natural disasters.

Sometimes terrible things happen on perfect days. The first warm and sunny day after a punishing winter doesn't care how bad you need some good news, it's just a system of pressure and circumstance. Of science. And sometimes, it is the good news.

 

It never happens like this in the movies, but sometimes you hear your new favorite song on a day cloudy and 42 degrees. Sometimes the salt stains and dirty snow are in various states of melting and soaking into the earth and it's ugly. Maybe we're more open to new favorite songs on the sunny days, but a true gem will shine no matter the conditions outside your window.

 

I was on the bus the first time Tegan and Sara's "Where Does the Good Go?" came on my ipod shuffle. It was crowded on the bus and winter and I didn't want to be going to class, my hands were cold because I forgot my gloves and lord only knows the last time I'd managed to bathe. It was one of the worst moments of my life, hearing that song for the first time with strangers jammed in all around me, not giving a shit that my poor little heart was crumbling. It's still one of my favorite songs.

 

Yeah, maybe we're nothing more than the sum of those little moments that stick to our ribs.

 

Or maybe we are.

 

Who am I to say?

 

Anyway, today is beautiful, so probably nothing terribly significant will happen.

 

Except that my wonderful boyfriend got called out in the middle of the night and so this morning I had a delicious surprise from the bakery down the street waiting for me.

 

I guess that's pretty significant.

weather woes

I've been very reflective lately, which comes as no surprise to me because it happens every year when my body begins to sense that Summer is coming to an end.

In a way, it's a relief. The mornings a little crisper, there's college football, orchard trips and lovely red and orange and yellow landscapes. Autummn is beautiful in the Midwest, especially where I live, which is a little bit Country AND a little bit Rock N Roll. There are bonfires to be had, pumpkins to carve, layers to pile upon.

And Lord do I love a good pair of boots.

Mostly, though- I fight tooth and nail to keep summer going. I'll wear flip flops so long the ends of my toes will start to frost bite. I'll keep my windows down as long as I can, insist on spending every spare moment outdoors.

Summer is the answer to everything that ails me, it makes me feel more free, relaxed, better. With the start of fall I can feel myself winding back up.

The days are getting shorter, less sunlight steeps into my window every morning as I crawl out of bed. Soon I'll be driving to work under a blanket of darkness and getting home as the sun begins to set.

Winter is the hardest on me, and I can feel myself tense up at just the mention of it. It winds me tight and holds me down with its short short days and throws in my face the death portion in the circle of life.


I generally think people that complain about the weather are the worst kind of people; boring, dull, lamenting the most amazing display the earth has to offer us, one that can never be manipulated by all our technology and money.

You can't pay to insure it won't rain on your wedding day.


And now I'm one of those people.


UGH.

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

this good mood is brought to you by : THE SUN

HOLY SUNSHINE.


After two straight weeks practically an eternity of this:

AND EVEN BETTER:

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

I'm elated, obviously.

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

Cheers!

XO Sara

april showers bring impulse buying

I can totally justify to myself the purchase of these little dandies:



they're perfect, i know.




1. I found them for almost half off the original price, with free overnight shipping. It's like this website really cares about me and doesn't want me to catch my death from soggy, cold, feet. New BFFS? New BFFS.

2.  I actually discovered these gems in January, aka OVER two months ago and have restrained and bargained with myself about buying them. Thus, I've earned this simple pleasure.

3. If we continue at the current rate, this April is going to be full of rain showers. I need to arm myself accordingly. With precious boots.

4. I'm obsessed with Sperry. It's sick. I have an illness. These boots were my fix. There is no known cure.



April, you can throw all the showers you've got at me, I've got the proper footwear and I can now take on the world.


Xo Sara

an ode to what's to come.

I am absolutely meant to be outside for as much time in my life as possible, without a single doubt.



Naturally, I'm fucking THRILLED TO DEATH that we're seeing some significant signs of warmth and life and less punishing conditions in my current locale. I saw daffodils in bloom yesterday that weren't in a grocery store! Driving home from work, I see tennis and soccer and baseball leagues starting practice again, fresh bouncing balls and unscuffed cleats. To me, it looks like relief. Seeing life take hold again.



I don't know if I've sufficiently expressed just how much of a summer person I am, but I'm going to go ahead and cover all my bases on that again right now, just in case not everyone got the whole picture. When the weather is nice, I'm a completely different person. In the summer, the glass becomes half-full, I stay up later than ten pm on weeknights, and I can feel myself just smiling for the sake of it. I sometimes even smile at elderly strangers. Creepy, but also, just, like, stupid cheerful.


I know that everyone gets a little crazy and more fun and just generally lively in the hot, sunny days of warmth and magic, but there's normal-person-contentment and then there's OMGZ SARA IS ALIVE!


My entire happiness in life could almost revolve around waking up with my hair smelling of campfire and that disgusting blackened marshmellow goo still stuck under my fingernails. My snarkiness becomes good-natured sarcasm. I feel lighter, and not just because of the significant reduction in clothing layers. I love the smell of the air and the feel of it, driving with every window down and the music as loud as it will get. There's nothing, nothing, in the world like a hot dog, cold beer, and live music while nursing a sunburn and wearing something cotton and thin. Throwing a blanket down on a patch of grass with a couple of friends at dusk in the summer does more for me than years of therapy ever could.  Summer is my answer to healing anything that ails. It's a miracle cure.


Everyone looks more attractive, comfortable in their own skin. Makeup is minimal if worn at all. Think about it honestly, doesn't everyone look prettier in the summer? Maybe it's the sun, or the warmth, or the feeling that waking up to light instead of dark gives you deep down, but it's true. Summer is the season for romantic flings because people are comfortable and just whatever enough to let themselves just be swept away, if only until the leaves start to change. Summer is never about practicality, and maybe that's why is appeals so strongly to my impractical, impulsive spirit. Moderation has always been lost on me.



And then there's the water, the insatiable urge to submerge myself in a body of water. The water is my favorite part of the whole summer package. I love the look and sounds and smells of bodies of water, lakes, rivers, streams, in the winter months too, but I love the feel of them in the summer. Spending every childhood summer at a cottage on the most beautiful lake in the entire world kind of ruined me, but in the best way possible. Ever go waterskiiing on glass at dawn? It's a religious experience. And I'm not even religious.   (and I'm not bullshitting, take a look:)

Torch Lake : She's a real beaut.

I guess it's probably logical to ask, why do I endure the winter, stay in the Midwest? Why don't I just move somewhere that my summer soul can breathe and play all year round without having to retreat into the darkened corners of my spirit when the days get shorter and the commute involves a fifteen minute defrost period, and stepping out of the shower genuinely feels like cruel and unusual punishment? Because I am from the Midwest, through and through. I swear to myself that I'd never even notice the lack of changing seasons, absence of musical transitions, switching to flannel sheets, the necessity of a hot drink in the morning. I'd be fine without mittens and pressing my frigid hands against Manfriend's belly to torture him warm myself up. It's no secret that I fall short of the joy-to-be-around category in the wintertime, but Winter is part of who I am. It's engrained in there as deep as my need to read books or laugh at the exact wrong time. Maybe I'm only cutting Winter some slack because it's finally loosening its grips and the sun is shining and I didn't wear a coat this morning. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid to find out the person I'd be if I didn't have the weather to dictate some necessary highs and lows in my emotional repotoire.




So I need Winter, I guess, for Summer to feel as good as it does.




Last night was nothing if it wasn't a tease. It was warm enough to sit outside in the backyard with a tumbler of Beam and Diet, in a chair circle with a couple of kimosabes and just enjoy each other and being out of doors, sans mosquitos, coats, shivering. I felt like I hadn't even seen my friends in five months, and I guess we're all coming out of the fog.



We started planning our first ladies-only canoeing/camping trip of the season last night because, finally, it seems plausible again. And believe you me, nothing gets me excited quite like daydreaming about rolling down the river in a bathing suit and the sun frying my shoulders, hopping in the river whenever I need to cool off, doing everything on my own time, singing some very butchered summer-songs with the girls,  and holding a water-bottle of whiskey and coke between my knees as I attempt to navigate our tiny vessel through the minor rapids, wayward branches, and sandbars, while splashing the neighboring boats with my paddle and eating about four packs of hot-dogs in a two day period.



For me, Summer doesn't warrant the same mental-stealing preparation that Winter does. I relish in the heat, often just sitting in my sweltering car for a couple of minutes before rolling down the windows and heading in the direction of my destination. I know, I'm all sorts of weird at times. I CAN'T HELP IT, I GET CARRIED AWAY! Summer is like breathing out after seeing how long you can hold your breath. It's the release.


And it's finally, finally, coming back.


It's supposed to be cold again tomorrow, and stay that way for almost a week, but I'll know that it won't stick; it's the last kick, the Custer's Last Stand.  I trust the summer to come back now, because it always does. And sure, even in the summer I'll be discontent and disappointed with some of the bigger aspects of my life, but Summer is and always will be my time for taking it in stride, believing it will work out in the end, letting the problems seem smaller so I'm not afraid to take them on and solve them.


We're in the final stretch, let's all hold on a little longer.


 Oh, and feel free to unabashedly pull the Marley back out, even if you're not a stoner, it's time for summer music again.




XO Sara

the first thaw

***Updated: I just re-read this and Ii'm moderately embarrassed by the number of spelling and grammar errors in this post... it's worse than normal. I'm sorry. And also, we got dumped with four inches of snow and ice last night, so despite my assertion that I'll be running in shorts outside.... I won't be. I'm practically illiterate and also a liar. Fuck.


Gotta confession.


And it's not exactly one brimming with pride, so hang in there.


In the winter I'm a sloth.



I don't exersize, I rarely return phone calls, I go to bed earlier than the Golden Girls; that is, if the Golden Girls go to bed any later than nine pm. I'm generally a waste of space and kind of a buzz-kill to be around... unless I'm given a bottle of either champagne or Jim Beam, and then I'm just kind of an annoying drunk. It's really disappointing to me that I'm as downright lame as I am for a quarter of the year. I sometimes make feeble attempts at cheer, such as planning mini-trips, purchasing a multitude of items I can't afford and/or don't need, and attempt to convince myself that I'm not as cold as I think I am... but for the most part, I suck. I just..... can't.
 

BUT WAIT, that's not even the confessional part.

Every year, without fail, at the first thaw I get annoying. Like, real fucking annoying.

About FITNESS.

As soon as the temperature guage tips over forty degress, even for one ever-loving day, I'm all gun-ho about making life changes, eating right,  putting my best foot forward, and never spending another unecessary moment indoors ever again.

I'm not even unhappy with my body... It's like I just HAVE to be moving all the time... I've got all this frigging pent-up energy that apparently sex and yelling at terrible winter drivers didn't expell. AND I MUST EXERSIZE. And encourage ALL of my friends to join me, because I get incredibly bored running by myself.

It's almost the end of February, that first thaw has come and gone, my friends. I'm practically engineering the fitness train, and I can palpably feel my pitiful mental state shedding the thick outter crust of winter bitterness.

It's like I'M A CAGED BEAST and I'm ripping the chains off my body.

Now I've been tempted with more livable temperatures.... and I'm going to be right pissed if I wake up in the morning and there's snow on the ground. Mr. Local Weatherman says we're getting snow tonight, and I bite my thumb at him. I'm not buying it.

But I know what's going to happen anyway, because every year we get AT LEAST one more snow storm/bout of frost-bite inducing cold that threatens to send me over the edge... almost  forces me to desert the midwest for sunnier climates... FOREVER.  It's like trudging around the mall all fucking day, and feeling completely exhausted and finding NOTHING to wear to this huge party you've been looking forward to FOR MONTHS where you're trying to impress someone, but everything looks cheap on you and your skin looks all sallow in the flourescent lights and you decide to give up and go home, and then you agree to try on one more thing apiece with your friends and you come out of the dressing room wearing the most PERFECT fucking pair of jeans, and you know they look fucking bomb on you and you start dancing around in the changing room all excitedly and your friends look sort of chagrined that YOU were the one to find something perfect... and then you notice the price tag says "Don't even fucking think about charging that to your Dad's credit card because he will skin you alive and you know full well that you will NOT make rent this month if you buy these with your own money."

And then you leave the mall all downtrodden and pissed off because you're SURE no pair of jeans will ever look that good on you again. And you actually feel physically ill thinking about how you just left them there, in the store, when they were CLEARLY meant for your ass. And you borrow a shirt from one of your friends and end up wearing some old skirt you had in the back of your closet, and you still look really good at the party but you totally don't go home with that hot guy, probably because you didn't have the perfect outfit.

But then like six weeks later your mom offers to buy you a new pair of jeans, so you hurry back to the exact store where you found THE pair and yep! they still look fucking hot on you, but you didn't get to wear them to the party....... but it's still awesome... and you'll have a good run together for several months until something happens to damage them irrepairably.... I'm getting a little carried away here... but this is how Spring is for me.

It's like it's playing Just The Tip with me.

And I'm over it.

This first thaw has tempted and teased me, shown me fifty degrees and threatened to take it all away with a blanket of snowfall, the way that it does year in and year out and this year I'm rebelling.

I WILL run in shorts OUTSIDE, by god, and nothing is going to stop me.

At least until next November.

The ultimate battle.





Spring = LIFE



VS



Winter= Death



SPOILER:

SPRING ALWAYS PREVAILS.

And so will I.... hopefully.

XO Sare

love and wishing my life was a murder-mystery

I've learned the hard way that it's a bad idea to put a lot of pressure on one particular day, or encourage anyone around me to do so either. This is due to the unfortunate fact that usually before parties, reunions with out-of-town friends, or really grand hurrahs of any sort, I get stupid excited, like, hyperactive chihuahua excited, and run around the house making weird whiney noises, and/or get rather heavy-handed with my "calm down" cocktails and end up blacking/passing out before dark and missing the entire ordeal.

Mostly because, in all honesty, I conceive ridiculous illusions of grandeur in my mind and then put every ounce of pressure I have the ability to apply to almost every situation without even trying. IE: THIS WILL BE THE BEST NIGHT EVERRRR. Ah, the joys of neurosis.

I freak out a lot.


Like, A LOT, a lot.

This little fact directly applies at this very moment because Manfriend is taking me out on the town tonight, in honor of your favorite holiday and mine, Valentine's Day.

Let's celebrate all the love in our hearts as a distraction from the horrible and soul-crushing grips of February and endless winter in general!

Somewhere around the first week of January, my beloved Manfriend, bless him,  asked me what I'd like to do to celebrate this fateful day. At the time, I must have been feeling a bit whimsy and carefree, for whatever god-foresaken reason, and I remember replying with something along the lines of, "I'd like you to take me on a date."

THAT'S ALL, FOLKS.

That's all I fucking said.

I mean, I'm not picky, but I usually don't like to leave that much to chance- plus Manfriend has trouble making simple decisions, like pizza or chicken strips for lunch, so I honestly thought if I played my cards right, the evening would consist of us making dinner with ingredients weighing heavily in bacon and meat byproducts, a couple romps in the hay, and perhaps a new potted plant for the little indoor garden I have going on.

However, I clearly underestimated the accidental challenge I issued to Manfriend. And now, it looks like we're going fancy with this holiday for the first time in my 24 year existence.

So guess what's going on tonight? HAHAHAHA, your guess is as good as mine!!!  I've been instructed to adorn myself in my very best, (umm, vintage Dolce & Gabbana LBD I found at a boutique on vacation two summers ago, JUST BEGGING for an occasion dressy enough to make it's way out of my closet? uhhh, yeah.) and be ready to go grab a drink before our dinner reservations at nine. At some place apparently fancy and unbeknownst to moi. Reservations were made over three weeks ago. I'm not kidding. This shit is serious. Manfriend, my meat-and-potatos, deer hunting, beard-growing, flannel wearing, hunk o' MAN that he is, even purchased new clothing for this momentous occasion- New dress pants, new tie, new PURPLE dress shirt. The man has lost his damn mind.

So now, although I'm THRILLED that Manfriend is stepping up to the plate to wine and dine me, and yes, I said WINE, because last night he asked me if I'd like to get a bottle of wine with dinner tonight and was ACTUALLY browsing the wine list, I'm also taking this opportunity to panic.

We are not fancy people.

So, naturally, THIS IS ALL SO VERY EXCITING.

So, naturally, I'M FREAKING OUT.

For no reason, obviously.

This could just be one person showing another person a guesture of love on the one day a year that love is publically celebrated. Unless you count Sweetest Day, which I don't, because no one I know other than me really seems to notice when it's Sweetest Day.

OR

He's probably trying to kill me or something. By luring me into an ultra-romantic setting in which my guard will be down and he can make his move without much of a fight from my end. I mean, I'm sure he's had plenty of opportunities over the past five to six years or so of our friendship/romantic involvement, especially since we sleep together almost every night. But I mean, he actually got a haircut yesterday, for me. Shit, I got drunk Saturday afternoon and discovered his electric razor whilst relieving my bladder and, having no other viable options, shaved one, okay both, of my arms. I'm not exactly a catch.

Thus, the only reasonable explanation for such ADO is that it's all a cover.

I'M AFRAID FOR MY LIFE.

Sure, shake your head if you want. I'm just saying, if I wind up in the headlines, my body found (looking smoking hot in aforementioned curve-hugging LBD) at the bottom of a river somewhere, just know I called this.

I'm just going to go with it.

Happy Valentines Day to you and yours, however you choose to celebrate.

XO Sare

i can't even come up with my own thoughts on february

This month is like the final stretch before the light at the end of winter's tunnel. And I'm seriously struggling. It's more frigid in the Midwest than it's been all fucking winter, more snow and ice has fallen. The fact of days getting longer has provided very little consolation. I'm miserable. I'm neurotic. I'm not exactly a pleasure to be around.

For those of us clinging on to whatever baring we have on reality for dear life, I think someone else has put our sentiments more eloquently than I could ever muster.



"They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.

Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes - and you'll never catch February in stocking feet - it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.

However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.

February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine's Day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.

Except to the extent that it 'tints the buds and swells the leaves within,' February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.

James Joyce was born in February, as was Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, which goes to show that writers are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.

If February is the color of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you're small! Were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May."

And that's how I feel. And that's why Tom Robbins is my favorite author.

G'day.

XO Sare

oh SNOW you didn't

Soooooooo, hey. Sorry about my absence the past week plus.

 

I've been having a rough time slash I've been drinking busy.

 

This weekend, after the ghastly GRE, my friends and part-time lovers, Mel and Adam and Dev came in for the weekend. More like crashed in in a haze of shots and beer. And when I say beer, I mean the Winter Beer Festival. If you've never attended a beer festival, you seriously need to get your shit and thirty five dollars or so together and GO.

 

I can't wait until you're all thanking me, and trust me, you will be.

 

Because you know what happens at these functions? FOUR HOURS OF UNLIMITED REFILLS AND TASTING OF HUNDREDS OF DIFFERENT BEERS. FO FREE.  PEOPLE STUMBLE AROUND FROM BOOTH TO BOOTH COLLECTING BEER GOODIES AND WEARING NECKLACES STRUNG WITH PRETZELS. BY THE END EVERYONE IS WASTED AND IT'S ONLY 7PM.

 

 

(I'm not shouting at you, I'm just still really, really excited about it.)

 

I've never actually had a moment where I was like, "Wow, these are my people" before then. Except Rothbury, and any time I'm hanging out with my girlfriends. But this was like an actual really big group of people that I would consider my people and it was AWESOME.

 

Best. Day. EVER.

 

Plus, Mel asked ME to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.

 

 

 

BAHAHAhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Hahahahahahahah!!!11111111oneoneoenoenonene

 

 

 

I hope there's a booze limo for the wedding party. Don't worry, Mel, I'm already practicing my "winning wedding smile" in the mirror for all the photo-ops at different levels of sobriety, since presently, the only 'look' I manage to capture in pictures is a mixture of deranged/bewildered.

 

 

So the weekend was an overwhelming success.

 

 

Then, Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, knocked us Midwesterners silly with a blizznasty/ice apocalypse this week and I've been without internet for the better part of seven days. The better part being the five days out of the last seven that I haven't been at work.

 

Which leads me to thinking, maybe I've got this whole winter-emo-I-want-to-hiberate-and-or-possibly-die-for-four-months-out-of-the-year thing completely wrong. How can any season that at random forces us to give mad respect to the weather for fear of DYING and makes lying in bed all day, drinking champagne and being essentially unproductive totally acceptable and virtually the only option be all bad? Because um, not only do the trees look AWESOME covered in a half an inch of ice, they look even COOLER when you're drunk when it's light out.

 

So Tuesday actual marked my Manfriend's quarter century birthday. That's right, 25 years young. Still looking spry and cheeky as a 24 year old, but with the wisdom of a person who's seen the other side. Ok, I actually made that up, but for realz, he's 25 now. Which, coincided perfectly with the ice storm, because we both got to stay home and celebrate all day. I think you know what I mean by celebrate, and a lot of celebrating was done.

 

And day drinking.

 

 

So all in all, I've been good, thanks for asking.

 

Until this morning.

 

 

I'm having a terrible hair day today. It's just one of those days where you KNOW your hair looks like shit and it makes you feel constantly self-conscious and even, dare I say, unsure of your every move.

 

Annoying.

 

Word of advice, if you don't want your hair to make you feel like shit, treat it to literally anything other than a trim at Great Clips, where all the cows "stylists" have less hair than your 48 year old ultra-conservative father. And definitely don't go right before the iciest ice storm in twenty years. Because the bitch will decide that she'll layer on a bunch of excuses and just dry-cut your already horrendously damaged locks, since you happen to have very thick hair that she doesn't really feel like blow-drying. And then she'll charge you the full twelve dollars and look at you like a goddamn thief when you tip her only three dollars.

 

IT'S A TWELVE DOLLAR HAIR CUT, LADY. YOU EARNED MAYBE FIVE OF IT.

 

Eugh.

 

 

Because those ticked-off hairs will revolt all over your work week.

 

And let's not be mistaken here, I have GREAT hair. It's thick and shiny and lovely and long.  In fact, in high school, I may or may not have won top honor at a "best hair" superlative. It's that good. I'm not even bragging, because sometimes I honestly feel it's my best quality. Best. Quality. However, lately, due to some very hard water and cold weather,  it's having a rather hard time keeping up with me.

 

So it used to be that my bad hair days were few and far in between.

 

But lately, they've been more and more frequent. AND IT'S DRIVING ME UP THE WALL.

 

Which is why I went to get a trim in the first place, since I'm growing my hair out and didn't want an over-priced forty dollar cut-too-short trim at an actual salon. HORRIBLE, horrible idea on my part. That's what I get for attempting to be an actual adult and *save* money.

 

Fuck that.

 

Now I feel all ugly duckling.

 

 

However, and this is a public service announcement to my hair, you may be able to redeem yourselves, if, you behave this weekend while we're in the windy city.

 

That's right,

 

SWEET HOME CHICAGO.

 

Hope yours is just as blustery.

 

XO Sare.

better late than never?

Happy New Year!

(the better-late-than-never addition)

Welp, in true Sara form, I've put off my new years resolutions until now. In case you didn't know, goal is the preferred term for those who are too cool to make resolutions, but actually are making resolutions while labeling it with the new title to disguise what they're up to. A GOAL made during the first month of the year is just a thinly veiled, to the point of being utterly ridiculous, RESOLUTION.

But before I get to that,  I'd like to say that I'm seriously losing hope in adult literacy. Maybe it's just the Midwest? The shit I see on Facebook is astounding. Typing the word 'ridiculous' reminded me of just how many of my 'friends' have been claiming things are 'rediculous' lately. What the fucking fuck is REDiculous?!" Is something red? Is someone bleeding? PLEASE, STOP THE MADNESS. SAVE THE WHALES. Fucking learn how to spell so you don't look like a damn fool all over the interwebz. Thanks. 

Ok, I'm ready to bring it down a few notches now.

So, without further ado, here's what I'd like to do in 2011. (Aside from eating more bacon, which is always a given.)

1.  Take Hally to the park at least 3 days a week.

The vague way that I intentionally wrote this leaves me to be able to load her into the car, drive her all the way to the park, say "We're here!" cheerfully, and then drive home if it's pouring rain and/or freezing. It says nothing about actually walking her while there. I'm basically a loophole genius. Law degree, please?

2.  Save fifty dollars a paycheck.

 Not to be touched until 2012.

To pay off my credit card. Hopefully.

...Defintely?

3.  Manage my time better.

Stop over-booking myself because I can't be bothered to keep track when I tell people I'll do things with them. Actually write it down. I'm not even popular, I just seem to have friends that like to plan things three months in advance on the same weekend. Then I'm all "OH, that's all the way in the future, I'll worry about it when it comes closer to time." For about three different things. And then I'm screwed and can't make everyone happy. I hate not being able to make everyone happy.

ALSO- Use time I set aside for things on THAT TASK, instead of coming out of a fog two hours behind schedule with toothbrush in hand and an alarmingly clean bathtub in front of me, half high from inadvertantly inhaling various cleaning agents, when I'm supposed to be going for a run.

3.  Read WAY more books.

I am not a supporter of moderation. Shocking, I know.

I consume the things that I find favorable voraciously and deal with the consequences when they're upon me. And those consequences, the little bastards, always find the exact least awesome time to flood on in.

But, I like it.

For instance, I get swept away by books. I'll start a book to read before bed for a little while every night like a normal person and then I'll look over at the clock and it's five in the morning and oh shit, I've been reading for six hours and I have to get ready for work in an hour and a half. But at least I've only got 100 more pages to go? Maybe I should just stay up and finish it? I'll drink a lot of coffee. I'll be fine.

It's always been this way, since I was a little girl. I'd hide out somewhere while the dog days of summer were languidly gleaning by with sprinklers to frolick through and ice cream trucks to chase and I'd be somewhere else completely. Don't get me wrong, I was still finding time to be a bossy-ass little tyrant, eat copious amounts of frozen juice products, and get lost in the woods, but somehow a book always accompanied me.

It's crossed my mind before that reading has become somewhat of a drug for me, and maybe it is. In the throughs of a good read, I'm  somewhere else, in a different state of mind, anyone I want to be, really. I'm feeling the spectrum, I'm laughing, I'm lost, and I'm always found. It's the same sensation as getting drunk or high, maybe, but without the risks or hangover. It's still just an escape from everyday reality. When I'm mid-novel, I don't worry about the $.68 in my bank account, or completely incompetent people at work, or even my fear of the future. It's incredible to just let your own life take a backseat to the lives of nonexisent beings.

When I'm reading, I turn off my mind completely to the truths of the life I'm actually living. If I'm heartbroken, it's because the protagonist is heartbroken, not because I'm heavy, so heavy with stress from my own world. I feel everything, and everything actually feels good, better than the everything I force myself to push to the side in the living breathing world of which I'm actually an active player. Often the characters in books are as real to me as the paper and binding I'm turning in my hands. And it helps. It's therapy. I know I like a book if I don't even have primary needs like eating or drinking, I know I love a book if I don't notice that I need to pee, or my legs are asleep, or my neck has gone completely stiff while I'm reading it.

It's always worth it and I'm usually emotionally exhausted at the end. Which is what I really needed anyway. Perhaps I'm emotionally inept, but at least I get my realease from reading.

Sometimes it's shocking for me to realize that not everyone feels the way that I do about reading. Not everyone uses literary escape as a coping mechanism for the aches and pains of everyday living. But, I do, and shit do I need an escape this winter, for my own sanity.

The spans of time in my life that I do the least reading can be divided into two, true to form, very polar explanations.


1. I'm in the lowest of lows.
2. I'm in the highest of highs.

I haven't been reading very much as of late, and I NEED to get back into it. So I'd say a book a week is a fair goal.

4. Pay bills on time. 

Why am I in my mid-twenties and STILL struggling with this? uhhhh.... ??? Seriously, I almost always have the money... I just.... forget to get online/mail in the payment? No. I seriously bet my credit score is terrible. It's got to be. UGH, all those fucking free credit report! commercials bombarding the media outlets just make me panic about it more. I need to do this.

5. Join a group

I really don't think I'm busy enough, and that's me being completely serious. I have waaaaaay too much time on my hands. I don't even care what kind of group I join, so long as it's not a cult. And even then, I'll consider it. 

Manfriend wants to join a boxing gym. Since I'm pretty much completely passive aside from verbal sparing, I'm not sure how I feel about this. We didn't even see The Boxer, but I'm not opposed to it, I guess- maybe just to see the spectacle of Christian Bale as a junkie. I swear that man changes his look more than Lady Gaga, except instead of outfits, it's his entire body.

Anyway, Manfriend apparently has lots of bottled aggression to take out physically on people with his fists,  which gives me some free time in the evenings that I will  probably shouldn't spend drinking wine by myself. So why not join a group that drinks wine together? Or a political group, or a volunteer group, or, book club that drinks wine!? I'm accepting suggestions. And wine.

6. Write more.

You know, I think this is pretty self-explanatory. I'd like to do some freelance, some blogging, some spirit journaling, all the basics. I never realized how much I rely on writing to air my concerns with the world, even if it's  just to myself, until this year. So, 2011, lets get literary all OVA DIS BIZNITCH.

7. Let people know how they make me feel/ what I expect from them.

I have feelings. It's pretty annoying most of the time. I have a lot of feelings toward my mother, specifically. I'm sure I'll write A LOT about how this little resolution is going regarding my mother. 

8. Take time for myself when I need it so I don't freak out later.

I will honestly flip a shit if I don't take enough time to just chill out and be by myself. I'm social, I love people, but seriously, I need to be by myself sometimes. Like, more than a normal person. This doesn't even include things like driving to and from work, reading, and watching shitty sitcoms because I'm too lazy to google random shit on the internet until I find something that entertains me. I. JUST. ENJOY. MY. OWN. COMPANY. 

Weird, eh? 

Cheers to less freaks outs this year!!!!!!

XO Sare