Thursday, June 30, 2011

i play favorites and july is the best.

I don't know if you've noticed, but TOMORROW IS JULY.


That's totally what I look like when I'm jumping for joy, okay?

You know what happens in July? No? WELL LET ME INFORM YOU:

All kinds of wonderful amazingness crammed into thirty one days of melting Popsicles, canon-ball splashes, and copious hot dog consumption.

AND DID I MENTION 4th of July is my favorite holiday? Well it is. Fireworks? Um, yes please. Show me lovely fire sparks falling back down to the earth in cool patterns. Make me say ooooohh-aaaaaahhhhh- murrmurrmurrmurrrrrrrrr.


Hold me, it's too much to feel.

PLUS, almost smack-dab in the middle of this fuck-yeah-fest is MY BIRTHDAY.


For little old me?


And by "Nahhh" I mean I'd like this watch please:

Great, thanks.

And where will I be to mark my 25th year of falling apart and coming back together on this fair planet?

It's funny you should ask, because I actually just started firming up some plans this very morning.

My birthday weekend will begin with an end. As in, the dramatic conclusion of the Harry Potter series in cinematic drama. Yes, I'll probably cry. DON'T HASSLE ME, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL CRY IF I WANT TO. I'm honestly planning on going to the midnight screening with is more geek than I really thought I had in me, but if I'm going to do this thing up, I'm taking it all the way.

My brother Eric and I go see all the movies together when they come out, it's tradition. He's 18 now and nearly too old for his geriatric sister, so it will be nice to hang out with him before he's swept off to college to knock the shit out of other kids on the football field for four more years and maybe learn a little something about sports medicine. Not from experience, in the classroom.

Anyway, back to my birthday weekend.

I'M GOING TO CHICAGO! AND MANFRIEND IS COMING WITH ME. We've never been together. Yes, I find that a teeny bit odd, but it doesn't matter now because IT'S GOING DOWN.

I'll see Coll and Dev. And frolic. Lots of frolicking.

This trip is also falling on the full moon, just saying.

Anyway, I'm going to drag Manfriend all over Chicago for the weekend, carrying champagne with me the entire way. THE ENTIRE WAY. That step is pretty crucial. Luckily, I like strawberry Andre a lot, so it shouldn't be too pricey. But I can put that sweet nectar back like none-other, so we'll see.

Oh yeah, the best part?

ON MONDAY, we're dodging work and going to Wrigley Field to see the PHILLIES. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but Manfriend is probably the world's biggest Phillies fan. I don't think a day has gone back that I've NOT seen him adorned in something Phillies-related. I swear to god. He's obsessed. He loves them more than me, probably. We haven't gone to see them play together in two years, so this is going to be awesommmmmmme.

Anyway, this baseball thing has had a trickle-down effect on me over the years and so now I actually watch baseball sometimes for fun of my own free will.

I know. I know.

But seriously, WRIGLEY FIELD. Chicago. Harry Potter. Champagne. Best Friends. Lovers. Extreme heat. Hot dogs. BEER.


July, July, you never fail me.

XO Sare

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

triumphant return from the dredges of stress. thanks, part 5.

So, it's Wednesday. Which is Thank You day, but I've taken two weeks off at this point. I'm thinking it's kind of a 'Do it or desert it' kind of thing, so I'm going to do itttt.

Plus I've been kind of sad-sacky lately, aka convincing myself I'm more stressed out than I am and making things waaaaaaaay more complicated than they have to be. So, maybe gratitude and cheerful reflection are necessary elements at this point.

Ta da!:


You are my sister. I know, I know, we both already have sisters. And our sisters are wonderful and I love all of them, yours and mine. But, saying you are my friend doesn't quite do it justice for me, so you are my sister, the sister that I was fortunate enough to find and lucky enough to hold onto even though life likes to keep us apart for seemingly endless spans of time. Thanks for holding onto your end of the string, always. I've got a firm grasp on my end.

The thing that's interesting to me is that we haven't killed each other yet. Two summers on Drama Island can burn to a crisp even the most regaled friendships, but somehow, some way, we've managed to forge something stronger, never even knowing each other prior to that first ferry ride. It's amazing to think back to the first moments and days of our friendship, because at this point I honestly don't even associate it with the Island anymore. But we did meet there, in a sun (and booze) drenched haze- and per usual, we're always the last two standing.

It was drunk love at first night. We both have the tendency to get a little carried away, take it just a touch further than it needs to go. Or miles further than it should go. We always look out for each other, though, so it works out. But really, we've probably legitimately saved each others' lives. Yeahhhhhh, obligatory mention of my twenty-first birthday. We'd known each other what, a month? Two? You got me in that pizza delivery cart and made that dude haul my ass back home and gave a little "You're on my shit list and you're THE ONLY ONE ON IT" speech to that creepy kid that bought me all those shots when you walked away to grab me some pizza and tried to take me home. True friend. Thanks for that, God knows someone had to help me. We'll leave it at that.

We've got so many good times,  and they warm me in my coldest moments. I can conjure in an instant memories of morning horoscopes with Ms. Bigar,  Oberons outdoors, a bicycle built for two, traipsing around Chicago with Mere that sunny summer weekend, and making every cab ride THE MOST FUN cab ride ever. We've stayed (and not stayed) in swanky hotels, cried in movie theaters, celebrated many a Halloween together, and recovered from hangovers while lounging with books, looking out at lakes and pools.

You're funny. SO funny. Effortlessly, not in a way that requires putting on an act or slapstick shticks. Just offhand sarcastic comments that get me and little things like slapping hand sanitizer into your hair when waking up five minutes before a shift starts. How did we ever survive rushing around and running out the door in our dirty uniforms after falling into bed at dawn almost every morning for two summers? God, it was fun. Thanks for always making me laugh, and for always having a retort to drunk assholes.

I never really understood why people would always come up to us and ask if we were sisters, but it's probably our mannerisms more than our looks. We've both got attitude, an easygoing looks. I've always been jealous though,  you've got such great features. Irish-white perfect skin and naturally dark hair. Lucky biotch. The awkward "Nope, not sisters, HALF BIRTHDAY TWINS!" always come next. All part of our appeal.

We're the best. 

We've had strained moments, too, which I look at as the tests life throws out to see how strong things really are. I still remember how fucking PISSED you were at me that time when your parents were visiting and you were showing them our apartment and you opened the door to show them our tiny little box of a bedroom with two twin beds, all the furniture touching and barely enough closet space to hang a quarter of our clothes up- and there I was with my total deadbeat of a boyfriend, fresh out of the shower and just lying around naked...on top of each other. I'm chuckling right now, thinking of the look on your face. Have I mentioned how sorry I am for that lately? Thank G your parents were still at the bottom of the stairs. I can also recall a certain time that you showed up to your server shift to relieve me after *ahem* spending the afternoon at the winery. That was tense, but how could I really be mad? I was more jealous than anything. Thanks for quickly getting over the time I yelled at you in the kitchen. Yeah, I know you remember the one. Intense. The bossman finally showed up and we were fine again, but both crying on the porch steps out back.  I probably could have done without raising my voice, sorry about that... but seriously, bus your shit. It's all funny to me now, and fun-even the conflicts.

I'm so proud of you for making Chicago work. I wish with ever fiber of my body that I could have.  And for chugging through a shitty hand of health cards like a champ- I know that wreck havoc on your spirit. And for being discerning with gentleman callers. Thanks so much Coll, for never leaving me hanging, or leaving me alone to find my own way home at the end of a debaucherous night out to go hook up with some random. We just don't do that to each other. 

Unspoken code. 

The world can be a tough place for us half-reformed party girls, and I'm so grateful to have you to reminisce with over the recklessness. The nights that carried over until morning, the trying to have a nice dinner out and ending up running into an old friend that led to shots that led to.... the usual. But also, occasional nights in to watch movies and just chill. We're starting to get that now, you know? 

Plus those hangovers get harder with age. 

We're more alike than I am with most of my other friends. I always feel at home, thanks. No matter how long it's been, we will catch up quick. It just works. It's great to have a friend that's just always in it to chill out. Not make a plan. Know it'll all work out. 

I'll maybe never be able to express my gratitude to you for being my friend, half-birthday twin, my honorary sister. But I am SO very grateful. You've got a piece of my heart I never want back. Keep it, I know it's in good hands. Thanks.

As you said, it's not summer until we drink an Oberon together or both of us are covered in hives. Welp, we've got the latter covered. It's summer and I miss you.

Yeah, we look good from behind.
 Love you. 

XO Sara

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

decision 2011: to bang or not to bang?

I need a haircut.

I really need a haircut. I haven't even had so much as a trim since I quickly slid into Great Clips at the very beginning of February as the ICE STORM 2011 was looming in. It was a rush job. And also terrible.  

And Great Clips doesn't count because despite times being tough everything,  that shit was disastrous.

I've been contemplating this necessary cutting of hairs the way that I always do, which means fantasizing about hair colors and cuts that are obviously ALL wrong for me.

For instance, once time I brought to the salon with me a photo similar to this one:

What was I thinking? I'm clearly on Team Angelina.

And then I proceeded to tell the *student* stylist to make my hair that color.  Do they have stylists that create genuine art out of hair like this in the 'burbs of Indianapolis? No. They don't. They have two basic color options- one color hair and striped hair. And highlights are only ever "caramel." What the fuck color of hair is that?

No, my hair didn't resemble Jen's at the conclusion of my four-hour long appointment in which the young lady coloring my hair took not one, but THREE cigarette breaks during the course of the ordeal. Aye- yaye- yaye. I was undeniably BLONDE when I left. Platinum. It was New Years Eve. I looked like a fool. A pasty, washed-out fool in stilettos and a slutty dress in ten degree weather. My friends and I had a room at the Marriott downtown. Downtown INDIANAPOLIS. Lots of shit to get into here, trust me.


Or, a couple of winters ago while living getting drunk for five months in Chicago, I actually box dyed my tresses in a fit of "I need a change GODDAMNIT and I NEED ONE NOW." The poor things.


I mean, it was technically dark brown, but my hair appeared strangely black to myself and anyone that knew me. Needless to say, it did not turn out true to the hue on the box.  I was going for this look:



In high school I had hair that would have covered my boobs, had I actually had any at the time, and one day I went to the salon and convinced the woman cutting my hair that I'd totally love a shaggy bob that grazed my chin. It took some convincing, but I promised her that my mother wouldn't be mad and that I'd totally love it.

Um, I didn't. I really, really, didn't.  Plus my mom was pissed.

Not a good look for even this woman, let alone my 14 year-old self.

And let's not even get started on 'wispy' bangs, circa 1999. Middle school, Devin Sawa pics in the locker and curling iron-burned forehead.


So now, I'm doing this thing where I fantasize about getting bangs. Because, you know, things are going pretty well with my hair right now. It's grown out. I haven't dyed it in a year and a half. I'm pretty happy with it.

SO LET'S SHAKE EVERYTHING UP?!?!?!??!!!!11111111111111zoomg.

Woah, easy.

Not like, shake it up toooooooo too much, but shit, if the hipsters can pull off bangs, why can't I?

I really really want to go for it. Forget about the fact that I compulsively shove my hair behind my ears so it won't fall into my face and also the fact that I can't run in a head band because those suckers always slide right out.

I'm actually considering this.

Because as soon as things start getting on the right track, I just have to go and screw it up. It's basically true of every aspect of my life. But before you judge, take a gander at this:


Okay. I get it. I don't really look like this girl that much. BUT THIS IS ABOUT HER HAIR AND NOT HER CLEAV AND PERFECT COMPLEXION AND IMMACULATE FEATURES. The hair, that's doable, I'm AT LEAST 60 percent sure.

I've come to the conclusion that:


Pics to follow.


XO Sara

Sunday, June 26, 2011

debbie downer's got nothing on me

Tomorrow is Monday. 

Which means I'll be forced back to the grind. Which means an abrupt halt to blowing off my responsibilities and pretending like I don't have a real life with real problems.

God, I'm dreading it. 

Conversely, though, I'm craving it. 

I think I may have learned something this week. 

It's simple, but it's taken me so long to acknowledge.

None of those problems or responsibilities go away just because I do. 

So, it's really, finally, time to do something about it 

I've given myself a month to find a new job. And I'll do anything. Probably, almost. What I mean is that I can genuinely see myself getting more satisfaction out of digging ditches than what I'm doing now. I just HATE it. As I type this and the time grows smaller to the moment I will have to force myself back inside those glass doors, up that dim stairwell, and across the floor to my dingy cubicle, my stomach is tightening and churning with dread. 

I hope this is my breaking point.

What the fuck am I so afraid of? 

Everything, I guess. Sometimes I feel like I'm afraid of everything, which is not the mood I was going for upon my transition from vacation life back to real life. I don't feel relaxed, rested, at peace in any sense.

Home, the lake, was home. The lake. It was a right place to be. 

But I'm not right. I'm all wrong. Everything about me right now is all wrong.

And that was the way I felt all week, despite being in my favorite place on earth- An underlining sense of unease. 

There's just so much to sort through rolling around in my mind. 

I  turn 25 in three weeks. 

ugh ugh ugh ugh gahhhhhhh. 


Thursday, June 16, 2011

going home

I've been so busy chugging crazy juice, composing Negative Nancy posts, and having meltdowns about my life this week that I'd kind of lost sight of what happens tomorrow.


Vacation happens TOMORROW. Where will I be traversing for the next ten or so days? Well it's funny you should ask. I'm actually going home. No, this isn't one of those forced "Staycation" dealios where I just marinate in a combination of synthetic air, couch lines on my skin, and six hours a day of whatever Bravo has to offer me because I'm too poor to leave the house. I'm actually heading North to where I spent every summer as a child, Torch Lake.

makes all other lakes look like mud puddles. sorry other lakes.

Since in my impressionable years, my family spent their time moving around like a band of gypsies, this sunny spot provided a constant. Summer = lake = safety= home? Maybe. Yes.  In fact, as a young girl I would sometimes ask to be excused from class to go to the bathroom and whilst sitting on the loo, I'd close my eyes and pretend like I was actually at our cottage, quickly running in the house to the bathroom,  and when I was done I'd just run back out to the dock and straight off the end until I hit water. I was an overly imaginative child.

So, tomorrow I head back up and I couldn't be happier. It's been a few years and maybe something mystical and magical and life-changing will become clear and I'll all of the sudden know what to do with my life. Or maybe I'll just read a shit-ton of books, catch some sunburn on my shoulders and the tip of my nose, kayak every morning, run some hills, and constantly be stocked with a cocktail during every waking hour. That sounds good enough.

I'll spend tomorrow night in Ann Arbor, picking up my Nan. Saturday morning we will reach the lake and I'll probably lose my breath, feel my heart drop out of my chest, and get all emotional when I catch sight of the brilliant blue.

If that's not home, then I don't know what is.

Cheers to your home, wherever it may be.

XO Sara

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

my honest thoughts on being skinny

I've got a confession: I still buy and read Glamour if I feel any affinity to the lady on the cover when passing by in the grocery check-out line. I don't know any other woman in my life that still buys any magazines like it. Whatever. I love the pictures and the colors and its glossy play on a pretty life, what life could look like. If I was richer, skinnier, and had a smaller nose.

While I wish I'd turn to Time, or even Newsweek, the truth is that in my precious moments of alone time, I usually don't. Which is fine because although it's true that the media shapes how we feel about ourselves and what we think we should look like from our earliest pony-tailed, sticky-fingered memories, it's also kind of tells me "Fuck YEAH, you are powerful. This is right within your reach." And sometimes, feeling powerful and seeing the world as a place brimming with beauty is What. I. Need.

But the magazine thing is kind of problematic too, because, you see, I have a degree in women's studies. I am supposed to be a better feminist. I'm supposed to be leading the next women's movement into battle for reproductive rights, dealing a shattering blow to that ever-present glass ceiling, showing young girls that we can and SHOULD give those glossy beauty magazines the middle finger and CREATE a beautiful that is realistic and more importantly, truly who we are and what makes each of us feel beautiful. INDIVIDUALLY. No more boxes and unfair compartmentalizations 

Which I do make a conscious effort to do, most of the time.

And not to toot my own horn, but I'm kind of a babe, anyway. A curvy one, with brains, an unexplainable driving force toward politics and making the world less hateable and hate-filled, and a sometimes overbearing snark level. Usually,  I get quite a kick out of myself.

But truth is that even the days when I feel most powerful and smart and able revolve around when I also feel like I look the part. And the part is flawless, and skinny.  Neither of which is realistically attainable for my body. Which never made me feel less beautiful before, well, now.

What's happened here? I am five foot nine inches tall. I wear a size eight. Sooooooometimes, on a reaaaaalllllllly skinny day, I'll slide into those size sixes and strut the SHIT out of it. Safely, size eight. I've been known to delve into double digits, too. You know, when need be. Winter blues and the like.

I am also easily the heaviest, tallest, BIGGEST person in my core group of girlfriends. And as much as I hate to admit it, it's REALLY been fucking with my self-image lately. You see, because there's nothing like a slim size-two putting herself down and making self-loathing comments about every pictures of herself, when you yourself are six sizes larger. 

You begin to wonder, "Does that mean that I'm fat?"

'No darling, you're lovely, look at that hair today, and your ass, work itttt!',  would be the healthy response. But lately, I've got nothing but negative for myself. 

I was the kid who spent more time in a revolving door-spin of doctors and 'tests' than middle school dances, as a result of not being able to put on any weight despite eating everything in sight, I know that skinny isn't something we always get to choose. But it is what we are told is ideal, healthy, even when it's not, so being stuck as a stick will probably get you fewer judgy stank-eyes than being stuck being heavy. That said, I know that side of the spectrum, and I'm not ragging on svelte ladies or voluptuous ladies or anyone in between. I'm ragging on bad feelings at EVERY size. And how I hardly ever meet another woman who feels "Just right" about their weight. Not that I'm taking a survey.

Now that I'm older, things have thankfully worked themselves out in the health and weight department,  and I'm curvy. I've got boobs and an ass. And although what we see may never tell us this, boobs and ass equal not being stick thin unless you're a freak of nature, are willing to alter yourself, or have just hit puberty. Which would be fine,  if all we're ever shown as perfect wasn't unattainable for most of us.

Up until now, I've always been the indulgent, completely fine with my body, confident girl that doesn't own a scale, dresses for myself, and gives a chagrined chuckle when someone snaps a picture that captures me with multiple chins. Because I've always known and just accepted that this is what I'm working with. That I'm more than a bad picture, or my thighs in that skirt, or those two extra pads of butter I throw on my mashed potatoes- and that I like the woman I am and the appearance of that person that is reflected outward, for the world to see.

Except lately, doubt has been creeping in, and I've grown paranoid, and critical.

Recently a friend of mine posted a picture of me on Fbook, which I looked at and actually cringed. My first thought was hand-to-Christ, "Ohmygod, is she mad at me?" My disappointment at the way I looked in that single picture has managed to tarnish my entire memory of the incredible amount of fun I had that night with my girlfriends.

Because I thought I looked fat. And because around them,  I already feel fat. Why am I so  negative? Where's that obnoxious self-confidence now?

I later mentioned it to her jokingly, something along the lines of, "You're a total dick for posting that picture.... etc." And you know what she said?

"REALLY? I love that picture of you! It was like I captured the entire night. You're laughing and sitting on the porch and just so relaxed, pretty."

So I looked back on that picture, searching for something I've somehow missed. And I still hate it. *&#*(*#$&(#$fuckinghateit.  And I can't for the life of me get the feeling from that night, at the moment of the snapshot, back.

 Man, this is bullshit.

I thought I'd made it safely and relatively unscathed past the point of constant self-scrutiny and self-hatred. But apparently, I've never been more wrong. Midtwenties angst or something has got a hold on me.

I used to trust that my body would just inherently know, send messages to my brain when I was tired or not eating right, or getting too heavy. I trusted this fact above everything, held it higher than those glossy photographs could ever hope to reach. In return, I've never said no to a dessert I wanted, been tempted to throw up anything I consciously put into my body, or weighed myself only to feel my stomach drop below the scale instantaneously. Instead, I've rocked high heels despite my already-ample height, wandered bikini-clad for miles down a busy beach-scape, and cheesed it for pictures without considering the chance of a double chin.

So why do I suddenly feel so fat?

I know that my body needs exercise and healthy foods instead of greasy breakfast croissants and sunscreen instead of nicotine. I'm happy to have discovered these facts and I'm happy to comply. Shouldn't I be just as apt to embrace my juicy curves and trade in my size-two aspirations?

So, I'm making a pledge. To myself. 

To stop seeing 'realistic' as a dirty word and a challenge. So stop being romanced by bright colors and glossy covers that will ultimately only leave me wanting. To listen to those who love me that tell me I look GREAT. To not lose an entire evening of perfect harmony with a group of people who surround and protect my heart because of one measly picture.  

I promise, self, that I'm going to stop trying to channel celeb bodies, even you Kim K!, when I'm sludging through my workouts, daily grind, and big nights out. Instead, I will start channeling myself again. 

The self that licks the brownie batter bowl and eats bell peppers sun-warmed right off the plant, and grins instead of smirks in those obligatory girl-group photos. 

Fat? Skinny!? 

What bullshit, nonsense, vague constructs. I'd rather be a warrior than a waif, any day. 

Xo Sara

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

stress, man.

I've got stress out the yin-yang right now.

Last night in a move rather unorthodox for me, I ran without a watch or ipod. Mostly because I arrived at the park and realized I had failed to bring EITHER of these important items. Smooth. I was pissed.

Anyway, I decided to tough it out because I've been seriously busy and haven't gotten the number of runs in lately that I'd like to. It's annoying. I'm cranky.  I'm a moody ball of emotions when I don't run. It's pathetic.

Anyway, I'm run, run, running and whatnot and it really does kind of suck because I'm apparently a creature of gadgets and I didn't have my gear. But whatever, I'm doing it and I'm fucking HITTING that pavement. I passed kids on rollerblades. Probably like 9 year olds, but still. ROLLERBLADES. It's like that POWERTHIRST video. I had ENERGY LEGS.

It's kind of amazing slash alarming where I will take things with myself when I don't have the ample distraction of Jay-Z spitting street lyrics straight into my conscious mind.

To say that I'm stressed is quite frankly the fucking understatement of the millenium. I feel overextended. I'm carrying around a giant and growing heap of frustration and general pissed-offedness about my current living situation.  I don't know how to surge forward or even the next step toward some of my main goals. I'm scared, just so terrified that I'm not physcially going to have enough hours in the day to truly honor my commitments to the very best of my abilities. I'm an asshole, which isn't helping matters. And two of my oldest and best friends are moving to South Korea aka Good Korea, and Arizona. In the next two weeks.

While I was running last night in the dusk air and light, it was almost okay. Dusk in Summer is the shit which is pretty much self explanatory, but in case it's not: DUSK- AWESOME. SUMMER- THE GREATEST. Together - THE ULTIMATE STATE OF BEING. So I'm running, and there it is. All of that worry and stress, just there for me to process and work through and not ignore because I don't have MUSIC. It got real.  It was like a stream flowing behind my legs as they hit the pavement, I was untangling it as I ran, holding the ball up around my chest, watching it shrink as my mind sorted it. All of the sudden it was like my problems were completely managable and solvable again.

But then, of course,  I had to stop running at some point. Resume suckidy suck time. Get gas. Clean out my car. Organize my clothes. Follow up on emails. Take a shower. Tedious bullshit that can't be ignored, but alone isn't worth mentioning. Pick up the now-untangled strand of worry and wad it back up so I don't forget anything or leave it lying around for someone to trip on.

Sitting here, confined to my cubicle, it's tangled again. A knotted wad of everything I'm worried about, all that STUFF I've got to do. And the bastard is GROWING.

I keep telling myself that Friday, FRIDAY I leave for vacation. I wish I was looking forward to it the way I should be.  Instead I'm fretting about the fact that there may not be enough hours between now and then to untangle and work through that ever-growing, tangled-up ball of stress. 

XO Sara

Thursday, June 9, 2011

well, that wasn't very smart

As I've mentioned, I became afflicted with a soul-crushing case of food poisoning this past weekend. As did Manfriend and my mother. Since my parents had three different restaurants cater in food for my brother's graduation party this weekend, it's hard to determine which culinary genius is at fault.

Obviously, I blame my brother. Had he never been born, he'd never have graduated from high school and warranted a grad party that required the services of two more restaurants than my own 2004 soiree. Although, he is a football player, so his army of numskull friends throw back a lot more food than mine probably did.

I also blame him for what's happened thus far this afternoon.

As is common procedure for birthdays in my department at the office, the honoree chooses a place we all order food from and one person fetches it for the rest of the flock. Pretty standard.

Today, the birthday woman, who is otherwise my favorite co-worker, picked a shitty restaurant that I hate, but everyone else seems over the moon for.

Being that I just took on a full-time unpaid campaign job in addition to this joke of a vocation and I had a four hour long training last night for my other volunteer group- I have a shit ton of email to pretend to read and today was also the last day of the week I can get my allergy shot. Plus I just started a new book and I was going to try to squeeze in a couple of pages.

I. Had. Shit. To. Do.

Please don't think I'm complaining either, I crave this flurry of activity and the earned exhaustion of being fully engaged in every ever loving thing I cram into my waking days.

But seriously, every lunch we have together, it's the same stories about one co-worker's family and the same collective awkward of watching each other eat because we don't have anything new to say.

But, I like this broad, so I suck it up and kiss my congestion-free weekend goodbye.

And you know what I ordered on my still-delicate empty stomach?

A fucking greasy-ass burger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake. My regular.

Arguably the worst decision I've ever made. I've been eating healthier for the past several months- Like, where I once would have consumed the entirety of this meal with ease and regularity, I honestly can't remember the last time I hit up fast food.

I've been cowering in my cubicle since the meal wrapped up. I feel like I have food-poisoning again. And just.... blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And a sloth. A SLOTH.

Me right now. Only not smiley because I feel literally within inches of death.

Maybe it was too soon after the illness or maybe my body hates grease now, I don't really know whats going on in there. But it's really not good. Grease and I are taking a serious break.

XO Sare

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

thanks, part 4.

Hey Guys, another week of thank youuuuus. Who knew I could keep this going for four weeks? Not me. Sorry it's so long, just know I'm making a conscious effort to cut down my post-lengths. What can I say, though? I've got a big mouth.
As always, thanks for reading!

XO Sare

Hi, Stranger.

So, I know we're not speaking. Since the falling out; that argument via text about you being shady and unreliable and me being morally bankrupt. But I'll allow this thank-you note to slide in and I don't see it as me giving in first. If you do, that's fine. We tend to disagree these days anyway.

I don't know if you know this, but you were my first crush in a new town. The end of eighth grade, track practice- I'm cast as the new kid, yet again. You were tall and quiet with a weird name. I was desperate to make friends that didn't participate in the make-yourself-pass-out game in the bathroom during lunch. Anyway, we never spoke, you and I. But I knew who you were and I'm just glad you were there, thanks for being a distraction from the garbage I was wading in.

In high school we had German together every. single. semester. And usually another class too. And cross country practice. And track practice. I thankfully made brighter, better girl friends. We saw each other, interacted every single day. You were always so cranky during wrestling season, even if you weren't cutting weight. Now that I think about it, that may have just been the winter blues. They get the best of us. You always took the longest to take tests and quizzes- checking and rechecking, still hunkered over that too-small desk when the bell rang. I can't remember exactly when, but at one point we became actual, legitimate friends. You were so weird, your family life and religion-centered upbringing- when all along I thought Catholic guilt was bad. I'm so glad I knew you then, thanks for being the first real male friend I ever had.

I remember having a vague crush on you throughout high school, but nothing heartbreaking, I had a crush on just about everyone. I think I more liked you as a person, the strong, stoic, soft spoken type. Anyway, you never dated. I was boy crazy. I've always been a little boy crazy.

And then the summer after high school. That summer the four of us hung out every single night. That's not an exaggeration, every night. You three guys and me. Sometimes we'd throw in a few more faces, one girl we were all friends with or another, but it was always the four of us. D left for college first. M worked nights. School started late for me, almost October. You were getting ready to go on your mission. Thanks for that summer. Thank all three of you for that summer. It was sticky and full of fishing and country music and driving around aimlessly. All that time and heat to kill, but nowhere to go. 

You're a DAD now. And a step dad. Or maybe you adopted her son. I wouldn't know.  I never saw you as the type to get married young or to have children. You were never nurturing, I can't picture you as a father-figure. I mean, engaged after how many months of knowing her? Five? I find it ridiculous and I'm sorry for that. I've seen you as many things, but never a nurturer. Remember how you used to eat locusts after cross country practice when people would pool together enough money to make the bet worth your while? I wonder what you spent your winnings on.

Anyway, I can't help feeling like I lost you to that mission somehow. Two years in Brazil. I was busy partying and finding my passion for the world and you were learning Portuguese and bringing God to the people. You did come to visit once before you shipped out, though. The three guys, my three amigos. It wasn't your scene, but still, thanks for coming. I'm sorry if I'd changed or something. It was never something I could feel tangibly, but it must have seemed stark.

I can't remember exactly when, but at some point during that summer we all hung out every day I stopped seeing you as someone I had a crush on, and started seeing you as just my friend. Not that I didn't like you as a person anymore, I guess I just felt you were bigger than that. You were my friend. Friendships don't usually end suddenly in a break-up. Maybe I subconsciously wanted to remove the risk of losing you. I don't know.

Anyway, you were gone before long. Brazil. I wrote you letters. You wrote me letters. The entire two years. I'd never have guessed you'd have written me consistently for two years. I mean, I've seen how slow you write. How you agonize over every sweep of the pencil. (always pencil) German, remember? Sometimes I just want to remind you that people write in pencil so they don't HAVE to be as careful. Pencil can be erased.

I always write in pen. But you got my letters, you know that.

Anyway, thanks for being my friend then. Really, being my friend. you sent me birthday cards when I had no idea you even knew when my birthday was. You told me how you felt in small ways for the first time since I'd known you. We were friends. I tried to send you a stick of gum once, that letter got sent back with a nice little note from the church.

I was pissed.

Thanks for those two years of easing me into losing you. I mean, we had letters, but really, they can only go so far. Especially when you came back the way you did. I always knew you were close-minded, and I'm grateful in a sense that I got to experience a true friendship with someone whose views differ so greatly from my own, but when you got back it was a different kind of intolerance, you seemed angry.

I can't decide if I blame whoever brainwashed you or just YOU for changing so much. Where you used to be shy and almost gentle, you became rash and completely fanatical. It was probably bad timing, too. I mean, there I was going through a personal ideological revolution of sorts and it just came to a head.

One of the last times I saw you was at your engagement party. It was a weird night. M and I were the only friends from high school you invited there. And we weren't even invited to the wedding. What happened to you? It was so weird to hear someone call you Baby. I never pegged you as a pet-name guy. But then again, I guess you married your first girlfriend. I probably wouldn't have liked her anyway, but it was icing on the cake to see her act whiny and fake the entire time we were there.

Then you and your wife were at A's wedding. What a horrid night in general. I mean, the wedding was lovely, but the table vibes were enough to send me to the open bar and mingle with strangers instead of catching up with three of my best friends. Your wife was pregnant with your first child that night, I remember thinking it completely ludicrous. It was the first time in years the four of us were together, sitting at the same purple-clad table. Dressed up older than I felt. I got drunk, you and your pregnant spouse left early.

The next thing I remember in regard to you isn't your daughter's birth, although it should be. I was ready to be the eccentric old friend that buys cashmere sweaters that are completely impractical for a rapidly growing infant.  It wasn't to be, eh?

I guess my heart could have put it to rest if you married a woman you were madly in love with that had a jealous streak and didn't trust your old fishing buddy who happened to be a girl. That wouldn't be too much to handle. But I just remember the bubbling rage that started in the pit of my stomach and quickly boiled up my insides and out of my mouth. Me, screaming alone in my car. Attacked for the way I think. The way I patched together a world for myself through reading and seeing and doing everything I can get my hands on around me with wonder and excitement and open eyes.

Now, I know everyone doesn't see the world the same way. It's a truly remarkable phenomenon and it lends us something completely invaluable, perspective.

But I've never had my character or personal being attacked the way that you did that day, so easily. I guess I'm grateful that I've learned from that my ability to stand by myself, unshakable for what I believe is right. Thanks for the test, I passed. Maybe I'm not religious, but my way of thinking doesn't have me attacking other's for having different ideals than I do, either.

And thanks for making it so easy to walk away. I know you started pacing the other way as soon as I did, as if preparing for a standoff. Only there will be no standoff, because other than one last thank you, my honest gratitude to you for showing me that I'm growing and will continue to do so and thrive, I'll never turn back around.

You may have the Mormon God on your side, but I've got the golden rule. 

I'll always wish the best for you and yours, and I'm eternally grateful to have once called you my friend.

XO Sara

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

c'mon doorman, be a sport

I'm now on day two slash three of leading a fully semi-functioning life sans cell phone or any sort of food product.

Not by choice.

And to be honest, I really hope we can call an end to both of these deprivations today because I'm getting a little shaky with hunger. And also, I haven't been in touch with virtually anyone. I FEEL SO DISCONNECTED.

But I guess it could be good in the long-run because I will be marginally thinner and look socially discerning as a result, or something. Neither of which I can honestly say have ever even registered a blip on my worry radar.

Blah, I'm hungry.

The short of it is that I got food poisoning and also I'm generally careless and left my cell phone on the eleventh floor of a building downtown that requires keycard access to the elevators. Assholes.

So, now that I'm able to scrape myself out of a horizontal position without bile spewing itself out of my body in one way or another, I'm going to mosey on downtown after work, slap on some lipstick, and hope that my still-pallid complexion makes the doorman pity me enough to buzz me up to my phone.

Wish me luck.

XO Sara