coping and moping.

Most of my social interactions revolve around me:

 

1. Hastily building a facade of calm so that I don't look like a total spaz.

2. Failing immediately at that venture.

3. Asking about a million questions to take the pressure off of myself.

(4) And/or drinking quite a lot and hastily skipping from topic to topic with much passion and enthusiastic hand gestures for each, albeit fleetingly, as I no longer have any semblance of an attention span.

 

 

 

Which is probably why sitting on my front porch yesterday evening, after the horrifying debacle of losing quite a bit of my current writing, with a novel whilst (on an empty stomach, of course) consuming approximately eight cans of leftover cheap beer from my recent camping weekend was, basically, a perfect night.

 

Until Matt got home from working a very long day around 7:45 to find me quite drunk and not at all packed for the weekend away we're departing on in approximately three hours. Two of which will be spent at my desk, at work.

 

God love him.

 

some truth.

he'd just eaten seven hotdogs on dollar dog night. i, however, have no excuse. we are the most photogenic couple to grace the earth, obviously.

There are things I take for granted now that in less than three months may cause tantrums and tears in their absence. This is more than just having an Apple store within a 25 mile radius of my person for inevitable technology-related meltdowns, although I've already gritted my teeth in anticipation of such events.

 

 

This is something more along the lines of struggling to feed myself, lacking back-rubs and soothing words, and the absence of a warm body I've grown so accustomed to waking up next to.

 

 

What I'm trying to say is that Matt isn't coming to Montana with me.

 

 

At least not at first.

 

 

Let me say up front that I am the reason for this. I have asked him to hang back. I've insisted in my own stubborn way that this is a path I need to forge on my own. Because honestly, I feel it like electricity moving through my veins, my need to set off on my own. To me, it's a fact as solid as my eyes being green and my perpetual appetite for bacon. It defies any logical explanation for me, it just is. I need to go alone, to start this pursuit on my own, to go forth without company.

 

 

In true Matt form he's taken this request as he always does with my self-over analyzed bombs of news that aren't what he wanted to hear. First he was silent, then he fought me, and then he accepted it, because he loves me and knows that my way is just as ingrained in me as all the other qualities he loves. The good with the bad. The easy with the difficult.

 

 

To say he understands my need to leave alone probably misses the mark. In truth, I can't even fully wrap my mind around this compulsion, let alone give a cohesive and coherent argument to present my case. But he accepts this as my choice and my decision, and for that I am flooded with gratitude and overtaken by affection for him.

 

 

It took me a long time to reason with myself about this decision, and a lot of grappling with feelings of guilt and selfishness at pushing a distance nearly a country-width between us, especially when Matt is vehemently against us being apart. He planned to move with me wherever I went to grad school from the start, no matter how far or at what cost. He's supportive and amazing and I don't deserve it.

 

 

But he's not coming now, and it's my doing.

 

 

I know the day I leave is one we're both dreading in our own way. But I'm heading toward something I am drawn to with wonder and he's being left behind, so what follows the moment we part will be an utterly different experience for us both. Now that the room has stopped spinning a bit at the reality of the events unfolding and I've had time to calm down and consider things, clarity is coming a bit more easily. But only a bit.

 

 

As I've pondered and poked at the reasons for my decision, I realized a few things about the nature of my choice.

 

 

1. I genuinely don't want to be with anyone else in this world. Just Matt. In my heart, I don't look at my leaving as me leaving him, just a necessary step in the process until we're reunited.

 

 

2. I have total faith in the strength of our relationship. Total faith. Which is kind of eerie, to be honest. I know it will be hard at times, as I've done a long distance relationship before, but I'm going into it with total confidence this time. We will be fine. We will learn a lot. We will emerge stronger and intact.

 

 

3. Going back to school is fucking hard and grad school is very time consuming. I've been out of school for four years. I'm nervous about this. Actually, I'm scared shitless. It's enough of an adjustment and commitment without dragging a stubborn and antisocial man who doesn't want to move to Montana and 160 pound beast-dog across the country with me. I need focus and peace and alone time to process. I fear with Matt there I would not be able to find a good balance for my time. I will have no time to speak of anyway. I cannot afford distraction and resentment because of hard adjustments. I adjust to change almost instantly, Matt is a little slower to come around. It's just a fact, not a fault. Still, it is something I've had to consider.

 

 

4. Matt does not want to move to Montana. It's one of my biggest dreams. I will not have my dream hampered from the start by someone who doesn't want to be there, however unintentional, however much I love that person with all of my heart. However much he may have tried to hide it. I would have known. Things would have gotten weird. Bad weird.

 

 

5. This may be my last chance to live alone. Ever. I can't for the life of me let that go easily. I want one last cozy nook of the world that is mine and mine alone.  

 

 

6. Matt and I have very different ideas about what makes a fulfilling leisure time activity. I want to be outside playing and or reading and or at the bar with my friends and he wants to be at home on the couch watching sports and playing xbox. It's leisure time and there's no wrong way to do it, but in any precious time I have to spend in leisure while I have such an impressive display of the great outdoors at my disposal, I'm not interested in holing up inside. At all. I brought no television to this relationship and I don't intend to carry one with me out west. That's not be being a pretentious hipster, that is me voicing my needs honestly, part of the reason I'm moving out west is the breathtaking landscape. I need to be out in it.

 

 

7. I am infuriatingly selfish.

 

 

8. My guts. My head. My heart. My soul. They're all working together on this one and the message is clear. Do this thing for yourself. This is you, pursuing your dreams. It gets harder to chase them every single day that you wait. Run. Hunt them. Catch them. This is something you have to do to feel purpose and contentment with life, no matter how great your partner. You have to be okay with yourself, love yourself first. This is a journey you must take alone. You can do it. Trust yourself.

 

 

 

And so I am. I'm doing it by myself.

 

 

The plan is for Matt and I to start talking about him moving west after Christmas when he's had time to save some money, look for a job, and buy a car- Another good reason for him to wait.

 

 

 We've talked and fought and hugged and sat in silence over this. And now it's done and we move forward with the plan in place. Not all of our arguments and misunderstandings have such amicable and positive endings, but I'm comforted to see that the big ones do. The ones that truly matter in the grand scheme, those we can work through and tease out and iron of wrinkles.

 

 

I'm not really afraid of spiders, so I can't say I'll be missing my protector from icky things, but there are millions of other ways Matt saves me every single day, and I can't wait to fully appreciate every single one of them in his absence, and then thank him repeatedly when we are reunited. But for now:

 

I love you, Matt. Thank you for saving me hundreds of times every single day in every way I need it.  

 

 

my shady past... with dating. part 4.

So far I've written three posts about my inability to date properly in the past. Right here is the last post, if you want to get caught up.

Where was I?

Right. We're at the part where I actually let myself be single for a while.
I sat. I stewed. I raged. I drank heavily. I watched a lot of rom coms. I wrote rambling letters that I never sent. And then I laughed. I learned to enjoy doing whatever I wanted, like watching the entire Veronica Mars series straight through in three days.

Yeah, I got really into that.

I made promises to myself that resembled the sentiment of Scarlett O'Hara as she declares "I'll never be hungry again!"

It was a pretty good time to be me. Minus the losing my job and blowing all my money on expensive boots, moving to Chicago on a whim,  and weekly pedicures.

I also realized that I had settled into a pattern of dating. Aka, the Chameleon Act where I became a child that needed to be taken care of OR a cheerleader that had to prod! my! boyfriend! along! encouragingly! in! every! tiny! daily! task!, whichever the current love interest preferred. I decided that I didn't want a relationship where I had to buy a whole new wardrobe to feel like I fit nor a life where I had to reassure myself constantly that it wasn't that serious to avoid panicking about the fact that I was disappearing beside the guy I was seeing.

I decided I needed to stop being swallowed up.

After months of brooding and and bitching to my friends and a lot to talking to myself like a crazy person I decided I was ready to do the one thing I'd been avoiding for six or so years, actually dating my best friend.

Matt.

2004. we've always been badass, we just smoke less cigars now.

The only problem was that Matt had given up on me after five years of trying to date me to no avail, because I'm a cold and heartless bitch and I never gave him a chance. Probably because I convinced myself I'd lose him as a friend if we dated. That plan backfired because he finally went out and found himself a willing girlfriend and I lost him anyway. We became Christmas card and birthday card friends. It sucked.

Really, the kicker for me was when I realized I had essentially been dating Matt more than the guys I was actually dating- the entire time. I told him my secrets, called him when I was scared or sad or mad, talked in my weird voices without a hint of embarrassment and laughed with him about the stupid mundane things that happened in my day-to-day. I really only noticed how much I relied on our daily conversations when they suddenly stopped. While I had always continued our interactions despite my relationships, he actually focused on his and cut me out.
What a concept.

Anyway. I tried to just ignore it and let him be happy after everything I'd put him through. But I couldn't. So after a year and a half of stewing about it, I sent him what I can only call a manifesto of crazy. It was intense. Sort of a 'Sorry I just realized I've been in love with you the entire time, let's give this a shot now, please?'

And then I sent it off and got whiskey drunk.

And then he read it. And he told me it was too late and he was sorry.


BUT WE'RE TOGETHER SO THAT'S NOT HOW IT ENDS.

Ten days later Matt decided that we should probably see if we could date without killing each other.

And we haven't killed each other.... yet. It's been a year and a half. We live together. We have a giant 150 pound dog baby. We're pretty happy. It's the most healthy relationship I've ever been a part of. I get to dance around the house singing in insane falsetto at the top of my lungs wearing no makeup and my dorky-ass glasses and he gets to walk around in his underwear and play video games involving head sets.

We fight. It's definitely not easy. Compromise sucks ass sometimes. He hates people and I want to attend every party ever. I need to see my girlfriends twice a week and he needs to see his guy friends twice a year. He wants to have deep conversation right before we fall asleep and I'm like zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  He won't eat anything green that grows from a seed and sometimes all I want is a salad and some hummus. I fight like a junkyard dog every time we disagree about the tiniest thing because I feel that I desperately need to hold onto my own way so that I don't lose my identity again.

We're different people, we see things differently- I think that's pretty normal. I'm just glad one or both of us isn't pretending to see things the same way just to keep the status quo. We'd never grow that way.

We both stay. Have stayed so far.  He gives me back rubs and I occasionally sit still long enough to watch a hockey game. I can't say I've never felt trapped and frustrated and just angry to the level of pissedoffedness where I'm over it and I'M DOING WHATEVER I FUCKING WANT TO OKAY.

But we love each other, so we try.

And since that seems to work pretty well, I going to keep on trying.




At my sister's wedding. 2011.


FIN.

a conversation regarding the future. part 1.

Last night Matt (AKA Manfriend, but I'm tired of calling him Manfriend so from this point forward he will be referred to by his given name, Matt) and I were dicking around, our regular Monday night activity, and one thing led to another, and before I knew it we were actually discussing The Future.

These are not the sort of conversations that I normally pursue for a myriad of reasons, one being that the future freaks me out, man. And another being that I have trouble making decisions and all I see in the future is an endless string of crucial choices and opportunities for failure.

On the flip side I also have a great deal of hopes and passionate interests that I intend to pursue to The Future, which excites me greatly.

I just don't really have a plan, hence the fear. Every time I try to force myself to formulate some sort of plan, something shifts and sends me into a tailspin that changes even basic groundwork in my plan. Which can be good, but also just keeps me fixed to one spot because I'll never actually follow through with anything if I keep changing the plan before I take a first step.

*#&$#*&$

All I really meant by that convoluted mess is that I'm trying to formulate a plan for The Future and it seems like something always gets in the way of the all-important first step in the right direction.

Now though, I've finally actually picked a concentration for my Master's and I'm shopping around for programs and doing copious amounts of research. I'm a nerd. I crave information. As much as possible.

This is all pretty recent and sort of causing me to panic because I want to pour my entire self into applying for grad school right now, but I've also got my little sister's wedding in three weeks and another good friend's wedding in December. Both require a fair amount of attention, time, and money. Especially my sister's wedding. I'm throwing a bridal shower on Sunday and I STILL don't know how I'm decorating.



And that brings us up to speed with last night, in a candlelit room decorated with background music and hot oil being massaged into my back by the man that spoils me constantly. That is the time that I chose to pose the following question:


"So.......ehhh... Where do YOU want to live?"


I know, romantic. But it's a conversation I can't believe we've never had. We literally cannot pick a fucking restaurant to eat at on a Friday night because neither one of us wants to choose something the other person isn't in the mood for,  but I've been researching programs and getting ready to go balls-in with whatever schools I feel like pursuing and I never even asked Matt what he thought.

Whoops?

I mean, I realize it's my future and I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR and I shouldn't let someone else influence my decisions for the life I've dreamed of and blah blah blah.

But, honestly. In all likelihood Matt's in for the long haul. He's been in for the long haul way longer than I have. He wants to come with me and that's good for me because omgz back rubs on the reg. And also all that other mushy stuff.


So I asked him. Because I want to know that wherever I decide to move us all over God's green earth doesn't cause him to resent me for the length of our stay.

And an interesting conversation it was.

To be continued.

Sara

lay off me, i've been nesting.

So I've finally managed to lay off the lazy sauce long enough to upload some picturess. And by lazy sauce I mean I've been nonstop reading every chance I get. It's summer, what else should I be doing?

 I BOUGHT THE COUCH. After three visits it was just getting pathetic, so I finally made my move. We couldn't be happier together. Talk about a harmonious relationship. I know I've been hyping it up like crazy, but eat your heart out.

This is where the couch lives now. In my bedroom. Someday I'll have an impressive domicile in which I'll display this impressive-ass couch in a way that will do it justice. Mark my words.

I'm going to go ahead and apologize now for taking all of these pictures on my phone and also for thinking I was cool enough to use the Hipstamatic app. Everything looks better with angles and weird lenses, right? Whatever. That's how it is and I can't help it.

Antique luxury meets college dorm crate style. I'd prefer to be called a visionary.

Still in the store. A diamond in the rough.

This is a close-up of the fabric. I'm really psyched on having a patterned couch and I feel like it's not too loud to go out of style. Basic pattern. classic. Plus it's like sitting on a cloud.

Not a blemish or loose string to speak of. Perfect upholstery job. This is the stuff that sets my pulse racing. I'm one of a kind.

The other day we were in the car and Manfriend jokingly asked, "So are you going to let people eat or drink on the couch?"


This is seriously not a laughing matter for me.


My reply was simple and dead serious "Clear liquids only."


And no sticky-ass fingers either.

Bitch, I'm crazy. I'll cut you. Spill/smear/stain ANYTHING on my couch and I will end your motherfucking life. That's a promise.



All of my shit needed to get off the kitchen table and into the walls, we'll see if I still like the placement in a few days. This stuff is currently hanging over The Couch.  


Anyway, now that I have a couch to decorate my entire life around, I'm really antsy to get on with it. Which is why being anything less than obscenely rich is really annoying. I'm not kidding I almost had a meltdown in the car last week over the fact that I can't afford everything I have ideas for.  Which is why I've been thrifting like crazy and painting the shit out of stuff. Most of the stuff hanging I already had, though.

Some more of the stuff hanging over my beloved couch.

Okay here's where I just start throwing up pictures of some of the other stuff around the house.

Half-assed attempt at the window treatment.

Please don't judge the bedding. I'm working on it.

I'll probably start hiding my valuables up there.

knicky knacky.



Kitchen poster and freshly painted mirrors. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.



I'm kind of obsessed with birds.

Manfriend likes decorations too. Just not the same kind that I do.

THIS IS MANFRIEND'S CONTRIBUTION TO HOME DECORATING STYLE. He's into black frames with white mattes. This is something I can definitely work with. He's also into autographed pictures of sport's stars... which I guess I can deal with too, which is why he does have some prime real-estate wall space in the living room to display his man-art.  What can I say? The man plays into my soft-spot with nightly back-rubs and a Netflix account. Which can also partially account for why he won this battle:










I haven't named him yet, but trust me, I will.

 That's right. There's a carcass hanging from the wall of my own home. Wonders never cease. Remind me to tell you about my first hunting trip sometime. A gem among gems. 

I mean, it was his house first, after all. I just brought in all my crap and a really stubborn disposition and started bossing everyone around. Luckily, Manfriend lets me.  Plus when it comes down to it, I'm really no better at the whole home-decor  side of things than he is. I still end up occasionally with walls that look like this:

Not my most shining achievement.

A wall of total disarray that looks like a junk shop puked all over it.

And then I have to toss and turn in my sleep until I come up with some better idea that involves putting 2893748374 more holes in the wall. Trial and error. But in the end, having a place I feel comfortable living in and okay with showing off to my guests is the goal. Such as my smallest brother, below. Manfriend lets him play zombie killing games on the interactive media outlet, so he likes him the best, naturally.

They're killing zombies. Or something. Whatever, this picture is to illustrate the fact that we're AT HOME. You know, lounging in the lap of luxury and comfortable and stuff. WITH GUESTS EVEN.

Now you've had a jank-ass tour of my home, which is really more than I can say for the majority of my friends and family, so you're welcome. Portal to my soul and all that.  Oh yeah, I forgot one main thing. You may be wondering why my dream couch is being kept in the bedroom where it's unlikely to be used. Um, duh. Although comfortable, I'm trying to keep it BEAUTIFUL. Actual use by anyone other than me is basically unnecessary. Just kidding. Kind of. Seriously though, I'm trying to protect my lovely new (to me) piece of furniture from the jaws of death and destruction. AKA Hally. 140 pounds of raw destruction:

This is how she looks about 85%  of the time. The other time is spent looking guilty for chewing something up, slime-ing you for the sole reason that she can tell you don't have time to change clothes,  or looking sad because she can tell you're about to leave.

 Hally isn't allowed in Manfriend and my bedroom because it's the one place in our home that I'm safe from dog hair and whatever other airborne allergens she has to offer. I keep trying to tell her it's boring in there anyway, but she rarely buys it. Anyway, the couch is in there and safe and I can read on it without dying. Win-win.



For me and the couch, anyway.



And with that, I leave you with a charming picture of me getting heavy-handed with my cocktail:


I hope my weekend looks like a heavy-handed pour. It's been a bastard of a week.

Cheers to Saturday and Sunday!

 
XO Sare

i think this is a milestone?

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

CHEERS!!!!!!!!!!!

ME!!!!!!!!! 

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. 


Dicks.


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.  

SPEAKING OF THAT GUY.

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?

 H&M!!!! HOLY TRENDSETTERS BATMAN!

 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.

THE STORE THAT SELLS VACUUM BAGS!

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!

Sara

i play favorites and july is the best.

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

HOLY SWEET MOLY, IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!!!!!!!

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.

PICNICS? BASEBALL? OVERWHELMING HEATS WAVES?

Hold me, it's too much to feel.

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

Presents?

For little old me?

Nahhhh.

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

yummmm.

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.

Boom.

July, July, you never fail me.

XO Sare

the art of cramming A LOT into a weekend.

Whew.






I feel battered.


Remember how I was all amped up and ready to fall out of my desk chair on Thursday because I was going camping with my friends for Memorial Day and we were going to braid each other's hair and tell spooky ghost stories around the campfire and rage on the river like total banshees?


That happened, and it was worth the stress breakouts, and we'll get to it later or tomorrow or something.




What I failed  to mention was the fact that when I got back from said camping trip with a car of damp everything, hair reeking of some inexplicable river-campfire smoke combo, and a collective good times-hangover, I had to move.




As in change address, completely pack up my possessions in their entirety and peace out.




And THAT is how I spent my free Monday off of work.


You'd think that the extensive practice I've had lugging my crap from one corner of the country to another would improve my skill and ability to move successfully, but that would be false. Alas, I am virtually inept at such things.


The truth of the matter is that I make it not a very big deal in my head so that I don't FREAK OUT and then when I'm faced with the monstrosity of the task, completely unprepared mind you, I go into warrior mode and start throwing shit into boxes, unceremoniously throwing things away, lifting and lugging things much too heavy for me, and banging my body into things in the process.


I"m strained, bruised, and so, SO sore.




Don't get me wrong, this weekend was the best kind of wonderful. I got to spend time with the ladies living off the land and preparing food over open flames. We blared music and had cocktails and all slept in the same tent. I fucking love sleepovers. I caught some sun on my shoulders and my cheeks have finally reunited with that rosy glow that only true summer sun can bring out. I got to be pampered by my ever-impressive Manfriend with a culinary masterpiece topped off with homemade dessert and a thoughtfully DVRed few episodes of Mob Wives. He even bought my favorite champagne. And willingly gave me a back rub. WITH OIL. I couldn't make this stuff up, I swear. Either that or it was an awesome and incredibly vivid sun-induced fantasy.


But, I also may or may not have forgotten which bra I was wearing when we set up camp on Friday afternoon and collapsed into my cubicle this morning only to realize I was rampant with the odor of sweat and campfire.
SICK.

Um, I moved yesterday? I have NO idea where anything is because once again I've failed to commit to living in one place and thus all my stuff is pretty much scattered anywhere I could see myself spending an odd night or two? I don't know what the word HOME even means?!!


Thankfully I was able to jet over to Meijer and purchase myself a fresh brassiere during lunch. I changed into it in the store restroom and I can safely say that I've never felt a sense of urgency to willingly place myself into a public restroom environment so strongly.

I feel better and have an entirely different outlook on life now that I don't smell like I cooked in sweat juices over a camp fire all weekend. Although, I'm now questioning the likelihood of me ever becoming an adult. You know, since I show up to work in dirty clothes now and all.

I've got one more carload to go on the moving front and I honestly will not rest until it is finished now, 95 degree record highs BE DAMNED. I'm not letting this take up any more time than is humanly possible.


I think a nice, loooooong, swim will be in order this eve. Yahtzeeeeeee.

Xo Sara










**Side note, I've recently launched a new blog. Buttttttttt, I'll probably still be writing mostly on this one. Blah blah blah- privacy and stuff. Email if you're interested and we'll get you hooked up with some underbelly that leaves my identity feeling a little more safely anonymous.

my budget is shot, but my hair looks FABULOUS

I'm relatively vain, like most women I know, so I spend time worrying about and spending copious amounts of money on fucking pointless things that aren't going to feed natural disaster victims.... like minimizing the size of my pores and fixing the split ends in my hair.


I wish it weren't so.




In fact, yesterday I bought a goddamn flat iron for my hair that put me back over a hundred bucks.
(But, it was definitely on sale for fifty dollars off, so I obviously HAD to make it mine. It's a CHI.  Plus, colorful paisley. Um, duh. While you will never catch me dead OR alive adorning my body in such a tacky pattern, yes, I will allow my haircare products to be embellished with whimsy and bright coloring.)

heinious hot-pink patent leather bag included.

I'm not a girly-girl. I stare with malice at any clothing item tainted with glitter or sequins. I won't even paint my nails with anything vaguely pearlescent. But, I'll empty my bank account for Michael Kors if he ever asks, I collect pricey perfume bottles and I'm a freak about facewash. Not to mention my unending quest for swimable mascara. If you've found it, please share.

When I walk into the doors of Ulta or Sephora, it's like sugarplum fairies are actually materializing in front of my face. Never mind the fact that I get the same feeling from a Half-Priced Books. It's magical. I'm dead fucking serious when I say that I will start humming along to the music in these stores and sauntering around like a star. It's sad to watch, and that's why I'm glad I'm me and I don't have to. I'm living in my FABULOUS little dream world where every problem I have with my appearance can be solved with a spray, lotion, gel, sprinkle of dust.

I WANT ALL OF IT.

I walk into cosmetic stores and I literally morph into that spoiled girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Veruca.



GIVE ME ALL OF THE GODDAMN THINGS!

 But, being that I'm actually a semi-intelligent woman, despite my tendency toward things that smell good and trick strangers into thinking I"m prettier, I developed a strategy that actually cut down on my cosmetic splurging.

I force Manfriend to come with me.


Having him there forces me to stay on task because of math. 


 Man + Make-up store = If-we're-in-here-for-long-I'm-going-to-become-a-total-grouch.

I could and would waste hours of my life and bajillions of my dollars (okay, I don't have bajillions of dollars, sue me.) trolling up and down those aisles, searching for the perfect remedy for something I didn't even know was wrong with me when I walked into the store if it weren't for Manfriend. Instead we get to spend precious moments of him secretly grabbing my ass between rows of conditioner while I quickly try to make a decision so we can get out of there before he gets caught groping me by some old lady. Win-Win!

So far my system is working. While I did spend over one hundred dollars at Ulta last night, it was premeditated, and I did manage to skip out of there without a seventy dollar two ounce bottle of moisturizer- and a whopping supply of buyers remorse. Plus Manfriend got to feel like he was being sneaky, and it's amazing how much men love that.

Plus, now I have oodles more time to worry about other things... like how to feed natural disaster victims. While straightening my hair.


Xo Sare

sticky lips

During my lunch hour today, I was perusing the clearance section of Kroger because I obviously don't know the meaning of words like 'budget' or 'time management,' and something a little odd happened.

 I bought a tube of lipstick. Granted, an on-sale-for $2.39 tube of lipstick, but still.



Lipstick has always been the most elusive of the cosmetics to me. A nice plum rouge? I can handle it.  A menage of mascara? I'm your girl. I'll even hit up that liquid eyeliner if I'm feeling particularly spicey, but lipstick? Let's leave that to the professionals.


I guess for whatever reason I just figured lipstick is for real adult women, and not a twenty four year old who spent their Monday night sweating her ass off at the gym and then proceeded to rush home to mourn a friend's declined grad school application with an entire bottle of cheap champange- without even bothering to shower or change. Clearly, I'm not glamourous enough to warrant the application of lipstick.


However, I realized today that I must be running on flawed logic here. Lipstick's popularity never seems to diminish, despite women getting old and dying and stuff. So like, obviously people who are young are picking up on this whole lengthy trend and perpetuating it along, right? Just not anyone I know personally.


But, what's the point, exactly? I really don't dislike the color of my lips at all. In fact, I think it's a rather nice shade. Plus, I greatly prefer the feeling of chapstick to that of chalky, dry, lipstick. Why don't I know anyone my age who regularly applies this cosmetic? WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME THIS TIME?! Naturally I went to the person I go to with all the troubles of my curious little heart, Manfriend.




Me: "Question. How do you feel about lipstick?"


Manfriend: "Is this a trap?"


Me: "I don't think so. Lipstick?"


Manfriend: "On me...?"


Me: "No. I just mean in a general sense, what are your feelings toward lipstick as a thing?"


Manfriend: "Um. I think it looks good on some people and some people overdo it, I guess. It's okay...."



... and then I stopped listening because I was driving, which, if you can believe it, actually makes my attention span even shorter than normal and because I was obviously asking the wrong person. Manfriend doesn't even wear lipstick! (That I know of.)


One of those major makeup lines now has Taylor Swift as one of their models for LIPSTICK. NOT GLOSS. STICK. So shit, I guess they're trying to accentuate what a youthful product this is. But, it's not, right? Am I a freak here? I just don't feel like I come into contact with THAT MANY women who wear lipstick. How can it be so wildly popular and I'm just in the dark? Shit, it's just like Twitter, only much, much older and an actual product, isn't it?


Today, I rushed out to my car after paying for my 'necessities' at Kroger and hurriedly ripped open the tube of lipstick. We stared each other down. I smelled it, because I'm a freak and I smell everything. And then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and applied that mystical stick-o-the-lips onto my supple smackers and leaned back to admire my handy work.


My lips were fucking orange. The color, as described on the tube, is "Kiss," but I can guarandamntee that Manfriend would NOT dare kiss me if he had been there to check me out. It looked so nude/lightpink/fresh from the tube, the deceptive little bastard! Undeniably orange. And flecked with shiney pearlescent looking shit, which, if you know me at all, you know I HATE pearlescently colored things. I wiped that shit off my now-dehydrated lips and drove back to the office to spend my last half-hour of lunch in the peace and dark of the uninhabited side-office that I occasionally hide out in.


I guess I don't really have any problem with lipstick. And maybe one day, when the time is right, I'll start wearing it around the house and putting it on before I go to the grocery store and stuff, and it will feel natural. Just not today; today I will waste away my afternoon pondering the popularity of a product that I'm not ready for, the nerve!



XO Sare

the gym couple.

To be honest, I'm a little bored with the whole let's find me a new path in life because I don't like the one I'm on theme I've been going with the past couple of posts. Trust me, that little intenal tug-of-war isn't going anywhere, so rest assured I'll finish rating my new potential careers at some point this week.

Just not today.

Today, I'd like to talk about a little thing that's causing me a lot of anxiety.


A little thing I like to call, the 'gym couple.'


NOBODY, and I mean NOBODY likes that couple. You know the one I'm talking about. Matching outfits, annoying vernacular of encouraging phrases infused with pet names,  PECKING EACH OTHER ON THE MOUTH BETWEEN SETS OF REPS.

It's... just..... too.... much.


It's too much for any sane person, single or taken, who is genuinely trying to sweat five pounds through their pores in the next forty five minutes of intense self-inflicted pain and discomfort.

I hate the couple. Because how can they possibly be getting an actual, decent, worth-going-through-all-the-motions-leading-up-to-working-out, work-out session in with the other one hovering around, watching every single fucking move they make? How can they possibly be working off the aggresion that built up all day towards one another from the dishes that he left in the sink unwashed, or how she used all the hot water this morning?? I mean, it's healthy, right? To need to just blow off some steam sweating your ass off instead of getting into a screaming match over a used cereal bowl or a luke-warm shower? Do they have no conflicts?


Ludicrous.


I just don't see how it can really be healthy to have your significant other there with you during the daily workout. Sure, I enjoy a nice bike ride with Manfriend. We walk the dog together. We've gone canoeing together. (In hindsight, the canoeing example isn't actually a very good one, because I'm incredibly bossy and I have to be the one steering and when you're trapped on a boat with the other most stubborn person on the planet, copious amounts of gummi worms are sometimes necessary to mend things at the end of the ordeal. AKA, I don't think Manfriend had an awesome time canoeing with me, but whatever I'm probably the best canoeing partner I know. )


So anyway, I'm vehemently opposed to the idea that 'the couple that works out together, stays together.' GROSS. I love Manfriend and I'm not really all that timid about being sweaty and digusting when I'm around him, but I NEED my workout time to be mine.


 Which is why a really, really strange thing happened last night.


Recently, Manfriend joined a gym. A Martial Arts gym. Recently, I really really wanted to join a gym, but due to the fact that I run outside and would only use the gym every now and then to swim laps, do a class, or do upper body stuff a couple of times a week, it doesn't really fit into my budget. AKA, my credit card debt isn't going anywhere and my parents would probably skin me alive if I joined a gym right now. I realize it's sad that I just blamed my parents for not joining a gym, but trust me, they can take it.

Muay Thai. Not Manfriend, but this is what he's doing with his life these days.

Sooooooooo anyway, Manfriend is doing Muay Thai now. BUT ALSO they do a Strength and Conditioning class at his gym a few times a week for an hour. andifyoulivewithyoursignificantotherthentheycancomeforfreeanddothatclasstoo.

And goddamnit, it's FREE.

So, what I'm trying to say is that last night I went to the class. With Manfriend. I mean, not technically with him, with him, since he was already there for his specific class, which was right before the one I came for. So we drove seperately. But I mean, we both did the class.


Together.

But not like, together, together.


I promise we didn't even really speak to one another. I made sure to be on a different heavy bag when we did punching exersizes. It was basically like we weren't even there together.


Except we were. The last 15 minutes or so we did mat stuff and we were definitely right next to each other. And at the end, we got called out by the main dude that runs the academy.

"Look at theeees couple, they're gettin' fit togethaa."



Fuck me.



But you know what? Screw it. I really enjoyed the class. The owner's name is Mr. Bigby, and I get a shit-ton of pleasure out of repeating his name in every weird voice I can think up with regularity. I liked the girl-to-guy ratio, and how much sweat I expelled in the one-hour period, and I especially got a kick out of punching those bags as hard as I possibly could with absolutely zero reprecussions for being aggressive.

I figure, as long as we're not dressing alike, acknowledging each other during the time we're there, and he's not calling me 'sugar-tits,' while I'm mentally kicking the shit out of the lady that cut me off on the entrance ramp on my commute home, then I guess I can live with this little set-up. Come on, it's free. I've still got my daily run to pound out any residual neurotisism hanging around my psyche. I don't think we're in any danger of ever dressing in matching outfits to go work out, or lifting weights together. But, I guess this is probably how these things start. Meh.


Plus, I don't really think I can express in words how much enjoyment I found out that I get in punching things, otherwise I just carry all that shit around, because I'm really bad at just letting things go.


Hate me if you wanna, I'll be getting fit enough to kick your ass.




XO Sare.