Wednesday, July 27, 2011

sorry about the window.

So, I've got some news on the couch front!

...Which we'll go into tomorrow because today is for TODAY THINGS. Today, let me give you a little glimpse of what it is like to live in my world of mortification and awkward moments.

On Saturday, my friend Mel drove into town so that myself and another of her bridesmaids, Hannah, could pinpoint and execute the whole purchasing of the bridesmaids dress portion of the wedding. 

Originally, we were all going to take a swatch and go crazy in our own favorite shops and boutiques so our dresses would reflect our own personal style and preference. Cute, I know. However, do you know how difficult it is to find a pewter-hued dress in the middle of summer? Nearly fucking impossible. This was the second attempt at this mission for that very reason.

David's Bridal it is!

Hannah and I stroll into the store with Mel in tow and the place is teeming with people. So naturally, I grab one of every dress and make for the dressing rooms, in attack mode. We snag rooms next to each other and start throwing on dresses left and right. out of pure fate Hannah and I select the same dress and BOOM we learn that Mel's sister is also wearing that dress. OMG NOW WE ALL MATCH, PSHAWWW.

 Hannah buys a size down from her normal size and I buy a size up, even though in some strange turn of events, I tried on a size down and it fit. David's Bridal, I think I love you. Anyway, let's face it, this is a winter wedding and that's when I pack on the excess lbs, no matter how hard I'll to try to the contrary. In fact, we're talking the dreaded danger zone- the time between Thanksgiving feasting and Christmas feasting = nonstop cookies and feasting.

TA DA.... Squats forever until December!

Yeah, I really played that one well.

Anyway, we buy our dresses and scamper off to the mall to look at shoes, jewelry, etc. Lots of looking and no finding. Worst game of hide-and-seek ever. EVER.

Anyway, we're driving back to Hannah's after the mall/much needed cocktail break and we hop into Mel's car and IT IS HOT. Devil producing baby devil spawn HOT. HEAT OF A THOUSAND SUNS HOT... okay just one sun, but seriously, hot. So I roll down my window.

Harmless move, really. Just rolling down the window for some air that hasn't been trapped in a stationery heat-box for four hours while we trolled the mall.

Really bad move.

The instant I roll down my window, only about six inches, Mel whips her head in my direction, completely panic stricken, and yells "Roll that up RIGHT NOW."

Melissa doesn't panic or get upset. She calls everyone 'Punkin,' uses excessive <3's, and can make even the most tense conversations feel light and breezy.

This was panic. AND I should have known better, I'd been cautioned months ago when I drove out to visit her and rested my hand a little too close to the window control button. Uh durrrrrrr...I forgot?

So I immediately try to roll up the window. To no avail, of course. I can hear the motor working as I press the button, but the window isn't fucking moving. So naturally I try to push it up as I press the button. Again, nothing. Damn you feeble arms! Maybe I'm not trying hard enough.  I get out of the car, straddle the door, and force the window up with all of my strength.

Finally, it goes up and stays. We all give tense half-laugh of relief.

"The driver's side cost us $500 dollars to fix, so that would have been awful. Plus with the wedding and me needing a new laptop... That just would have been really bad."

Tee hee hee. Fuck. Me. I'm sweaty, my feet hurt, and I just broke something expensive that isn't mine.

After a couple of minutes the frightening window debacle is mostly forgotten and "Say My Name" comes on the radio. Oh, hello eighth grade, I've missed you. Not really, but our rendition was truly moving. And all remnants of panic and awkward are forgotten.

Say my name, SAY MY NAME! If no one is around you, say 'Baby I love you!"

Goddamn it. I look over and the window has slipped almost an inch. I don't think anyone else has noticed, so I try to shield view of it with my body and start dancing really erratically. Destiny's Child goes off and I'm now the only one dancing to some random rap song, which actually makes erratic dancing pretty natural. So far, no more slippage and we're almost back to Hannah's, where I can pull the hands-on-either-side-of-the-window bit and force it up again. This time, with more UMPH so it won't fall back down.

And then everything starts moving in slow motion. We're rounding LITERALLY the final curve before Hannah's apartment. I'm dancing with the window behind me, hoping the girls haven't noticed. We're cheers-ing our rings together like Captain Planet. I'm thisclose to cocktail hour. Smiles all around.

All of the sudden there's a huge crashing sound and I look behind me, and there is no longer a window. It has fallen COMPLETELY into the door. All of it. Bye bye window.

Obviously I start hysterically laughing because that's what I do when I don't know what else to do.

SIDENOTE: I just spilled an entire unsipped cup of coffee all over my person and my cubicle. ENTIRE CUP. Everything is sticky. My life, a comedy of errors.

Back on track, I look over a Mel, and thank the heavens, she's CRACKING UP. Turns out we both panic laugh.

The bad thing is that her fiance, Adam, (Who consequently hosted my very first college party on my very first night in the dorms) is somewhere in the mountains of New York doing fieldwork for his PHD program all summer and she doesn't have a man around to help her. He'll be back in 18 days.

I know that's pretty sexist, but I'm not trying to fix a car window, are you?

Mel was pretty cool about it, despite the fact that I've ruined her dreams of a new laptop and possibly her wedding, which means probably her whole life.  We had the wind in our hair on the way back to my house.

The next day was the first time it rained in over a month.

Insult to injury? Sorry Mel.

Awkwardly yours,

XO Sare

Monday, July 25, 2011

squishy couch dreams.

After work on Friday I convinced my friend Erin that instead of our usual post-work-weekend-drink-scurry-for-bourbon we should first check out an antique store between our two houses.

We both live with our boyfriends at this point, and apparently nesting is NOT the typical reaction.

However, nesting is exactly what hit me like a ton of bricks about Tuesday of last week when we got back into town after living hard and fast for the weekend and home wasn't an immaculately cleaned house with a full fridge and a maid to do my laundry. Nope, my little 1.5 month stay-over at my parent's home was certainly cushy, but home now looks slightly less cushy.

So, since just thinking about painting walls colors that I actually like just to paint them white again in nine months sounds like a whole lot of wasted effort, I've been going decor crazy in other ways. Like, all day, errrrrday.

In other words, I'm trying to spruce shit up.

I'd say it's going pretty well. If I'm feeling techy I'll upload some pics of my masterful work at some point, but let's bring this full circle, shall we? 

Erin and I are dicking around in my favorite antique store, it's got booths partitioned off like many do, and each vendor is trying to sell a mix of vintage and junk. Plus for every thirty days something sits in the store, it goes down in price ten percent until it's half off. I get my fix, junk gets cheap, new junk comes in all the time. Perfect. 

Erin's kind of cruising through because she's more into the idea of drinks after antiquing, since I kind of had to entice her with them in order for her to allow me to drag her along. So we're making better time through there than I probably ever have before because usually I'm OCD and I HAVE to see every item and go in EVERY booth because heaven FORBID I miss a tiny treasure and then all of the sudden, There. It. Is.

My dream couch.

I spot this couch and I cannot make myself look away. It's like there is a magnet in my ass and the couch is metal and by god the next thing I know I'm standing over it. And then I'm sitting in it. I can easily say this is the favorite couch I have ever seen or had the pleasure of sitting on in my life. I could decorate an entire room home LIFE around this sitting device. It's that perfect. Antique. Oak framework. Flawless upholstery. And then I looked down at the price tag and it was about $300 less than I was expecting to see and I started rationalizing to myself why I needed it. Which is almost always disastrous.

I normally don't get emotional over furniture, but I swear to god I felt physically ill walking out of the store without that couch. It's really not a couch you can have with a giant dogcreature milling around and drooling all over everything and accidentally clawing onto it with her giant paws. Like, at all.

So thanks to Hally the English Mastiff, the part of my heart reserved for home furnishings is officially crushed.

I thought that would be it. The couch would never be mine and I would eventually learn to move on, just like when you get dumped out of the blue and you're still in love with the other person but they are clearly indifferent to your existence. It was like the couch took one look at me and my giant dog and lack of hardwood floors and was like, "Move along, you're wasting both of our time and some other customers just walked in, so shooooo." Plus Erin was doing that shift from one foot to the other thing and shaking the ice in her empty big gulp NOT GETTING THE APPEAL OF THE COUCH and I suddenly felt really thirsty for some Jim Beam.

And then I dreamed about that goddamn asshole of a beautiful couch on Friday AND Saturday night. And all weekend, I gushed to anyone that would lend me an ear about the couch. I'd arrange and rearrange existing furniture in my mind so that I could maneuver the couch into my bedroom, safe from giant dogcreatures. Hell, for all I care, the couch can BECOME MY BED. Manfriend is getting RULL tired of hearing about this goddamn couch.

On Sunday I'm lazing around my parents' house, talking to my mom about what else but THE COUCH, and I decide she needs to come with me to visit it. After all, she's the reason I'm antique-obsessed, this is the burden she is doomed to bear- taking her 25 year old daughter to musty antique shops to visit furniture they can't really afford or reasonably find a place for in their own homes.

This is my life.

So I walk in shakily, almost too afraid to hope to see the damn thing again, my mother trailing close behind,  and it's STILL THERE. Ready for purchase. And my own mother agrees that this is a badass couch and it's a crime that it's just sitting there. She totally fucking gets it. I bet SHE dreamed about my couch last night.

I've taken to calling it "my couch."


Tonight I'm taking dragging Manfriend to visit the couch.

I honestly don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to restrain myself from whipping out my card, plopping it on the counter, and figuring the rest out after I can breathe easy again, knowing it's mine.

Wish me luck and happy couch dreams tonight.

XO Sare

Thursday, July 21, 2011

i think this is a milestone?

Well well well. Guess who is NAILING her 100th post today? 



Let's not shit ourselves, when I started this little happiness project last November I had no idea I'd make it this far. In fact, I was even supposed to have a coupla co-bloggers. They bailed out as soon as I registered this little sideshow and made it all official-like. 


I mean we're still practically BFF, but I'm not going to pretend like I'm not mad about being deprived of a little photo shoot in cracked-out golf attire for our much anticipated "T'd off Tuesday" feature. The three of us swinging golf clubs at a camera in unison could have been totally dangerous epic.

Whatevs, I'm over it.

I'd be lying if I said that after 100 posts I feel like I know ANYTHING close to what it is I'm doing here, floating around in the blogosphere. But hey, it feels pretty damn good to have a place to use curse words gratuitously and bitch about how much the winter makes me want to hibernate. Plus, no one seems to judge me too hard when I listen to my Bon Iver pandora station a smidgen too long and start ranting and raving about god knows what in my fragile emotional state.

So, thanks Internet.

It's been a beautiful beginning to a lovely friendship. And for realsies you've done wonders for my attitude. Just ask Manfriend, he'd probably have killed me for the life insurance money by now if I didn't have this sturdy little crutch.  


Guess who got a brand spankin' new suit last night? Yes, my own boyfriend. Since we have four weddings to attend in the near future and all. And guess where my mall-phobic boyf let me drag him?


 If I could have had a video camera for the moment he opened the dressing room door wearing 'skinny-fit' trousers and a too-small suit jacket, I would have had a chance to bring more joy and laughter to the world. It was truly a sight to see. A hilarious, wondrous sight. We finally settled on a suit that looks snazzy on him and he needed my advice, so he had to stop giving me the silent treatment for making a scene in the dressing room and we jaunted off to our next glamorous destination.


Because I'm 25 years old and I still own an old Hoover handed down from my parents. Except it's so old that they don't actually sell the correct vacuum bags anymore and that's when I started to panic.

I must suck all the dog hair into the vacuum on the daily or my lungs say "No Bueno" and give up. Yes, my lungs speak Spanish. I do not.

And you know what Manfriend did? He bought us a brand-new STATE OF THE ART ($$$) vacuum that DOESN'T EVEN NEED BAGS. It's great. You just rinse off the filter. And empty it. (a million times a day if you have a mastiff like we do.) I LOVE BREATHING!  He reaaaaaally doesn't want my life insurance money, apparently.

Plus he even bought me that Michael Kors watch I requested for my birthday. With diamonds. I feel like a magpie staring at it on my wrist all day. I think that means I'm in love. I don't hate it.

Anyway. Thanks for the memories, Internet. And thanks Manfriend for keeping me appeased the rest of the time.

X's and O's!


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

whirlwind weekend.

Sweet baby Jesus what a weekend.

And yes, I realize it's now Wednesday. However, the weekend kind of steam-rolled through Monday and right over half of Tuesday and then there was a going away party last night for one of my besties, who is moving to Good Korea to go teach their youngins how to speak Amuuurican... so, yeah. I need to do laundry.

Plus I don't know about you, but WEDDING SEASON is now in full swing; as in I've got three nuptial-fests in the next four weekends to attend. I'm not complaining, but two of them aren't open bar.  We're even talking completely dry. So.... kid's table for me.

Anyway, I think we left off after my weekend opened with a midnight movie and I went all Harry Potter sobfest on you the next morning via lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. By now most people who are HP fans have probably already seen it, so let me just say a few words.

Mrs. Weasley saying the bitch word? AWESOME. Ginny's 19-years-later hair and ass? Both a little large if you ask me. Seeing all those death eaters peace the fuck OUT when Harry springs back to life after dying/resurrection stone-ing. Priceless. Lurve, lurve, LURVE. Notable absence? Hagrid. I know he makes a brief appearance and all, but man I missed that giant hunk 'o ... giant.

Anyway, I'll tone down the Harry Potter talk now. I mean, I'm not making any promises, but I'll try.  I think that's really more than anyone can hope for.

After dragging myself through work on Friday, I crashed pretty early that night. Plus Manfriend took me out to dinner and I ate my weight in pasta with a cream sauce of some sort... so it's not like I wasn't going to need a nap after that meal anyway.

True to form, we're slated to leave first thing Saturday morning and when I come out of my pasta coma ten hours later I still haven't packed. Nary a knick-knack or pair of undies had found it's way into any type of controlled pile/wadded up bundle. So, I frantically threw my toothbrush,  some conditioner, and like ten pairs of panties into my backpack and said a quick prayer to the luggage gods that they were actually clean.

Saturday morning was A BIT stressful. I ran over to my parents house to 'finish packing' aka see if I had received any birthday cards containing cash while Manfriend set off to run a quick errand aka go buy more deodorant. OF COURSE I left a baby gift and like six more things I needed at Manfriend's (slash I guess my house) so he had to scamper back over there and get them for me.

All in all, we left two hours late, which is pretty good for us.

We arrived in the Windy City by early afternoon and, my my my is Chicago in the summer a different place then Chicago in the dead of winter. Which would be the time of year when I resided there. When basically all I did was futilely apply for a million jobs and wait for my roommate to get home so we could watch TMZ and get drunk together. And hole up in my room, watching an entire season of Veronica Mars a night. 

Okay, end of vivid, depressing flashback.

As soon as we blazed into town we met up with my friend/spirit sister Colleen and proceeded to hit up a neighborhood festival and the zoo. Really any time I get to spend with otters is never disappointing.  Between everything, overwhelming success. Saturday night was a blast of outdoor patio cocktails- and if my two bloody mary brunch Sunday morning isn't an indication of my level of relaxation/hangover, then I don't know what is. I then proceeded to nap for several hours. Vacation means never having to say you're sorry. (Oh my god, okay. I'm sorry for wasting a sunny afternoon napping, Chicago. Nothing personal. Pinky promise.)

Sunday night involved an entirely different type of Mary.

THAT'S RIGHT, REUNION TIME. The gals got to catch up a bit, Mary's husband got to meet Manfriend,  and Mary and I completed our first ever shared domestic task, making a salad together.  I also got to meet her adorable daughter, who is only four months old and has already been saved by fashion. True story.  We drank some champagne and reminisced the good old days, which happen to STILL BE GOING DOWN. It's fine guys, she pumps her milk. RESERVE SUPPLY. Which means that NEXT TIME I'M BRINGING A BEER BONG.

Just kidding.


Whew. Monday, Manfriend and I were still in Chicago, so we pretty much wandered around Wrigleyville until the Phillies v. Cubs played. And we got a batting practice ball. (Manfriend took it TO THE FACE. hahahahahaha ahahaha I love him dearly, but it was hilarious.) BOOM. My friend Dev and his lady friend joined us for the game, which was sahweet.

Basically in a whirlwind weekend, and I saw everyone I wanted to see in the windy city. Frankly, I'm quite tired.

Which is why I'm going to channel George from Seinfeld and attempt to take a nap under my desk this afternoon. The only real problem is that my bosses' cubicle shares a wall with mine. It's really just an added degree of difficulty. And this girl? Up to the challenge.

Happy hump day!

Xo Sare

Friday, July 15, 2011

lack of sleep = EMOTIONS.

Well, it's all over now.

That's right, Harry Potter has left the building folks.

And if this post seems a bit more disjointed and choppy than usual, it's because I'm an emotional wreck just really tired. This girl slugged down a couple 'o birthday Beams, enjoyed the company of friends and family over deliciously (and dangerously) high amounts of sodium-ridden foods (I had bacon with every meal yesterday), watched an episode of Dexter with Manfriend, and then moseyed my happy ass back over to my parent's to meet up with my brother and catch the final installment of your favorite mystical series and mine, Harry Potter, wizard extraordinaire, at Midnight. Which, the midnight movie thing I've never done before, and can't really anticipate myself ever doing again. Plus I did it full well knowing that Friday morning was going to be markedly less cheerful than usual due to the necessity of showing up at the office. Shit though, I need more than three solid hours of sleep.

But I love HP to the extreme and I felt perhaps yesterday would be the time to show my true devotion. At midnight. Just like everyone else. Minus the costume, because I'm 25 now and that ship has probably sailed, or at least should have. I'm not trying to be the old lady in the corner yelling "Expecto Patronus!" All by myself if you know what I mean. People talk.

I need not have worried.

Right, but for real, imagine the spread of people that attend midnight showings of movies like Harry Potter. I saw MORE than one adult female dressed as a Golden Snitch. Gold glitter head to toe. Gold child's fairy wings. GOLD SPRAY PAINTED HAIR.  There were the punk guys, together in droves, wearing hand-sharpied shirts with philosophical banter like "Ron Weasley ROX!" Couples holding-hands- dressed in full wizard robes. Hogwarts scarves. Kids with wands. Lots of lightning bolts on foreheads.

Total freak show.

Me, smack-dab somewhere in the middle of the line, loving the shit out of it because these are my people.

And don't even let me get into the hours-long lines, overwhelming waves of teenage sexual tension, and just total lack of any sort of order or use of societal convention surrounding the entire concession area. Waiting in line for a small popcorn and two drinks that come to $15 should really never take 45 minutes. At one point a new line opened up, so I swooped over and mentally high-fived myself for my good reflexes, obvi I was about to save myself like 20 minutes of teenage-angst-filled-line-time. So I waited. and waited. and stood there. For 15 minutes. And you know what happened?


That's what happened.

Back of the line again.

I don't handle that sort of thing with grace. But I was by myself while my brother held our seats and it was opening night of the very final milking of the Harry Fucking Potter cash cow teat, so I swallowed my pride and internally raged it out. Minimal scowling even.

But it all worked out. By the time the previews started, even the grown-ass men were giddy with excitement. Honest-to-god cheering and clapping after some of the previews. Like I said, freakshow.

And then it started. And it flew by in mere moments. And then it was over. I'll spare details in case anyone isn't as big of a devotee as I am and didn't drag themselves to the midnight showing of Harry and then trek into work at eight the next morning. I'm hardcore, just saying.


It was good. Really, really good.  Just the high note Harry deserves to go out on.

I remember tearing through the books each year or so, the morning they came out and my mother took me to get them at the store. I'd stay up all night reading after my siblings went to bed, because we shared one copy between the three of us and I couldn't stand not knowing what happened next. I always finished in one or two days, three tops. Reading the last book was like saying good bye to an old friend. And then there were movies, new installments to look forward to. The magic lived on.

Yeah, I'm a nerd. But come on, it's Harry. He let me stay a kid,  believe in my imagination, so much longer than I ever could have without him. He was a realistic hero,  struggled to be a good guy at times, fought villains both beyond my reality and uncannily in line with it. I felt like he could have been my friend, and maybe in some ways, he really was.

People state the obvious about movies and how they're never as good as the books they're based on as if it's the first time anyone has ever been genius enough to make that observation and well, it fucking chafes my ass.  OF COURSE they can never live up to the web a good author can weave, the images they let you conjure up on your own. Entire worlds can rise and fall within our hearts and heads-without anyone on the outside ever knowing and I'll always have an incredible amount of gratitude and respect for JK Rowling for doing that with Harry. For me. And for millions of kids and presumably millions more to come.

But seriously, people that want to dog on the movies need to lock that shit up around me. Because, good for the person that even dared to try to accomplish the impossible feat of bringing Harry to life. For bringing him to people that probably never would have otherwise cheered for the boy with the lightning bolt scar. For giving Harry a face and making him a hero for millions more. Do I feel more legitimate for being a reader first? Hell to the yes. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the fact that the movies are there.

So seriously, I know haters gonna hate, but don't make me get into a fist fight with you about the portrayal of Hogsmeade not living up to expectations in the middle of a crowded bar. Not that that would ever happen.

Just STFU, walk away,  and get over yourself, asshat.

Harry's been with me through a lot. Half of my life. Crazy. I read him at camp as a camper AND as a counselor. On the hammock of my now-sold childhood lake house, home. He got me through long car-rides and took my mind off of painful breakups. He gave me a conversation piece at college parties and really almost anywhere I go, really. He's sturdy, enough to hang a new friendship on at the beginning.  Plus, I can open any of the books and just start to read, knowing it will conjure memories of where I was in my own life when this new twist unfolded in Harry's. It's sensory. He's part of the time line of my life.

Maybe Harry's not my stand-by read or my favorite life-changing piece of literature. But we sort of grew up together, and now I've got to keep going and he'll always stay the same. I suppose I'm grateful for the constant. He'll always have a place on my bookshelves.

But, it is rather devastating sad to see the end.

At this point it's painfully obvious that I've been over here in my cubicle sniffling away and letting the occasional tear leak out of my eyes. Kind of pathetic.

I need more coffee. And a Midol.

So, bye.

XO Sare

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

dr. e and his magical prescription pad

What the shit is it with old male doctors and not listening to a word that comes out of my mouth?

Could it BE that they legitimately cannot hear me? Perhaps I'm speaking in tongues or something? All I know is that it's becoming increasingly obvious that we're not equipped to communicate with one another effectively.

My allergy specialist is a great doctor, really- As well as a cheerful old man who reminds me of a shorter-bearded Albus Dumbledore... and instead of a wand to magic my ailments away, he has a prescription pad that he uses to give me written legal permission to try all kinds of allergy and asthma medicines and potions. Not as cool as a wand, but I'm hoping it'll miraculously cure me much the same way. Truth be told, I was genuinely looking forward to my appointment, and not just because I needed like 234873874 new prescriptions.

Yesterday though, we just did not click. I don't know what it was. Maybe I was the last appointment of the day, maybe Dr. E really is finally going senile. Whatever it was, I don't like it. I like to trust that health care professionals are actually intelligent and engaged in making me and those I care about feel better. And anyone who is sick, really. I don't like to have to interrupt to get my point across or pull out the "Now you listen to me!" finger, because I find it disrespectful and I'm not trying to piss off someone who potentially holds my health and happiness destiny in their old, gnarled hands.

In fact, I've only really gotten mouthy with A SINGLE nurse in my lifetime. I was in college and not even the patient. Anyway, that hospital blew... coughghettocoughcough.  They admitted my best friend for an appendectomy and it turned out that she had cancerous cervical cysts.

Um, made a major mistake lately? Guessing it's NOT as big as that one was.

Good times.

Back to yesterday.

I get in there and get my shot and wait my turn and sit in the waiting room and then good old Dr. E saunters in and.... I get the distinct impression that this old coot is trying to usher me out the door as quickly as he possibly can.  As in, not asking me the general questions I've grown accustomed to in yearly check-ups, and I happen to have negative answers already prepared. I was going to brace him for the news that I'm living with a Mastiff with a semi-apologetic joke.  I HAVE STUFF TO SAY. I LIVE WITH A GIANT DOG IN A DEATH TRAP AND I LOVE TO GARDEN. THIS ISN'T WORKING. I NEED MORE DRUGS.

So, um, NO, dude we're not rushing this along. We're on my time. You wanted to check-up. Check. Me. Up.

Because you know what? This isn't a exactly a breeze for me, either. I had to endure asking my boss to leave work early (cringe),  drive my hot-box of a car AWAY from air conditioned home to your office, I paid a $250 deductible that I've been dodging since January, I burn a lunch hour every week driving up to your office to get a healthy dose of my own worst allergens shoved into my veins at the cost of $22 a pop, and I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE FOR SHIT.

NO dude, you're going to FIX THIS.


So, I quickly but firmly showed good old Dr. E the writing on the wall. You know, my hobbies, my symptoms, my living situations, the way the air is killing me slowly, etc.

And you know what he said:

"Oh dear, you're just a disaster. Dear, dear, dear, you're an allergist's nightmare. I need to go make a copy of this form because it's not going to hold all the perscriptions I need to write you. I think it's time to pull out the big guns."

To which I smiled sweetly and nodded.

Fucking right.

Here hoping I'll be feeling much better. Very soon.

Xo Sara

Monday, July 11, 2011

attack of the evil sunscreen.

Yesterday my mom and I decided to venture to the local high school to play some tennis. At one thirty in the afternoon. On the hottest day of the year.

So right now I'm trying to decide if making bad choices, stupidity, or just being unyieldingly stubborn to the realities of the weather runs in the family.

Like the occasionally responsible adult woman that I am, I applied sunscreen to my face prior to sun exposure. This actually turned out to be a horrific idea. You know why?

Because it took about 4.2 seconds for me to start sweating profusely in the 95 degree heat and humidity in the air. I quickly discovered that not only was my sunscreen running directly into my eyeballs on a gushing stream of sweat and burning my eyeballs into a blind and fucking horrendous sensation-of-stabbing-a-billion-times-over-and-over oblivion. But my mom and I have kind of unspoken challenge going during tennis, where it's a battle of wits and the weaker person always stops to get water first.

No way I was going to succumb.

BUT then disaster strikes.

As I continue to sweat and my pores continue to open and the sweat/sunscreen witches brew of DEATH continues to pour itself all over my face, with no respect for internalized battles of stamina and wit,  I discover that I'm actually allergic to this sunscreen. *#$#(*$& allergic.

Apparently having these chemicals seep directly into my skin, pores open like tiny surprised mouths,  in direct and severely harsh sunlight magnified my reaction.

I genuinely felt like I was melting. MELTING.

Needless to say, I caved first. I caved and proceeded to dump an entire water-bottle over my face, create a tent out of a beach towel, and camp my happy ass sprawled-out on the court until I realized that I would be much more comfortable in the air-conditioned car.

Never in my life did I think that placing ice directly into contact with my face would be a good plan.

It was.

My face is still kind of swollen today and feeling a bit sensitive. I have an appointment with the Allergist after work, so he can tell me that I AM in fact allergic to everything under the sun, not that it would be much of a surprise.

Wrinkles can be damned, I'm never wearing sunscreen prior to sweat-session again.

Plus I can always get a little Botox. I hear Groupon has deals for that these day.


But seriously, if it weren't for modern medicine, evolution totally would have weeded me out.

Hope you had minimal eye burning this weekend!

XO Sare

Friday, July 8, 2011

this is why it works.

Text conversations with Manfriend like this assure me that not only is he a wonderful enabler, but also that we're super compatible. After all, has YOUR boyfriend ever encouraged beer-in-a-water-bottle to double whammy two of your favorite pastimes: going to the movie theater and drinking at inappropriate times? No? Well, then we're a match made in heaven. 

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

afternoon attitude adjustment.

I'm hoping that a can-do attitude will be able to get me out of my earlier cantankerous state of mind.  So here are some pictures from my recent goings-on to bring me back to the sunnier side of things. Plus that title is straight alliteration and it alone cheered me considerably. I'm the one with the bangs. (yeah, I went through with it) 

hauling ass. 

new haircut: an excuse to take gratuitous pictures of oneself? 


brookville canoe trip.  did it all. 

slapping the bag, watching the sunset. perf.

manfriend's huge dogcreature. she thinks i'm her mother. 

sometimes love is a blur. but goddamn aren't we patriotic?

in my defense.

I learned early on to stand up for myself. That I needed to defend myself, because no one else will.

I'm not saying that in a jaded or cynical way, I'm just saying that there comes a point when your mommy and daddy can't always swoop and and save you from that girl in the locker room telling anyone who will listen that you were flirting with her boyfriend in math class or even your teammates from alluding that you don't try hard enough at practice. Besides, I never really wanted that kind of help from my parents.

And in my family, everyone is constantly messing with one another in an attempt to get a rise out of them.

In a loving way?

Maybe sometimes. But honestly, most of the time it doesn't feel that way.

I wouldn't say I was raised by wolves, but I was certainly brought up in a way that encouraged thick skin and making your point louder than the other person.

I'm an incredibly defensive person.

It takes a precious little to put me on the defensive. And when I sense the other person pushing back, it's a full-on battle. I feel powerless to stop it once it starts. Once I'm taken from my easy-going world of quick laughter to explaining loudly every rational step in my own mind that lead me to this. exact. point. I can't go back and tell myself to just let it go.

I just can't.
I have done things in my life that have certainly merited explanation and being humbled. I've made choices that my parent's support can be described as begrudgingly at best. I've fallen on my face and been forced to learn hard lessons fast. Ideologically, I've gone against my ultra-conservative, proper, keeping-up-appearances, perfectly-manicured-lawn-in the-'burbs, Catholic upbringing by getting a Women's Studies degree, organizing labor unions, smoking and trying recreational drugs,  doing extensive liberal political campaign work, and getting a tattoo. But I've never really pushed the envelope past a certain point because I have my limits and I know who I am.

And all in all, I really, really like myself.

I'm not perfect, but I'm trying. I pay my bills, I eat vegetables, I water my flowers,  I read books, I blow-dry and curl my hair every morning. I'm not the beacon of responsibility, but I make it to work on time. I honor my commitments, I finish what I start.

The conversation that I had last night with my parents about moving in together with Manfriend didn't go over well, because from the start, they made jabs that put me on the defensive and made me feel like I was openly defying their best intentions for me. As if I don't know what works for me or what will make me happy. I'm still reeling from how disrespected I felt last night having this conversation, this argument that was more of a heads-up and less what I thought of as an opportunity for discussion, but turned into a roast session of my shortcomings in their eyes for the past ten years.

Today I feel tired.

And defensive.

And I'm still moving in with Manfriend.

As if that fact wasn't terrifying enough without their support.  

Xo Sara