer #1.


It looks like it wouldn't destroy your life and self-worth, but it does.

Someone I knew up on Drama Island once said in a drunken ramble that everyone who works up there during the summer is running away from something, and I think that's probably true. It works well for people like me, because it gives you the absolute best and absolute worst times of your life, and I SUCK at moderation. What was I running away from? That's perfect material for another post, at a later time.

Mary and I were dating/trying to score free meals off of/getting drunk and making out with two guys who happened to be best friends. We got thrown together and the guys eventually got thrown to the side. They were losers, we were ARE much better off.

In a resounding blast that's blurred with late night lake swims, fountains of vod, aimless road trips, and the ability to successfully create a two-person scene, Mary and I grew thisclose. Almost instantly. She kept me sane and encouraged me to get a little crazy. I never felt self conscious or bad-weird about myself with Mary. She was unabashedly non-domestic, stylistically fabulous, occasionally socially awkward, and exceptionally smart. The Betty to my Veronica.

After that first summer and the following year and the next Summer for Drama Island: Round Two,  Mary and I were thick as theives. She was genuinely my most honest and reliable sounding board at that time in my life, she always made herself available. When we weren't geographically close, we'd send greeting cards like we owned stock in Hallmark. I graduated from college, when she still had a year left. She always had something to laugh about or a reason we should slam back a few more shots, or the time to get in her car in the middle of the night to drive down to hell-Kentucky where I was working, to find me wedged between the toilet and bathtub of my hotel room, in my underwear, just staring off into space with my body all clenched up in my own arms, to force me to take a pregnancy test (NEG, WHEW) after a particularly reckless and terrible decision following the most henious post-breakup period of my life.

She was my friend. A great friend. We were there for each other. We made each other shine and helped buff out the dents and dings that life had thrown. Stories were shared and plentiful. The hard to express, less-happy moments, of the first sting of childhood disappointment and even her fear of how a future love might propose.

"Mary, Marry me?"

"Marry me, Mary!"

Bahahaha.

Every time we saw each other, we ended up at Bob Evans the next morning to suss it all out. From our issues with our mothers, to how godawfulterrible Bride Wars was, and how much our credit cards couldn't handle another trip to Nordstrom-  and we always ordered the same thing. I could still order for her: Egg white omelet with spinach, tomatos, and mushrooms. Dry wheat toast. Coffee, side of skim milk. Me: Omelet with bacon and as much cheese as you can give me. With a side of Bacon. Sour dough toast, extra butter. She is slightly more health-conscious. After the meal, whomever's turn it was to pay would buy a Pez dispenser and a rock candy. Pez for her, rock candy for me. Little traditions popped out of everything.



Until it started breaking down, little by little.

When two people grow to trust and let each other in, and then depend on each other so quickly, it's easy to miss the blurry line between 'support system' and 'enabler.' It's already a fairly fine line, in my opinion. Mary and I both went through rough stuff. Typically boy drama, post college, Drama Islands wrecking our sense of reality, normal, growing-up kind of stuff.

And we enabled each other's misery.


It's hard for me to say that because it was almost impossible for me to see when I was in it. We supported each other in the only way we knew how- it usually involved reassuring the other one that she was justified in her choices, like drinking an entire bottle of wine while reading every fbook message correspondance between she/me and the Worst Ex in History. We both had them. Calls became less frequent. We had a hard time making it out to see each other. Stuff gets in the way. I let it. She let it. I grew tired of hearing her bitch about the people closest to her and worried she was venting about me behind my back. She grew tired of my constant boy drama and busted self-confidence.

I think becoming best friends with a person virtually overnight takes its toll sometimes- even someone as kindred as Mary was to me-  Not that you grow tired of the person or the friendship, but the rest of your life eventually catches up and refuses to be ignored. That happened.

We were still close, but also incredibly stressed and caught up in the bullshit of everyday living and growing up. Things were strained. Mary went back against my protests for Drama Island: Round three. In a weird turn of events we both ended up living in Chicago in the Fall of 2009. I was coming off a job-loss and she was moving in with her boyfriend who was in grad school there. I was thrilled.

And then we didn't see each other.


Or talk.

The last time I saw her was Halloween of that year. I had incredible energy that night, I remember it clearly. As I was getting my costume together and preparing for a night on the town with a group of my favorite people, I felt better than I had in such a long time. I looked good, I knew it. Walking around I had that bounce that comes after great sex or an exceedingly good hair day. I was ready to take on the world head-first.

Mary and her beau showed up two hours later than expected and left after an hour, something about train schedules.

I was pissed and I let her know. Of course I did it tastefully, in front of a group of people on the street, sloppily drunk and dressed as a gypsy flower-child. I always like to keep it classy. I may have also taken that chance to let her know that I felt she'd been neglecting our friendship and I felt she was constantly fixating on the negative and I was willing to help her find solutions and take action, but I would no longer stew with her about things she'd done nothing to fix.

END SCENE!

I proceeded to get super drunk and have a great time after she left.

And then I got a facebook message from her a few days later. I don't even really remember what it said, although I can recall one line VERY clearly.

"I need this to be a low-maintenance friendship."

Um, what? hubbbbbababababababa? I'm sitting on the couch of my fun and adorable Chicago city apartment, pulling out my hair. Suddenly I itch. All over. My hair is still wet from the shower. I had the sudden need to go stretch my legs, get out, walk away from what I'm reading.

CONFUSION.

This was NOT how we rolled. I was blindsided by this, so I did what any mature adult woman would in that situation. I screamed "THAT BITCH!" and defriended her on facebook. And then I waited for her to call me.

Only she never did.

And neither did I.

Did I mention that we're both unbudgibly stubborn? Yes, I'm fully aware that I just made up that word. Regardless, we're both STUPID stubborn. We don't budge.

And so I guess we both moved on with our lives because we had to, but I still feel guilty, that pang when I think about a friendship that should have been fought for. That's my most failed friendship and perhaps my biggest blunder.

I guess I've got a serious question looming when I consider contacting her to make amends. We met at exactly the right time, the chemistry was just there. Now though, it's been a year and a half since we last spoke. She's gone through MAJOR changes from what I've heard. So have I.  I just don't know if lightning can strike twice in the same place on this one.

But, one can hope, because we had one hell of a time the first go-around.



Marebear and Sarebear: Vacation 2009. We have fantastic leg genes. My teeth are not always this gigantic.  



XO Sare

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

baggage.

There are people that treasure a brief jaunt down memory lane over coffee with a long-lost friend.


There are those people that are caught up in the past, or planning for the future, or just living in the moment.


All kinds of people.


And then there are people that hoard memories to the point of needing a token, a tangible reminder from every fucking county fair, movie theater, trip to the hospital, concert, novel dinner locale, job, etc... that they've ever experienced.


I've recently discovered that this is the group that I fall into.


I've been feeling really bogged down with all my stuff lately, plus I have to move AGAIN in just over a month,  so I've taken on the project of compulsively organizing and taking inventory of everything that I have.


I've honestly never been so pissed off at myself.


Tiny scraps of paper, everywhere. Boxes that I can't account for and certainly don't contain anything that a rational person would categorize together. I found a broken desk-lamp in a box with some unopened arch supports, several binders of random papers, and a half a dozen shot glasses. So.... yeah?  I can't just let things go. And I'm terrible at packing, apparently. What's worse, if I can't find something I already have- I'll just go buy a new one. I get that from my father; it's probably a byproduct, like road rage, of having shotty patience.


For the record, I own two glue guns, five staplers, and about a dozen finger-nail clippers.


I could get robbed and never even realize it!




It doesn't make sense, because I'm a compulsive organizer, but it happened. The project just got too big, too daunting for me and so I just made myself forget about all the unorganized boxes of crap that I've been toting around, unopened, for years. I'd open my closet, shake my head at the boxes, make an empty promise to myself that 'this weekend is the weekend,' and shut the door again. Something better, more important, always comes up when there's a task looming that I dread.




On the one hand, maybe I should feel a sense of pride that I can fully document every activity Manfriend and I participated in together during our six-year-long, sexual-tension-filled friendship that eventally led to me pulling a homewrecker around year seven, after he threw in the towel in year six, and and staking my claim.


But I mean, I lived it. So, meh.


Anywayyyyyy.


At this point it's honestly taken weeks of spurts of motivation to wade through the junk and just THROW THINGS AWAY. It's stressful, my jaw gets tired from clenching. Do I need a pom pom that I got at an involvement fair my freshman year of college? I think not. Good memory, really, but I DO NOT NEED a fucking pom pom.

I never realized what a sappy, sentimental, sucker I am.


Last night was the kicker. Cards and letters. Old library cards, movie tickets. my student football ticketss from college, concert tickets, awards. I guess I think of these sort of things as 'the guts.' The things that are -or were- really important, that demonstrate how I have taken shape over time, that could show anyone what was important to me leading up to now, be that living on drama island for two summers or geeking out over road-tripping to warped tour during my high school teenage angst phase.


It's fun to see all that stuff, like the cards my mom sent me when I moved away from home for the first time. A fourth place ribbon from my favorite cross country course. The library cards from every place I've ever lived. I love that I have post cards sent to me from everywhere you could imagine, I've been collecting them since I was a wee sprout and they make me so happy.


But it's also exhausting.

I've always been a person that keeps a vice grip on the people I love, even when that involves my heart being spread around the god's green earth.  It just means a lot to me that I stay in touch with people. I've got the post cards, letters, mail in return to prove it. And I just really feel that you can't throw stuff like that away. And when they're right there in front of you again, it's almost impossible not to invest the time to read every last one of them. It's a lift, to realize you've done a great job surrounding yourself with heart-felt, caring, enthusiastic people. But it's also a blow to the innards to make see a stack of letters from someone that's no longer in your life. At all.

And I keep them all. Every single written correspondance I've ever recieved, I have- because I think fan mail is evidence of a well-lived life. It's a snap-shot of a moment in time and we get to keep it. Like I said, I've recently discovered that I'm incredibly sentimental... annoying. With the exception of a particularly soul-crushing ex-love, of whom I ceremoniously burned every reminder, love letter, poem, gift, in an attempt to rid myself of his toxin and relentless grip on my rational mind, I've got everything anyone has ever written me. That shit takes a lot of time to sort through. And a lot of wine.

I've made peace with most of my failed friendships and relationships. I look fondly on the boy I first fell in love with and gave my virginity. There's a group of fleeting, yet poignant, characters whom I've discovered on summer adventures and short-term living situations, and that I will never doubt their importance in my life. After all, they cared enough to put something into words for me. I accept that not everyone who was once important can always be important. I know we've got to grow, and not everyone does that at the same pace. We've only got the capacity to keep track and emotionally invest in so many people.



But some things still sting.


So, amid feeling a boost at reading the people I love and have loved telling me how awesome I am, I felt heavy. I can't purge this stuff. And I can't ignore the falling out I had with a person who largely supported and encouraged me through some of the roughest times I've ever had. I think it may be time to chug some of my pride and break the now two-year silence. The thing is,  I'm worried that it's too late and some things can't be fixed.

As I sat in my room last night next to my now-empty wine glass, surrounded by what would probably look like a disaster area of junk to any sane person, I made the decision to reach out and try to repair something that once seemed easy to walk away from. You never know until you try, right?


XO Sara

Thursday, April 21, 2011

silver lining? my pee is clear.

My job is easy.


Like, if not for fear of electrocution, a beaver could simultaneously build a dam and do my job successfully. OK, I really don't like that analogy either, I'm sorry. A dog. A dog could do my job. Let it be known that I adore the entirety of the canine species, but we don't keep dogs around for their smarts. We keep them around because that tail a-waggin' is such a candid expression of joy that giving them a pat on the head is completely undeniable. Dogs are loyal, and bad ass, albeit dumb.


A dog could easily do my job.


Which is probably why I don't particularly care for the way I keep myself in the black, so to speak.



I loathe my job with the heat and fury of 100000 suns.



However, having a job that requires so very little actual brain power has its perks. Very FEW perks, but still, they exist. Minimally.


For example, despite the fact that my boss seems to get his kicks out of treating the workday like an eight hour criminal lock-down, I get to spend an undue amount of time worrying about things that in my normal, everyday life I wouldn't even really consider, let alone set aside actual moments for. Such as hydration. I can honestly say that I've never been as well-hydrated as I am at this particular, peculiar point in my life. It's almost a compulsion. I fill up two water bottles, I drink them. I go back downstairs to the water-cooler and re-fill them. I drink them. Repeat for eight hours. My piss is clear. It's fucking almost water-clear. It's phenomenal.


Thanks, job. I don't give you enough credit for forcing me to find valid reasons to leave my desk as many times a day as possible. The water distraction is two-fold because it also makes me pee about 23874387 times a day.


Another reason to leave my desk? I'll take it!




Also, I must say that my nails and hands have never been in such great shape. Being that I stare down at my hands the majority of the time that I'm not staring at the computer screen in front of me, I've really taken an interest in putting my best hand forward. I moisturize, A LOT. In fact, I even have to take off my ring to do this task, so it takes a few seconds longer. If I look down at any point in the day and my hands look even the least bit parched, I stop everything I'm doing to attend to lotioning them up. Equally as important, my nails and cuticles. I thought those movies and shows I saw as a child where ladies working at desks are always picking at their nails were just to make them look worthless/trashy/lazy. But really, it's because it's true! I have almost an entire manicure kit in my desk.

I feel at this rate, I could someday be a potential candidate for a hand model in a national commercial. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but I like to set my sights high.

Finally, I spend OODLES of time staring at the computer. I'm the kind of person that's interested in almost everything... but I'm a bit absentminded, and I take a slightly ADD approach to life. AKA I'm always stumbling upon giant piles of awesome that cause me to go "WOAHHH, man, I gotta read/listen to/buy/see THAT! And then I wander away and can never quite remember where I saw it or heard of it, or what it was called, just that it was rad and I forgot and I'm an idiot. Seriously, a lot of my life is that whole song and dance. HOWEVER, since I'm basically confined to this desk all day, with an UNLIMITED amount of post-it notes and ink pens, I've developed a strategy! It's called writing it down AS SOON AS it happens to strike my fancy, whatever it is that I've discovered. I've got more interests and interesting things to tamper with then I even have time for! Tiny scraps of paper everywhere!

Plus, my cubicle has a window.


I know, you're still jealous about the pee thing.


HYDRATE, fools!

XO Sare

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

slip sliding away

I was unintentionally humiliated at the gym on Monday night and only now, after hours of reflection and meditation, have I decided to go public with this little personal narrative.

So, remember when I told you about the awesome that is beating the shit out of something that doesn't beat back and/or isn't comprised of any reprecussions for such behavior? Well, I'm still doing that. And I'm actually becoming quite the little heavy-bag renegade thankyouverymuch.

So, I typically attend this class twice a week and, truly look forward to going because I work my ass off for an hour and it's not running, which at this point has resulted in agonizing shin splints. These shin splints could have been prevented by any number of "proper training" techniques, but let's just be honest, I don't go by the book because I'm lazy and poor. So I'll probably need to buy new shoes that actually support my stupid delicate arches or some shit pretty soon, but for now I'm giving myself a couple days off from running a week to go beat the piss out of some punching bags, everyone wins. Especially my shins.

Monday night I stroll into the gym, biz as usual, and I go about the ass-kicking exersizes that occur during the first 80% of class, and I'm a hot mess, also per usual. Now, after we get done punching shit and shed our now sweat-soaked gloves, we move on to that calistenics portion of the class. This portion is very mean. Prior to doing three sets of continuous exersizes, the trainer always intructs us what the order will be/which exersizes we'll be suffering to until the end of class.

I don't particularly like this part of class, but I'm still getting a workout, and it's still not running, so I force myself to go all-out every time.

At the end of class I usually look like I just jumped in a pool.

Seriously, what the fuck? I've discovered that as I've aged/grown/evolved/whatthefuckever, I've gotten EVEN LESS ATTRACTIVE during/post work-out. Which, I normally just shrug off continue on my merry way. However, I'd like to just point out that a few short years ago, after running a rigorous seven mile workout and potentially puking from effort/exertion, I'd get back to the locker room and throw on a t-shirt and still actually resemble a human being. My pony tail would be cute from bouncing and settling, my make-up would finally have the perfect worn-in feel, and I'd maybe have a small sweat patch on my sports bra's elastic band. THOSE DAYS ARE (apparently) LONG FUCKING GONE.

These days, when I finish a work-out of any length, I resemble a melting wax statue. It's literally as if I've become a sweat-generating machine. My clothing, including undergarments AND every other layer I have on is effectively soaked. With my sweat. Even my pony tail, which is not becoming. Derrrr. My face is generally so sweaty that I actually have mascara and other debris running down my cheeks and no longer on my lashes, if I should forget to remove it before I begin physical exersize. Let's just say I don't look like I belong in a Nike ad; I avoid mirrors.


Now, you get the gist that it's not pretty at all. Normally, this doesn't so much as register to me, as working out aka sweating my tits off is actually why I came to the gym/decided to get some physical activity in. But, do you know what the ABSOLUTE last thing I want to do is at that point in my day? NO? Ok, I'll just tell you, it's:

Partake in physical contact of any kind with a virtual stranger.


Which is what happened on Monday night. For some mystical and mean-spirited reason unbeknownst to myself and the other patrons, it was decided by the powers that be that we would, immediately following the heavy-bag portion of the evening, be partaking in PARTNER CALISTENICS.

PARTNER. CALESTENICS,

OMG.

NO.

WHY?!?!

I'm not friends with anyone at the gym more than a brief "Yo, what's up?" prior to class. I don't know or want to know your kids' names, your volunteer activities, or even what you had for dinner. I want to pump this sweat-soaked hour out and move the fuck on with my life. So naturally, as I'm watching the trainer demonstrate how we're basically going to be grinding our sweaty-ass bodies all up on a stranger for the next 20 minutes, I'm not thrilled. In fact, I'm filled with dread and horror, because I'm soaking wet and most of the other women in class half-ass the entire thing so they can talk shit to their co-workers in the morning about how they "go to the gym," without actually bothering to work up a sweat.

So as I'm mentally thanking the Universe that I managed to shave my legs relatively recently, since apparently someone other than Manfriend is going to be feeling all up over me, the bell dings for us to start. I luck out and end up across from a lady who actually tries and our first task is to do push-ups, cross-over clapping each others' hands between each one. I put my knees down midway through because I'm a pussy, and they are so sweaty that I'm slipping around.



Sorry for the TMI today, by the way.

Next up is the wheelbarrow. How old are we? How fucking old are we?! How long has it been since you did the wheelbarrow? Can't remember? Oh, I can. It was Monday night. I'm really trying to not make this weird and awkward, so I grab her legs first and she quickly completes the loop measured out for us and it's my turn. Ah, that fateful moment. I kick my legs up and she grabs them and I can feel how sweaty they are now that she's touching them. I'm mortified. I'm honest-to-god moving my arms as fast as they will carry me to get this shit over with. Only, my arm warp-speed added a degree of difficulty in holding onto my sweaty-ass legs.

Midway through, my sonofabitch sweaty legs slip right out of her hands and I flop onto the ground. An actual flop. My soaking-wet body slaps against the floor and all of the sudden there is a flurry of activity around me and I'm just lying, there, trying to process what just happened. I felt like a goldfish that jumps out of its bowl probably feels, all wet and slimey, slapping around, gasping for air. Pathetic.


"Sorry, they're just so wet that they slipped right out of my hands!"

This is where I mention that we're all bare-foot and I'm face-down on a shared mat-surface. It's too much. I am at a loss, I really don't want to touch or be touched in this environment, or really, ever again. So I do the only thing I really could do. I toughed it out and carried the fuck on.  It wasn't pretty. After picking myself up we had to do back-to-back squats and some weird pull-up on each others' arms thing. And it was very slippery. And I'm still having flash-backs to the moment my legs slid out of her grasp. I hope to all things holy that homegirl hopped in the shower as soon as she got home, because most of the sweat on her body wasn't even hers. On the upside, word will probably get around and I'll never have to worry about someone voluntarily being my partner ever again.


Don't get my wrong, I really, really like the place. I like the people and the vibe, but believe you me, the next time I hear the word "partner" there I'm making a beeline for the goddamn door, I'd rather tough out shin splints then let another pratical stranger into my wide world of sweat.

Keepin' it honest since '86, you're welcome.


Xo Sara

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

keeping up with the times.

heyo. I'm trying to create a new header... because my current header is admittedly.... sucktastic. Like, worse than diarrhea. Ok, sorry about the bathroom humor, but it's seriously that bad. So, I'm delving/sticking a pensive toe into the unfamiliar realm of photo editing.

I know, it's like I don't even own a vagina sometimes.


Fuck, there I go with the bathroom shit again.

I'm on a roll now.


But seriously, I've wasted an entire lunch hour on this little pic to your left. Yeah, that's all I have to show for an entire hour of my life. It's going to get better. Promise me I'm going to get better at this interwebz stuff.

Massive sigh.

I have to go push paper now. And surrepticiously sneak looks at the impending doom happening out of doors. AKA, I"m not actually enjoying this storm, which is disappointing.

If you have pointers, send them my way. On the web-graphic shit. And, you know, any other wisdom you feel compelled to pass down as well.

Thanks in advance.

XO Sata
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Monday, April 18, 2011

time to burn a bridge

Wanna hear about a large error in judgement?




At the beginning of this month, Katherine, Jessica, and I let an old friend from high school a random move in with us. Some may not call this person a "rando," but since I hadn't hung out with them in over five years and didn't know a lick about what was going on in their life up to the point they were moving into my personal space and haven of safety from the cruel, hard, world, they're a random to me.


As I've mentioned before, our house is kickass and plenty big for four people. We're swimming in square-footage over here. It's honestly a really odd phenomenon, and kind of sickening when I think about the box I rented in Chicago. We already don't pay an arm and a leg in rent every month, so we figured ANOTHER $75 off rent a month would be pretty badass,. AKA, we'd all only be paying $225. A month. WHAT IS THIS? (Read: the neighborhood is patchy... but whatevs, we know our neighbors and I've never felt unsafe.)


So, this person had just moved back into town and was for whatever reason looking for some place to live, a shoulder to cry on, way to generate income, ride everywhere, drinking buddy, etc. This person is what normal people would label as a "drain" or a "red-flag." However, being that we're softies and somewhat non-immune to sob-stories and charity cases, this person was ushered into our lives after an extended absence. AKA periodically disappearing for years at a time.


I've come to realize recently that between high school and age 25, people have to find a way to survive now that we're expected to pick up and go off and survive largely on our own. A lot of people, such as myself, fuck this up several times, but continue to struggle and claw towards independence and hold themselves accountable for the decisions they make. Other people just start sucking, badly.


Welp, fourth roomie is the latter.






EXTREME.






After discovering some unsavory things about said person, aka they're shady and untrustworthy and OMG I will shit a brick if they steal anything from me...... we get to have the "UM, you need to move out NOW because we've all been deliberating behind your back about how uncomfortable you've made our living situation since you moved in three weeks ago," chat.


Yippee!




It's happening tomorrow. Which means I will effectively be a jumble of nerves and stress until the confrontation occurs. And then until fourth roomie aka Shadeball vacates the premises and I have the house keys clenched tightly in my grimey little hands.


Man, it's just so disheartening how some people change for the worse and really show their true colors at the worst possible time, like after you've invited them into your home. I'm not even the one who's lost the most- Jessica and Katherine were better friends with this person. Katherine found this person a job where she worked. She lent them her bike to get around. (Which this person promptly wrecked.) Sometimes putting yourself out on a limb for someone just doesn't work out. This is one of those times.


I'm not a bad person, but I don't typically put myself into situations with people where I can be let down or made to feel like I'm being taken advantage of. It bums me out that this person got a break, and a pretty sweet deal if I do say so myself, in living with us and now has probably squandered the last good option for them to live.


And part of me feels totally quilty about the conversation we're going to have tomorrow, and the tone I willl inevitably be forced to take to get my point across. The cut-and-dry, you're out, this is non-negotiable tone.  The you're-a-fuck-up-and-I-won't-have-you-around-to-take-me-down-with-you voice. Because as much as I hate using it, nothing seems to be as effective. And as much as I may not always appreciate the fact that I have that voice, it sure does seem to get the point across.

I don't know where they're going to go, and maybe it makes me a shitty human being, but it's not my problem anymore. I'm on my way up, and nothing is going to slow my route.

XO Sare

Friday, April 15, 2011

circumstance.

You know what's a annoying as shit? People who are all "Change your life!!!"


"Be the person you want to be!"




"YOU ARE THE MASTER OF YOUR OWN DESTINY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111111oneoneoneoeoeneomgfuckyuou."


NO, OMG, fuck YOU.




Because life lessons are incredibly fucking easy to hand out when using other people's words and failing to take into account the circumstances in life.




Circumstances are a big damn dick in my ass.




Because they prevent a complete transformation of current life to a life that feels like riding a unicorn across a magical forest while simultaneously eating a handful of perfectly cooked bacon that actually makes you LOSE WEIGHT, from happening over night. Those circumstances, they complicate things, and make it all messy, and in all honesty, make actually seeking out change a bit more frightening.




While I've taken this new optimism, trust the universe, act like a person tripping their balls off at a Dead concert feels stance, I've come to realize something.


It's true, I've got to make the changes in order to get to the reality I want to see for myself, because not only does no one else have as much invested in my own happiness, but because no one else really has the foggiest idea what will get me there. It's a one woman shit show. I'm driving the tour bus, headlining the concert, getting rowdy in the lawn, and sneaking backstage to get baked with the band.


Which, as awesome as all of those roles sound...........work, man.


SO MUCH WORK.


One person doing all that work... takes a while. Like, more than a little while. NOT ALL AT ONCE THE WAY I LIKE THINGS BECAUSE I'M GODDAMN IMPATIENT BECAUSE WE LIVE IN A ME ME ME, NOW NOW NOW, society. 


Annoying.






Which is why I've made a not-so-startling realization that startled the shit outta me.




I'm never going to wake up one morning and have the perfect life and get that AHA moment.






...And also, I don't really want it.






I guess I always knew that happiness is more than just not hating your job and making enough  money and being loved and being healthy and shit. Which whatever, I mean it would make happiness more attainable to a lot more people there was a destination or something. 


But shit, this whole being a more content person thing, it requires that you take a different attitude about what you've got to work with NOW. Instead of taking a mental shit all over the circumstances that you feel are holding everything up, sometimes you've got to just think to yourself, "This is what I have to work with right now, I've got to do what I can RIGHT NOW and make sure I'm not letting myself be miserable RIGHT NOW and check off the little things that lead up to the big things on my to-do list."




Which, takes a WHOLE LOT of mental will-power and strength of spirit when you realize that you will turn 25 years old this summer and, wait for it, will be living with your parents again when that quarter-life crisis date rolls around.




Hopefully, for the last time. Here's the thing. I'm okay with this, promise. I mean, I do currently reside in a badass house with my badass friends and you know, enjoy certain freedoms. Like sleeping with Manfriend regularly... and stuff. However, I'm choosing to spin this to the positive for myself. It's true. I can pay for an apartment, I make enough money. But, I'll never get out of debt this way, I can't afford it. This way, with this new plan, I will pay enormous chunks of money every month and be out of debt in (let's all hope really hard) SIX MONTHS.


And you know what would make happiness so much easier for me? Not carrying around thousands in debt. In eight months, I can pay off my car, my credit cards, everything I owe to ANYONE.




FREEDOM.


Freedom, yeah, that could definitely make me happier.


So, it's a journey. And boy oh boy, I can't wait to NOT be one of those motherfuckers on facebook who's always all "I hate my job!, Is it five o'clock yet?!?!! OMG TGIF, long week!" Because, I mean, I'd like to someday value each day and not just the ones that I can get drunk on guilt-free. 


Another weekend rolls around! Cheers to rolling around! Wooohoooooo. Rave party. 




Wait, shit. There was something I wanted to do. 






OH YEAH, 


PICS!!!!!!!!


monday was the first lawn-mow of the season! admire my handy-work. 
only the strong survive. barry prevails. 
meet katherine. friend/roommate/miss fix-it. we had a fire in our backyard. in a birdbath.  spring brought the crazy, we're merely embracing it with open arms. 
stuff's growing in there!!!

we have a magnolia tree... i'm smitten. 




XO Sare.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

sorry, i'm vague.

I feel all queasy and throat-clenched and just sort of like a total ball of anxiety today. I could really do without it.

You see, last night I had a dream that I'm not quite sure how my subconscious could have possibly stewed up.

It's slipping through my fingers, dimming to me as I type this. I'm losing details of it. Parts took place in a lecture hall, but I've forgotten, lost who was lecturing and what about, already. I know there was partying in part of it and an actual infant in others. It made so much sense when I was having it, but now I can't manage to piece it together.

What I haven't forgotten about the dream is the cast. A motley group of people that would only ever fit together in a dream that I personally would have. They have no other connecting links.

The thing is, it wasn't necessarily a bad dream, just a terribly vivid one. Uncomfortable, the people in largely made up of individuals I've fallen out of touch with, or had to push out completely for my own survival. The toxics.

Even in my dream, I felt a sense of dread seeing these people, but like moth to light, I couldn't pull away from them. I always felt that way about them in real-life too. Pulled.

When taking a stroll down memory lane, it's often easier for me to recall the good times I've spent with people that are no longer in my life, to see the good before the bad. Even the most harmful relationships in my life are peppered with confusion because I ALWAYS seem to look back fondly.

I was mid-dream when my alarm went off this morning. Isn't that a strange feeling, those moments between awake and asleep when you're a little disoriented and confused about reality? I was torn between hitting the snooze to keep it going and jumping out of bed and forcing it gone. I got out of bed. I've reminisced and 'what if?"-ed enough.

So now I'm thinking about a team of absent players, characters from past versions of myself. Naturally, I've been pondering and mentally revisiting the place I was in my life when they were THE PERSON MOST IMPORTANT. Which they were, they all were the MOST important person to me at one point or another, the person I told my secrets, the person for who I'd always pick up with phone.


Mostly, I feel pretty damn good about where I am now, the people I've clung to, kept around. Fortified as my safety net.  But I also kind of miss them. A little.

I'm hoping for a Thursday night void of dreams.


XO Sara

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

staircases, yuck, and the pursuit of happiness.

**I apologize in advance for the gratuitous usage of the F word in this post. I'm a profane person. If this offends you, shut up.

So I've been reading up on happiness and shit a whole lot lately because I figure I should be proactive about it. You know, 'it' being the whole search for happiness, what does it all mean, we're sand in an hourglass mumbo jumbo.

I guess it's true that one simple thing, the concept of happy is everyone's ultimate goal. We strive because we see that something just over the horizon could make us even more content, even more right, even closer to the best possible selves we have dreamed up for ourselves in our wildest fantasies. There's always that pull toward growth, and often that pull to find happiness in the moment, too. But for a while, I lost sight of both.


Worry not, I've been slowly reclaiming myself from the yuck. The yuck being general bad vibes and discontent that make it damn near impossible to gain a true moment of happiness, let alone hold on to it.  An example of yuck would be spending more time on facebook than with actual living, breathing, humanoids. That's yuck, y'all. Sleeping because you simply don't feel like being awake? Also yuck.


Believe it or not, I've always thought/felt that I'm a pretty happy person. I laugh easily. I've got oodles of people to call and just chat, make plans, grab a quick bite with.  I pursue things that I like. I set goals.  I know myself, and I usually like myself. .


That was... until almost two years ago, July of 2009, when I got 'laid off' from my job after a year. Things got pretty dicey and rull yucky then, and if we're being honest, they've stayed awfully yucky ever since.
I've talked about it briefly before, but basically, this gig was my first 'adult' job. I got it right out of college,  I was making way more cash money than any of my friends, and I had freedom, NO EXPENSES, and the peace of mind that I was helping others. I loved my co-workers, bi-monthly pedicures, and steak dinners every night. I don't know, it felt cool, going from rationing my money between beer and PB&J to living expense-free with a salary among other real adults, it made me feel different, like finally all the work I'd ever done led me up to a payoff.


And then it was over, as fast as it had begun.


Don't get me wrong, I know things have been fucked the past two years for a mother lode of people. Times are tough,  I'm getting haircuts at Superclips these days, I know sacrifice. I know I'm not alone. I should be grateful that I'm not 15 years into a career and forced to apply for jobs for which I'm insanely overqualified. But a year of employment doesn't exactly make one 'qualified,' either, does it?

Luckily, I had a family that picked up my pieces, dusted me off, and listened to me ramble endlessly, in complete earnest,  about becoming a nomad for a year, really seeing America, carrying my harmonica everywhere, and jumping trains for transport. UM, pipe dream? But yeah, they didn't even laugh in my face, they at least waited until I left the room and laughed behind my back. Even my normally smotheringly critical mother patted my hand and looked wistfully into the distance instead of the usual skeptical grill-session involving a barrage of questioning and arched eyebrows. At first.


But still, that setback, knocked me back to start. I let it take all the wind from my sails and forget about momentum. Donzo.



The truth is, I never really loved my job that much, but I still felt this overwhelming loss.  I loved my co-workers, I loved the money, I loved feeling successful. I actually hated a lot of it, though. I smoked like a train. I was constantly moving around, so I felt lonely. I was young and female and often felt like I wasn't being taken seriously. I also didn't always feel like I was even good at my job.



I took the job because I wanted to have something lined up before I graduated and I was seduced by illusions of grandeur. I took it because I felt pressure from all directions that it was time to pick something, anything, and become a adult and this was the next step.

I've often felt that my whole life has revolved around a series of never-ending "next steps," a staircase that someone else created and planned for me. Without even consulting me. How RUDE.

Um. What? What the fuck? I just typed that. It's so true. It's what I'm trying to say. I feel like I've done everything all the voices around me told me I was supposed to do next. Am I really such a sheep that I didn't question any of it? It's not like I'm afraid to voice my opinion, the rest of my family knows and is very accustomed to this phenomenon every time a family dinner ends with me storming out after yet another astonishingly frustrating debate over political fundamentals erupts between my father and I over walleye and steamed asparagus.


So anyway, though I hated my job a lot of the time, I couldn't see never took the time to see how losing it could ever feel like a good thing, an escape, an opportunity. I had a next step to hit, goddamnit.
Instead, I've just been bitter and cynical and floating around angry ever since. Instead of making my own set of steps based on what will make me feel happy and content, I have effectively taken the stance "Fuck steps! I hate steps! I'll never lay eyes on another step as long as I live, and in the off chance that I do, I'll spit on the motherfucker!"


Anyway that kind of got off of the happiness topic, but I'm about to bring it fullllllllllll ciiiiiiiiiiiiiiicrle. Get amped.


I have been reading a TON of blogs lately where I feel like a lot of ladies have this underlying sense of, I don't know, discontent surrounding otherwise witty, charming, and yes, happy auras. Maybe we're all going through some sort of weird crisis, or just realizing that maybe we did everything we were told and expected to do, and not what made us happy. Or even perhaps more likely, we've been struggling to do what we think will make us happy, but as is often the case with the most rewarding labors of love, there is no clear path, or EVEN destination, just an idea, and flicker, a sideways half-frame that comes in a dream.

I feel happier. I feel like I've got things, now. I've got this blog, and manfriend, and running, and my friends, and a kickass house. But it's more than just things, it's momentum. It's building, I know it.

It's just so hard sometimes, you know? There can never be instructions to straight to Happinessland, because no one's views of it is exactly the same as anyone else. Sure, reading books on happiness trends and studies and research shows patterns and generalities, but it doesn't give step-by-step directions there. Maybe that's also the BEST part. We get to create our own, even if it's a rough road with lots of detours. Even if striving for happiness doesn't always bring the joy and release of paying off at every turn, for the first time I'm ready to build my own staircase instead of mourning the loss of one that was forced upon me.


Also, I've got a project, because it's time to make peace with steps, and maybe build a staircase of my own. (And also gain a firmer grasp of writing with metaphor, apparently.) One that doesn't involve office work, passive aggressive emailing, having a horrendous script when I answer the phone. I don't think it's selfish to have some deal-breakers.


Cheers to happiness!


XO Sara