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.  

 

 

a dream, an airport, a cat. in that order.

Last night I had an odd and semi-disturbing dream involving a minivan, a park near my hometown, a very confusing trip to the grocery store and/or possibly someone's grandmother's house, and one of my college roomates.  I woke up at 5:30 to my dad calling to let me know that my parent's and brother's plane had landed and I should leave now to pick them up at the airport. As I brushed my teeth and stumbled out to my parent's Suburban to complete the last leg in bringing them home from vacation in Hawaii, I was legitimately confused about what was real life and was was dream life. And then the speedometer didn't work my entire drive to the airport. It was kind of a weird morning.

Anyway, my parents were supposed to get home yesterday, but they got stuck in Hawaii another day due to mechanical failures on the plane or something, which if it weren't for the extra hours spent in an airport with an eleven year old (my dear brother, Charlie), would make them the luckiest vacationers ever. I never get stuck in Hawaii another night on the airline's dime. But I did get stuck in Denver for an extra night on their dime once, and that was rad. Except I got sick on the way home. But that could have been a hangover. It's anyone's guess.

While my parents were gone I watched their pooch and the house and the cat who also lives there. She's kind of a bitch. But we love her. But seriously, she's a cat, so strike one and two right there.



Yesterday I was hanging out on the back porch and she would not leave me alone. I'm reading The Vanishers right now, which is riveting, and she kept swatting it away so I would pet her more. So, strike three.

Just kidding, she was being uncharacteristically adorable and we had a mini photo-shoot right then and there. Of which I'll only subject you to one snap. You're welcome.

Meet Greta, this is her version of Blue Steel.  Also note my hood status. It prevents people from seeing what I've done to my hair. Yeah. That happened.

fickle march, fickle me

maybe i need to stop taking emo pics and actually work through my emotions. nahhhh.

The other morning on my way to work I sat through an entire red light without realizing my right turn signal was blinkblinkblinking away. I was going straight. I flipped it off as I accelerated through the light and looked around sheepishly at the other cars to see if anyone was pissed and/or making obscene gestures at me. Guess everyone was feeling pretty tame that morning because I didn't get a single side-eye. Maybe they thought it was a late April Fools joke. A cheap leftover.

 

I guess I lost myself there for a second in contemplating what a good month March was to me this year. To tell the truth, I've never really had any real affinity toward Spring. I get it, I get it. Rebirth, life, emerging on the other side of Winter. It's all well and good to see green again and to not feel like my fingers and ears are going to fall off every time I step outside, but really, I'm in it for Summer. Spring is just another thing to endure before blistering heat, minimal clothing, and the promise of campfires and sunshine and reading while partially submerged in water.

 

Spring is fickle. It changes its mind too often, threatens to give my psyche whiplash. It's soggy and tumultuous, despite the hardy daffodils and magnolias that quickly remind us of all to come and then fade until next year.They're a treat, but they're not made to last.  No wonder Picses are the way that they are, they kick off Spring. Anyone born at the start of such a finicky season is bound to brood. And yet, I'm attracted to the depth and the endless rollercoaster ride that the Picses in my life take me on. As I've mentioned probably a hundred times, I'm a summer soul through and through.  I usually have no use for finicky March. For the battle of rain and sun, warm and cold.  Why should I? I know who is going to win out, let's get on with the next.

 

I sometimes feel like my entire life is a series of waiting to get on with the next.

 

I don't know, I mean, I make as much effort as the next guy to really be present in the moment and enjoy where I am, but the fact of the matter is that I'm like a half-starved animal- I'm always reaching, stretching, grasping, struggling for more. Just a little further. Just a little tiny bit more. Just just just just.

 

 

Just slow down, Sara.

 

Let's consider real life for a moment.

 

Have I mentioned recently that I'm moving to Montana in a few short months? Yeah. That's happening. In my mind I'm so overwhelmed by the fact that I'm going to pacify this internal pull to run to the mountains that I don't even know where to start here. What can I do but wait until it's finally time?

 

I know this thinking isn't productive. It doesn't encourage lists or tying up loose ends or force me to grapple with leaving the life I've forged here. It's so confusing that I don't feel joy or sadness or anything really. Just the knowledge that I'm going, the impatience that I'm not there yet, and the dull sinking feeling that comes with knowing that there is so much to do before I depart. But I feel sort of stuck, like there's nothing I can do right in this exact moment in time, and that frustration feels raw and itchy. It's a rash I wear constantly. It's distracting and demanding. It takes so much effort and will power to keep it at bay.

 

And this is the line I dream of:

 

"Let there be rock and roll on the dashboard rado; let there be occasional hands bongoing on the dashboard. Let that white line in the middle of the far west two-lane highway come feeding into the screen..." -Jack Kerouac

 

My soul is so far away from my body and right now I feel ugently that, for once, it is crucial that my soul and body inhabit the same plane.

 

And yet March was wonderful and wild. I planted bulbs and pulled weeds and watched little green tongues poke through the soil, so hungry for sunlight. I welcomed a member of my family and watched my sister become a mother, a role she falls into so naturally that I'm once again shocked that we can at the same time be so alike and so differerent. I got accepted into school and decided on a new life path. I had serious conversations with Matt about our future, read many delightful books, saw one of my favorite bands in concert, and painted some beautiful pictures. I started running again and told my boss that I'm gone by summer's end and cheered my alma mater all the way to the final four. I celebrated the birthdays of my sister and brother and got a sun tan on my face and arms from a week straight of 80 degree days.

 

March was full, you guys.

 

Full of good.

 

It deserved to be treasured and polished for memory.

 

So why do I feel so distracted by something I can't pull out of my periphery? It's right there, but I can't catch it staring straight on.

florence.

I have a niece now.

 

 

And she's beautiful and perfect and my sister doing great as well. Florence, my niece, weighed almost ten pounds, so if you think about it, my sister accomplished a pretty impressive feat in growing and delivering such a pudgy little bundle of life. We all love her, which is a given, and we all want to hold and talk to her practically every waking moment. So basically, baby Florence is a hot commodity.

 

They're due to be able to go home tonight, and I think everyone is really ready for that.

 

I'll probably be darkening my sister's doorstep frequently enough that I just miss the 'worn out my welcome' mark until I make my departure for the west.

 

Family will be swarming in the next few weeks like paparazzi to catch a glimpse of our newest addition, which will be equal parts lovely and overwhelming for the new family of three, I'm sure.

 

But you know, in my constantly clicking, worrying, fretting, half-crazy mind, this all has been a best-case-scenario situation.

 

Welcome baby Florence, I know you'll bring with you the prosperity your name promises. 

Love, Aunt Sara

because I want to.

I'm getting swept up in a vast storm of negativity today lately. So I lieu of my currently non-existent "about me" section, and to distract myself, I'm going to spout off five or so random facts about moi,  probably unbeknownst to you up until this point. Maybe not.

1. Shit. This is harder than I thought it would be.


1.  I ran cross country and track in high school. It was basically one big happy cult family. Other than running ridiculously long distances in extreme heat and cold, not much else happened. We didn't drink. We didn't do drugs. There were a lot of carrot sticks and co-ed sleepovers. There was also a lot of driving around aimlessly on country roads and loud music. We did occasionally egg people's houses. It wasn't that terrible, really. For some reason, I always feel seventeen in the town I grew up in. It's like it's too small to take on everything else I've become since then.


2  I was really reluctant to give in to the whole skinny jeans thing. Like, really reluctant. Enough that even though that phase of my life is basically a blur of college, I remember fighting skinny jeans tooth and nail. Hello, my name is Sara and I have a huge ass. Strangers grab it on occasion, to the point where I swear it's like moths to light. I've now been safely converted, despite my ass's persistence in all things protruding, to the joys of tight pants. Skinny jeans.... I love you. I promise.


3.  I realllllly dislike wearing glasses in public. Have a mentioned that? I'm not sure. I just don't like it. I feel so vulnerable, as if at any moment they're likely to fall off my face on the ground to get trampled by oncoming traffic. Then I'll be blind and have no way to get home. I freak out a lot. The funny thing is, I get hit on about 7:1 more times when I'm wearing glasses. A little weird if you ask me. Good thing I already snagged a total babe because if I had to resort to wearing glasses to rope in eligible men, I'd have a panic attack a minute about my vision being limited to the constraints of the lenses. I freak out a lot, I told you.


4.  I don't listen to her music that much, but that stupid "You and Me" song by Lady Gaga makes me tear up every single time I hear it. What the hell? I don't even know anyone from Nebraska.


5.  On Saturday it was so unfairly beautiful outside that I left the library and drove to the park. I read a novel while I laid in the grass and let the sun warm me instead of finishing my grad school applications. It's January. In the Midwest. As far as I'm concerned, that's the closest I've ever been to divine intervention. As for my grad schools apps- still looming large.  Everything in due time, right?


So now you now all about me and my aversion to glasses and conversion to skinny jeans and everything else.

Hello!

growing up is nearly impossible...for me

Sometimes if I go like two whole weeks without showing up to work even moderately hungover, even one time.... I classify myself as an adult.

It's like getting a mushroom and doubling your size in Mario Brothers. I'M BIG!

Yeah, I know. That statement doesn't really speak much for my maturity or responsibility levels.

But I think that may have something to do with the fact that I never really feel like an adult.

Sure, I've mostly paid my bills on time for the past six or so years, I usually don't forget to take out my contacts before I fall asleep at night, and I'm basically 1/2 responsible for a giant dog monster who makes messes that I HAVE TO CLEAN UP and sometimes ruins my things and then I HAVE TO FORGIVE HER. So yeah, I've come a long way.

Still, I feel like I've got some kind of Peter Pan complex or something at times. Or I wonder if certain things about me are just me not being grown up yet and I'll mature my way right out of them when the magical day comes, or if this is it, this is just my personality and I'm going to be this way forever.

This is sort of vague, but that's because it's sort of general. It's never one specific thing, but sometimes it manifests itself as me spending all of my remaining 'wiggle room' money for the next two weeks on dinner and a movie for two. Or sometimes it rears its head as 'forgetting' to brush my teeth one night because my toothbrush is all the way out in my car and zzzzzzzomg it's cold outside and I'm already in bed and sooo comfy and warm and I don't have pants on so obviously I'll just brush them in the morning. And don't even mention flossing. Shit.

I swear I'm done disgusting you with my oral hygiene now.

It's just that there's no guide. I am a reader. I average five books and week and you can verify that with my disgruntled boyfriend because that's not even an exaggeration. I read. All. the. time. There are guides to help you grow up. To help you get healthy. To help you get happy. To help you land an interview. To help you land a job. There are guides for navigating your health insurance and benefits and guides to help you cope with the blows life will inevitably hurl at you from point blank while you're totally unaware, living your life, trying to find the corresponding guide for whatever situation you're in. As someone who often feels totally inept at living, I have read these guides.

And they're useful.

But none of them teach you how not to lose your shit in your car on that asshole that just pulled out in front of you because they, in fact, may be the person interviewing you for that dream job for which you thought you were a shoe-in. They don't tell you that flossing five times in the 24 hours before you go to the dentist after totally neglecting to do so since your last visit isn't going to fool that fucking doctor. (Sorry, I guess I'm really fixated on teeth today.) Or that even though you can totally wake up on time and drag yourself to work hungover, you are not fooling anyone and will basically serving as a walking billboard for AA for the rest of the day.

Nope, those are lessons you have to learn on your own. Lessons I have learned. Along with many more. Humiliation is a good teacher.

And every time I think I've mastered one and dodged the embarrassment of that "Oh Christ, who is this immature clown in our midst?" moment, about four more surround and ambush me.

So maybe I don't rely on my bar receipts to tell me the story of if I have enough money left in my account to fill up my car with gas anymore, but I wish I could say those days were further back in the rear view then they actually are.

I guess, at my age, I am an adult. I'm certainly not a teenager anymore. But it's about time since I'm closer to 30 than my teen years. I want to be treated like an adult by society. I want to reap the benefits that come with being able to handle the responsibilties of being a contributing member of society... if there are any. I want to look at my bank account and not instantly think "Okay, I get paid in ___ days, Marie Calendar $1 meals, welcome to my kitchen. I want to someday muster the courage and funds to purchase a home.

I'm clawing and crawling my way slooooowly in that general direction. I'm trying to be an adult. I've even mastered business casual, even though I sometimes try to push the casual as far as it will go. Like today.
I rarely ever go buy new underwear to avoid doing laundry anymore.

But note that was 'rarely' and not 'never,' so while I may be an adult, no, I'm not grown up.

a toast for my sister.

As I've mentioned a few times now, my little sister is getting married in three short weeks.

Since somewhere in the book of sisterly duties it says that big sisters are maid of honor material, I am maid of honor material. And even if I'm not, I will simply have to do. There are times that I look back at my mother tying us together at 9 and 7 in a futile effort to force us to learn how to get along with one another and I have to laugh because somehow, we arrived here.

(Yes, she seriously tied us together with pieces of fabric. We weren't harmed. She untied us for bed, but left us together for meals. Our father traveled a lot for work. I think she was pretty ingenuitive.)

We have now arrived at the point where we don't have to be tied together with fabric to understand that even without the knots, we're held together by some strange force that comes from growing up side by side, enduring all the weird and terrible things that happen within a family everyday.  Upon inspection, the weird and terrible might not really be so weird and terrible, but you'd never dare compare it with anyone. We shared the weirdness. We are sisters. We'll always be tied together.

You should know that everything about my sister happens in a whirlwind. She's a tornado that tears through town and stirs things up. She'll level one house and barely leave the one next door a breeze. She'll rage in a fury and deceive you with her eye in the center, only to flare back up almost immediately with a vengeance. She is a force of her own, she needs no source and doesn't follow and pattern or a logic. She never lacks energy, creativity, or originality and has never sought approval or pats on the head from authority.

She is my only sister. She is all I have to go on as sisterly relationships go. In some ways we mirror each other and in as many more, you'd never believe we came from the same family. At times, our relationship has been volatile. I was a bossy and bitchy child, hell bent on having my own way despite the desires of anyone else. My sister has had bouts of self destruction and moments where I am to blame for any wrong that ever came looking for her. Yet with everything we've gone through and everything that has happened,  we find ways to love each other more and our relationship grows stronger every day- despite all of the things we'll never forgive each other for; there will probably always be those things between sisters.

We are sisters, we are at times each others worst enemies and at times each others only ally. I know no better way to describe the teetering balance in the relationship of female siblings. The bar swings heavy one way or another between the two poles, and you're still stuck with each other. Sometimes it's a happy accident and sometimes it's a sentence you'll never live long enough to serve.

She is my sister, and I love her.

But what will I say in my speech in three weeks?

It's too much to try to express it all in a few short moments, all my hope and congratulations, with guests barely listening as they peer longingly down their flutes, waiting to make contact with the bubbly nectar teasing their lips. I know my family, trust that they love their champagne.

Maybe it'll mean nothing to them as I pour out the story of my first decipherable memory, the day my sister was born. I wasn't even three years old, but I remember details from that day, tidbits of realization that no one could have painted for my memory. I'll start my speech with that fact, maybe pepper in some details. My parents will nudge each other and smile knowingly, because they know that's my first memory, of course they do.

They'll lean over their table and mouth to the family members they're seated with, "She remembers it because she's never forgiven us for not making her an only child!" And there will be muffled laughter, but by then I'll already be explaining how that's not the way I see it.

The way I see it, in life there are moments that stick out like sore thumbs. They can be raw, embarrassing, make your heart skip a beat, or cause you to cry out, but they change you, alter something untouchable but true. They're vivid and bright and significant because of what they do to shape you, and everything afterward that you do, think, or say is slightly influenced by that single slot in time. The moment I met my sister was one of those slots.

My sister's presence in my world has shaped it. She has made me stronger, made me feel deeply, weakened my resolve at times, challenged me, made me hate myself, and taught me so much about life and love. She is an anchor that hasn't let up or allowed me to blow away since she planted herself deep into my person. My sister, she is a part of me. A pivotal part, the first thing I've loved constantly and consistently that wasn't provided for me at birth. That's a long affair.

I'll try to explain it all and fall short and start fumbling a little over words. I'll look Matt over at for comfort and instantly regret it and start getting heady with emotion. The express lane straight to hysterics.

I'll mention that I bet her new husband remembers the exact moment Hurricane Beth blew into his life and the ensuing battle to catch and contain her. I'll warn him of what he already knows- not to discuss anything serious for at least an hour after you get her out of bed and the like, but not too much. I'll commend him for holding her attention and winning her peculiar heart. I'll plead with him to try his best to help their relationship grow and blossom the way that I know in my heart she'll do hers. And then I'll thank him for being the man it takes to gently and sometimes not-so-gently handle my sister's mind, soul, heart, and body.

And then I'll thank my sister for being the first to know how to gently and sometimes not-so-gently handle my mind, soul, heart, and body. I'll tell her I love her and I'll cheers to a happy and laughter-filled life. I'll joke about nieces and nephews and the revenge I'll get on her through spoiling them unforgivably. I'll chug two glasses of champagne and smile my biggest smile.

And then I'll march straight to the bathroom, lock myself into a stall, rest my hair-sprayed head on my thighs and weep.

Because she is my sister, and I love her.

Sara

four eyes.

I've been rolling sans glasses since I lost them in my move/on a camping trip. In June.


Needless to say, I was down to A SINGLE contact, and my eyes are different prescriptions.

It's a damn good thing I went to the eye doctor on Saturday.  


So.


I've been browsing various glasses to see what I should order. Which I'll definitely be ordering from a glasses website because I'm always losing the damn things and I need something cheap enough to spring for a couple of pairs. Everyone in my family has glasses except my youngest brother, who is ten. OH WAIT, also except my diabetes brother, because apparently the diabetes miraculously cured his nearsightedness.


Weird.

In an attempt to figure out what kind of frames to buy for myself this time around, I went on a search of the internet to find pictures of myself sporting glasses.

There aren't many, because I actually don't think I look very sexyyyyyyyy with four eyes.

Below is the best of what facebook had to offer:

hanging on a play ground with my besties at age 22. kids at heart.

the glee is genuine, so is the sledgehammer.

look thrilled and undergroomed, per usual.

i'm basically oozing sex appeal.

does every gal go through the kissy-face photo phase? I hope so.

ice means double the alcohol. this was actually my very last underage drink.

That purse is reaaaaaaaaally embarrassing. More than the glasses.

...upon reflection, perhaps it's not the glasses' fault that I don't look attractive while wearing them. 

Xo Sare

every little thing

I've been pretty much repeating the mantra "Every little thing is going to be all right" on a loop lately.

Partially because it's true and partially because I freak out a lot.

This week even minor things have been coming dangerously close to making me howl like a banshee and/or put innocent bystanders in mild to moderate danger.

Every little thing is going to be all right.

Despite:

...My hair desperately needing to be cut. Desperately. Sorry strands, not in the budget this month, stop splitting yourselves. Seriously. Not funny.

...Is that a piece of popcorn kernel or an infectious tumor under my tonsil? For the last three days. Poking my esophageal cavity every time I swallow or move. Just kill me.

...Two terrible mornings in a row. I mean running out the door with no shoes on because I'm late and then realizing it and having to go back in to find shoes and not being able to find me keys. Just, GAHHH.

...Trying to coordinate a bachelorette party for a lovely friend and only hearing back from one other member of the bridal party. OMG it's in less than a month. COME ON.

...Is that pair of pants TIGHTER than usual? Oh holy holy lord, please don't let it be so.

...Yup, they're definitely tighter. Time to go running... OH MY GOD THIS IS TERRIBLE.

...That shirt I need to wear to my mentoring session today so the school knows I'm legit? Yeah, it's nowhere to be found, and it's wrinkly wherever I'm not finding it.  Fuck.

...I think I'll commiserate over my trivial problems with one of my gal pals. OH WAIT, there's only one left in town. Vacation? I LOVE VACATIONS. *&#(*#$ When did travel to remote parts of the country and world get so expensive?!


Every LITTLE thing is going to be all right.

And they're ALL little things, in the grand scheme.

So I guess that means I'm a pretty lucky girl.

Maybe that should be my new mantra.

Xo Sare

the league

HEY GUYS IT'S SEPTEMBER RIGHT.


In the midst of my brother's sudden illness, other downer news, and everyone's general bumminess about things, I'd almost forgotten about my newest obsession/hobby/major manifestation of stress and anxiety.


Fantasy Football.




OK. I know, I hate me too. Just hear me out.




I've been invited for years to join one of these fake sport leagues for people who are obsessed with a certain sport and just can't get enough of it and aren't good enough to play it professionally.

 I love college football and getting drunk and tailgating and singing Carmen Ohio and crying over losing games, but I don't follow pro football at all and I really don't need something else that I'll ultimately and inevitably become emotionally invested in and lose my shit over.


So I always cheerfully say "No thanks!" and carry on with my life. Which is exactly what I did this year.


Until Manfriend joined a league with all of my college friends and former college roommates and they were going to be smack talking and discussing it like all the time and omg I don't want to be the left out loser in the corner who has no idea what they're talking about so I cope by eating my feelings and chewing on my hair.

At almost the very last second I gave in decided to join. NO big whoop, I wasn't going to get too involved, I just wanted to be kinda sorta in the loop.


So the night before the draft, I rested my head upon my pillow and drifted off to sleep without a care in the world. I probably dreamed about shoes and champagne, and canoeing on a river, and bubble gum. It was a solid sleep.


I got to work that morning and figured I'd do a tiny bit of research to see who I should select for my team- The Draft was at 7pm.


And I got to the first website and promptly freaked the fuck out.


Because this shit is seriously, seriously involved. One of the first tidbits of advice I came across was something like this: 'NEVER BE LATE FOR THE DRAFT. Would you show up late to a job interview? Of course not- and THE DRAFT is more important than any job interview, so be on time.'


Ever heard of a Sleeper?


Welp, I hadn't.


I felt lost and out of control and suddenly very at risk to become a loser, THE loser.


And so I did what came naturally to me, I became completely and totally obsessed.


I had approximately ten hours from the time I became fixated on fantasy football until the auction style draft. Ten hours to learn everything about players, team, and the rules. And I was starting with absolutely nothing, so I was essentially screwed.

Let me tell you, people are fucking unreal about this stuff. It means more to them than their real lives. THEY DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE REAL LIVES.  I don't know how I'm going to manage this one team and we're talking MULTIPLE TEAMS for a lot of these guys.


When I left work at 5 pm the day of the draft, I was armed with a belly full of panic and a stack of post it notes with random names and tidbits of wisdom scrawled all over them. my plan was to rush home and make CHARTS and nonchalantly pump Manfriend for information.


Five minutes after arriving home, I'm certain that he wanted to kill me. I was already half a beer deep and I could not sit still. My eyes were darting around. Post its were everywhere. I'm surprised he didn't just strangle me there to put my out of my misery.


Manfriend tried to keep reminding me that it's "Just for fun!" to which I wailed "I WON'T HAVE FUN IF I'M A LOSER!!!!"

Which, is obviously true. I don't really partake in things I'm not good at. I know that sounds pretty pathetic, but I mean, why would I? I try everything and then continue doing the things I found myself to excel at because they're the most enjoyable for me. Hence, not playing video games.

About an hour before the draft I was left home alone so Manfriend cold procure another computer and a six pack. For me. To ease my nerves. And because he honestly couldn't stand to be around my ridiculous stress level anymore. Easy for him, he actually watches the games!

AMIRIGHT?!

Anyway, in case you were wondering, the draft went fine. I played it pretty conservative with the fake-money auction, which is in stark contrast to real life where I throw my money everywhere except in a savings account and spread it as thinly as possible to insure I get the most possible cheap thrills. I actually got pretty drunk and deeply regretted it the entire next day at work. I also got most of the players I had my heart set on and it was OBVIOUS that I'd done my homework more than anyone else.

To me, at least.

I will declare myself the FANTASY FOOTBALL QUEEN if all goes according to my master plan.

Stand by.

XO Sara

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, pinterest.com 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."

Sad.

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

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.


(Kidding)

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

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. 

Sara

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