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.

 

irrational hatred!

If you've read my blog for any amount of time, you've probably been able to surmise that my life is basically a constant struggle of finding a way to accept how fucking weird it is to be human while simultaneously taking everyone for what they have to offer with that idea in mind.... with a positive attitude. Basically, I'm shooting to be an accepting type.

 

 

Work in progress. 

 

 

Key word : PROGRESS. 

 

 

But that in no way means that I'm not a total asshole (um, duh) and so today I'm going to embrace that fact by sharing five things that I have an irrational hatred toward. Don't get me wrong, I hate lots and lots more things, but I'm going for irrational things, so basically stuff most people aren't bothered by or actually like.... sorry if I offend. But if you're offended, you're also wrong in my eyes, so there's that.  

 

 

 

1. Lenny Kravitz.

 

 

When I originally decided to write this post, it was because "American Woman" came on the radio on my drive home last night and I punched the power button as fast as I could, but I was already seething. That's how quickly Lenny Kravitz can ravage a decent mood.  Why? Because I hate the fuck out of Lenny Kravitz. For no reason, which only makes my loathing even stronger. Irrational hatred doesn't need a tether like 'cause' because it is self sustaining and viral.

 

 

2.  Emoticons

 

 

I'm an emotional person who believes in displays of sentiment. Yet, my hatred for emoticons knows no bounds. There is no logical explanation for me visibly shuddering every time I get a winky face via text/email/facebook, yet there is no escaping it. I mind this transgression most at work where it's totally unprofessional and unnecessary and least when it's by one of my friends doing it on purpose to get a rise out of me. But generally, I feel a low-grade revulsion toward it at all times.

 

 

3. Raisins

 

 

I have not eaten a raisin in 15 years, a fact of which I am perversely proud. Around age ten, I started spreading the word that I was 'allergic' to raisins among my friend's parents every time I was offered them as a snack. Being a generally unfussy child in the eyes of most of my friend's parents, this claim was never questioned or disputed and I still have no idea why. Who the hell is allergic to raisins?! In reality, I simply hate them.  I refuse to eat anything that wrinkly and shriveled and that's probably the basis for my hatred for raisins.

 

 

4. Running into people I know, even most of my friends, in public.

 

 

There are probably five people I could run into in public without warning that I'd be genuinely happy to see. Mostly, I fucking hate it. It's not that I don't love my friends, but because honestly, I'm really, really awkward and anxiety-laden in the public setting. Like, if I'm at Target, I know what every person in a twenty foot radius is looking at and I'm hyper-aware if they so much as glance at me. It's kind of pathetic. So when I run into someone I know,  I go through this internal battle of whether or not to say hi, then if we should hug or shake hands or awkwardly side-wave- and then if we actually engage, how long we should talk, what if they're in a hurry? Am I in a hurry? What if one of us is buying something embarrassing? Why are we not here together? Is this the place I want to catch up? No.  If I'm not included in this plan, seeing them and engaging feels like some sort of intrusion for us both, even if I was going to tell them about it later. I don't know what's wrong with me. I swear I'm charming in social settings. But chance encounters with people I know? I hate them.

 

 

 

5.  The "What do you want for dinner?" conversation

 

 

Holy hell do I hate this question, and it happens almost five days a week between 5:03 and 5:15. As soon as I hear it come out of Matt's mouth, the entire tone of the conversation changes in my mind. Because honestly, I don't give a rat's ass what's for dinner as long as I'm not the one making it. This conversation has been known to cause prolonged silences and ruin entire evenings. I get it, to most people it's a really considerate question, but to me it has become a call to battle that becomes a stand-off with neither one of us willing to make a concrete suggestion or decision. I just don't want to pick. I will eat literally everything (except raisins, teehee) and Matt is the pickiest eater known to man, so why would this decision ever, EVER fall on me? Yes, I realize it's totally irrational and bitchy for me to get this upset about a polite question, but it's SO MUCH MORE than just a question to me, and also, this is a list of irrational hatred, obviously. If it was up to me, I'd throw together a salad or eat toast and eggs or a fucking hot pocket every night. That's right, a hot pocket. There, I said it.

 

 

 

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

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

Where was I?

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

Yeah, I got really into that.

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

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

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

I decided I needed to stop being swallowed up.

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

Matt.

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

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

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

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

And then I sent it off and got whiskey drunk.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

But we love each other, so we try.

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




At my sister's wedding. 2011.


FIN.

quality time.

Wooooohoooooooo we're midway through the week, and although it is my greatest hope in this godforsaken life that I will ultimately end up in a field that doesn't force me to remain an embittered weekday commuter and weekend warrior- that is not my reality at the moment. So, I am thrilled that we've passed the halfway point of the work week so that the glorious weekend is closer to us than further away.

Not that I've been using my free time during the week wisely, or anything. Okay maybe a little wisely, because I've been reading almost constantly.

This week I'm powering through a 700 page book by Tom Wolfe called I am Charlotte Simmons as fast as I can, which is never fast enough. It's a lovely book, and well-written- the characters sort of dance around each other until they finally collide and fall apart again, and I am actually resonating with it quite a bit as well as reminiscing my own hellish first quarter at college. I mean, maybe not hellish, but not as awesome as I built it up to be in my 18 year old mind, either.

I'm more than halfway through and although I've spent the better part of all of free time this week (meaning the past two nights), with my nose in said book, I have my sights on spending this evening that way as well.

However I have a little confession.

I already know what happens.

How?

Surely I'm not psychic?!

I would DARE read the final pages first?!!!!

No, I'm afraid it's worse. I have no willpower. I cannot make more time in the day to devote to reading, as much as I wish I could.

So I wiki-ed.

I'm actually really embarrassed about it. I'm ALWAYS tempted to find out what happens when I get wrapped up in books. Even afterward, I almost always research that author- find out where they were born, what their parents did for a living, when they lost their first tooth... you know all the token stalker basics. I just NEED to know what was going on that they were able to create the characters that they did. I get really wrapped up in it and maybe it's a personality flaw or maybe I just have seriously codepedency issues with books and the characters in them.

And I'm such a fast and nerdy reader that I usually just race through books before my feeble willpower gives in to insatiable curiosity about what's going to happen to my beloved characters and new friends.

But not this time... this time, I peeked.

And now all I want to do is sit uninterrupted and finish the damn book. Hopefully, tonight will be the night. At the park. On a blanket. As the sun sets. With snacks.

XO Sare

another one about weddings. and big news. and booze.

Over the weekend Manfriend and I attended an out-of-town wedding. Three down one two to go on the year.


Yes, we've added some nuptials. MY BABY SISTER IS GETTING MARRIED. In November. God help us all, the next two months are going to be stressful. Granted, I've known for a few weeks and she already has her wedding dress hanging in a safe place. BUT STILL. EVERYTHING HAS TO BE DONE IN LIKE TEN WEEKS.

My head is spinning around and around practically.


She's trying to kill my mother and I, I swear.


Just kidding, but this is going to be whirlwind. The end result being the acquisition of a new brother for me and unlimited access to his ice-sculpting skillz. Maybe. Hopefully. And  my sister will gain a lifelong companion and endless source of love and foot rubs. WINNERS ALL AROUND.


This past weekend's wedding featured my uncle J and his new wife and both of their families coming together, and I must say, it was pretty perfect. The other two weddings we've attended this summer were members of Manfriend's family, and though beautiful and heartfelt, lacked one component I'm accustomed to when it comes to weddings.


The after party.


My family throws an after party after any event that allows more than fifteen of us to come together in one place for a night. Graduations, funerals, christenings, you name it, we're getting drunk after it. This one was long overdue, I haven't seen a lot of my extended family for almost two years. So although Manfriend had met much of my family already- he's known my grandparents for years and met many of my uncles and aunts numerous times- he was finally introduced to the mayhem involved in an extended family get-together for the first time on Saturday.


Which always involves shots of a little thing called Schlocks. Which is a secret family recipe, but involves a mix of straight liquor- One of them being Scotch. Nasty.




Copious amounts of shots. And a certain expectation to keep up when it comes to the men. My poor, poor Manfriend.

About thirty of us were crammed into my parent's suite at the Homewood and the booze was flowing freely. So, while one of my cousins and I snuck off to a quiet corner of the hotel to avoid more shots and to catch each other up on some gossip, I received a text message from my uncharacteristically tipsy plus one that said:

 'Sara I'm at a fucking Donato's."

 Which, for whatever reason I thought was the funniest thing in the world... when I got the message an hour later. Apparently he set off (On foot, thank G.) with another of the first time initiates to get a gas-station hot dog and ended up in a Toy's R Us parking lot, multiple hot dog-less gas stations, and finally a Donato's at 12:30 in the morning. Although drunk, Manfriend was wise enough to bring back a pizza to share with the family, a very, very wise move.

All in all, overwhelming success if I've ever known it. And we get to do it all again in a couple of months. But I'm not planning on drinking more than A solitary beer every once in a while until then, because yesterday?

Yesterday was rough.

Xo Sara

a stench of epic proportions

My life is punctuated intensely by my strong sense of smell. It's a blessing and a curse, really. Like, a blessing that I can basically locate items based on odor alone, but a curse because it's really just one more thing in my life that I act like a freak about.


In fact, I would relate my olfactory skill to that of a bloodhound. Those fuckers can SMELL. Just like me. We actually have a lot in common. We have stellar smell sense, we're both good with children (I mean, kind of), terrible for allergies (aka their dander sends me into asthmatic fits) and...... that's pretty much it. Maybe someday (hopefully not) we'll be able to relate based on our wrinkly-ass faces. Except Bloodhounds look ADORABLE with wrinkles, the more the better, and I'm pretty sure I'd look terrifying.

oh my god, seriously? I want a pack of them to follow me around at all times until I get bored/annoyed with it.

So naturally, I need my surroundings to smell good and/or appropriate in order for my day to unfold peacefully. Don't get me wrong, I dig the shit out of scent- everything from the aroma of gasoline to the burnt-skin sweat-smell from a long day outside in the heat of summer. And all the happy, fresh, lovely smells we associate with girlishness have a place in my smell-heart too.

Lately, seriously turmoil in the smell arena. Something has gone seriously afuckingwry. Like, off the rails on the crazy train.


Why? Why the turmoil? Where is all the turmoil coming from?

 A certain stench is messing with my happiness. We are in battle and thus far neither of us has pulled that proverbial red-flag.




I'm in a stink fight with Manfriend's new apartment.


It's really, really bad, trust me.


The first time I walked into Manfriend's new place was last Saturday. Twelve days ago. The stench I encountered nearly knocked me down. It was like someone had painted the place twice with cheap-ass paint, smoked an entire carton of cigarettes directly into the drying paint, peed on the carpet, and left while farting.


Being that I have a generally cheerful/whacked-out demeanor, I stepped up to the challenge casually, but with a spark of challenge in my eye. I just have to win.


Initially, I purchased a couple of air-fresheners at the Dollar Tree, and I got some deodorizing spray, the good shit, AIR WICK. I armed myself with bleach and scrub brushes and set off on my journey to redemption... the return of decent odor to the new apartment. There is a new breed of person living there now, the kind that have girlfriends who go batshit crazy when forced to inhale ridiculous smoke/paint hybrid smells whenever they come a-calling.


Since then it's been a relative blood bath.


AKA, I've scrubbed WITH BLEACH every surface I can get my little hands on in an honest attempt to rid the apartment of ungodly stench. MY FINGERS ARE TIRED FROM SCRUBBING.


On day five I visited with high hopes and upon arrival realized I had yet to achieve my goal. I arrived at work the next morning after sleeping over, hurried into my cubicle and caught a whiff of something.... disconcerting.




IT WAS MYSELF.




I had become a carrier. A carrier of the nasty, rank, apartment-smell. It was hanging onto my clothes and had woven itself through my hair. I literally couldn't move an inch without feeling like I was going to vomit all over my computer monitor. At lunch I doused myself in perfume and when I got back to work I tried not to make sudden movements that would encourage odor to waft.


On day seven I brought over several strong-smelling candles and LIT THEM ALL AT ONCE. This apartment is not large, normally I would be concerned about sensory overload. Plus, with a sense of smell as strong as I believe mine to be, I don't often find it appropriate to light candles often. Like, never. But whatever, my hopes were high.  No damn dice. The stench is relentless and unforgiving. Should I bring any of my possessions into it's grasp, they leave reeking of the apartment.


It's not working out.


By day nine, I'm getting relatively frantic about things. Every time I come over I'm opening every fucking window in the place, encouraging the stench to disperse. IT'S NOT DISPERSING. I purchase one of those machine air fresheners than crop-dusts the room automatically on a time-set. I instruct Manfriend to set this spritzing machine to the most frequent setting, nine minutes. This bitch is about to get a healthy dose of fresh linen and I don't even like the smell of fresh linen. Desperate times.

heavy artillery.

It's real.




Today is day twelve. I devised a plan for when I stay over to extinguish the stench on my person that involves leaving my things in my car as long as possible and showering in the morning before I leave. It's a pain in the ass, but at least I don't smell like ass. I'm tired, but I am not yet defeated. I will bring out the HEAVIEST artillery.


That's right, I'm taking it to the kitchen. A relatively unfamiliar land.


To bake things. POTENT SMELLING THINGS.




This is seriously my last resort, and yes, I realize how pathetic that is. I don't really find myself baking/cooking very often. Manfriend usually takes care of feeding us. It's his thing. You know, redeeming qualities and reasons I keep coming back and stuff. Plus his beard, but that's pretty much unrelated to the smell of his home at present time.


I. must. get. rid. of. the stench.

So, this weekend, I will undertake the task of FULL KITCHEN SMELL TAKEOVER. AKA, I'm going to fry bacon. Copious amounts of it. I'm going to cook things with garlic. What things? No fucking clue. Maybe I'll just throw garlic and olive oil in a frying pan on high heat and call it good. I'm crazy completely unskilled like that. THERE MAY BE CUPCAKES INVOLVED. Cupcakes, kinda just because I like them and the instructions on the box are thus far idiot-proof.


The time has come for the final battle. I will come out the victor.
Otherwise, sorry Manfriend, but you're dumped.


XO Sara.

a rant for thursday.

Le Sigh.


It's times like this when I wish Manfriend didn't read what I write here, because I really need to sort out some feelings and stuff. Thanks for the support honey, skip this one? See you tonight!


Anyway, yesterday was a day. I went to the dentist. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I survived. No, I didn't have any actual dental work done, because my appointment time wasn't long enough. Yes, the bill estimate is more than I'd like to pay, but I'll suck it up and pay it because it's work that I need done, and I've been putting it off for too long.


Yesterday was one of those afternoons that taste like chocalate after you've given it up for lent and have watched everyone around you enjoy it for the past forty days; magnificent. I left work at two and headed to the dentist with the windows down, it was warm and sunny. I love driving by myself in weather like yesterday. I feel light, I crank the volume on some shitty 90s music on the radio, and I just enjoy the day. By the grace of some power higher than myself I was done at the dentist by three. I didn't have to be at dinner with my family for the brother's 18th birthday until 5:30. I never thought I'd relish the idea of spending time by myself, doing whatever I wanted for two and a half hours so much, but two and a half hour spans like that just don't seem to happen for me much anymore, so I did.




I LOVE SPENDING TIME BY MYSELF.


You know why? Because I don't have to fucking worry about pleasing anyone else other than ME. I can give into whims and drive out of my way just to go the scenic route if I choose. I can decide AT TARGET that I need to organize and file all the bullshit paper floating around in my life and buy file folders and binders and Rubbermaid boxes. I can map out plans for an inspiration binder, because it's what I want and no one is around to deter or make fun of me for it. I can plan an evening by myself after dinner and be antsy to get home and get down to it. Starting a project, making a huge mess and filing it all back together, like a game of 52 card pick-up.


Yes, I had a lovely two and a half hours of solitude, reflection, and listening to my inner voice.


I was in a terrific mood when I pulled into the restaurant. Manfriend pulled in not too long after I did and we moseyed inside to order a drink while we waited for the rest of my family to arrive. There were nine of us total, and it was a lovely and delicious dinner with a great vibe. I had a lemon-drop martini, I made wildly hilarious self-depreciating jokes, I bestowed a gift AND some cash upon my brother, I ate steak and held Manfriend's hand under the table.


AND THEN IT ALL CAME TO A GRINDING HALT.

I indicate to the table that I'm planning on heading downtown to, you know, WHERE I LIVE, after the conclusion of the meal. And my mother looks at me as if I've just kicked a puppy. A really, really cute puppy. Because if I go downtown, and not to my parents house, which will add over an HOUR of extra driving time to my night, then I will not get to see my now EIGHTEEN year old brother OPEN HIS GIFTS and EAT CAKE.

Andddddddd....cue my mood plummeting for the rest of the night.

I love my family, they're the best. But you know what else? I see them all. the. time. More than twice a week. I'm no stranger, so I get to call bullshit on my mother for this one. As it turns out, my brother and his girlfriend LEAVE DINNER EARLY, so my brother can go give up uplifting speech at church or something and they will "probably beat us to the house," so it "won't even be that long of a delay," for me to completely uproot my plans for the evening to go to my parents house in the BFE to partake in the rest of the birthday hoopla. So, you'll imagine perhaps how frustrating it was when they still hadn't showed up at the house almost TWO HOURS later.

Because in that time, I had locked my keys in my car, driven 25 minutes from the restaurant to my parents house after getting car unlocked, unsuccessfully gone for a run that ended in a fucking asthma attack ten minutes in, and dicked around my parents house impatiently for 40 minutes. Waiting for the guest of honor to open his birthday presents.

All I wanted to do was go home and start organizing my life.

It was like tunnel vision. As soon as that plan was thwarted, my mood would not come back. DONZO.

So, when I FINALLY get to leave, it's nine thirty and I am officially inconsolable. I have an interview in the morning and I NEED to get to bed at a decent hour and review material. There is now absolutely NO POINT in trying to start ANYTHING tonight, and thus, no reason for me to drive all the way downtown, because I have already shifted my organizational extravaganza plans to TONIGHT and heaven forbid I spend two nights in a row away from Manfriend.

Granted, I love the man, I love spending time together, and I love sleeping together. We get along like peas and carrots. Truly kindred and all that heartwamring shit. But often I feel our OODLES of time together are spent at the expense of what I also want and need to do. For the sake of my own happiness. And sanity.

So, I decide, while I'm driving, to just go to Manfriend's and leave my now seemingly VERY lofty goals for tomorrow...aka tonight. I'm on the phone with Manfriend, he's driving right behind me. I'm SO FRUSTRATED with the turn of the evening and he's just not getting it. In fact, he's kind of being an asshole about it, and not understanding at all. Which is fine, I DO NOT need to be caudled, but dude, don't be a dick about it.

So then I'm heading FAST to a place called 'Complete Neurotisism.' And it's a one-way ticket. 

There is no going back once I start thinking about everything that I can't control, or made me put what I actually want on the back-burner, and bums me out about life. And since Manfriend is the one I'm on the phone with, I'm fixating on him. 

We're literally two minutes from his house and he's insistently asking "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" Over and over again. And not in a kind and reassuring way. In a I'm-at-my-wits-end-with-you-right-now-so-I'm-going-into-total-dick-mode way.


And that's exactly what happened leading up to the revelations below.


What do I want? I want to not being living between two places out of my car. AGAIN.  What else? I want to fucking have a shower in my life that doesn't either have SHITTY water pressure, or completely fail to drain. What else? I want to not be so allergic to the place that I sleep at night that I wake up at bare minumum three times during the night to hit my inhalor and in the morning my eyes are swollen and bloodshot. I'd also like to NOT being spending what I SHOULD be saving in gas money driving back and forth back and forth. (He can't stay at my house because he has a work truck with a GPS in it that shows if he deviates from his route.  It would be an extra hour commute time with the dog for him to stay at my house.Plus, his dog is not allowed at my house anymore.)  I'd like to spend time with my friends that I don't feel guilty about. I'd like to not worry about him 'worrying' about me when I'm with my friends, because in the end I'll ALWAYS do whatever I fucking feel like doing, and I'd actually like some credit for making good decsions for myself. I'd LOVE if Manfriend would CLEAN ANYTHING without me saying something first.

Anything.

I started a little experiment a few weeks ago; I stopped constantly cleaning everything in sight at Manfriend's. The result? Disgusting. I'm done with that. I"m done being in a place that makes my skin crawl. I refuse to be the person that has to constantly follow him around the house, pointing out chores that need to be done, and I also REFUSE to do them all on my own. I can't always be the one reminding him thirty times to do common sense things like spaying his dog and changing his headlight.

This man loves me more than anything in life and I'm crazy about him too. He cooks me dinner, he puts up with my crazy, he waited for me to see what was right on front of me for SIX YEARS until I finally gave him a fair try. He'd walk through fire for me without expecting anything in return. But, I'm not happy. I'm miserable and stuck. I may not be perfect, or a grown-up; I'm terrible with money, I procrastinate at times. BUT I'M TRYING. I read my mail. I pay my bills on time. I live off of a budget. I take care of problems that require immediate attention. I go to the doctor when I need to. I've been doing this for seven years now, I have a basic grasp on living my life independently.

He just doesn't see squalor. Or filth. Or apparently piles of laundry. I've been MORE THAN up front with him about how deathly allergic I am to the dog, and nothing has improved. NOTHING. I don't know what to do. One swipe of the vacuum over carpet every three months doesn't do it, and I guess that's more than he was already vacuuming.

I'm done being nit-picky and pointing out little things that drive me nuts. It's one big thing. It's a lazy thing. And a respect thing. And MOSTLY, a ME thing.

It's unbelieveably tough for me to do this, but I won't be staying at his house I any weeknights anymore. I can't. I'm not a crazy neat-freak, but I have standards, and they're not even coming close to being met. We currently spend most nights together. It will be tough, I love him and I love rolling over and cuddling into him in the middle of the night.. But, it will also be easy, because I love breathing and not having an allergy rash every day of my life. The thing is, I partially feel like I've been forced into this. I've been forced into a drastic measure to either wake him up, or push him away. I honestly have no idea which one it is, and I'm scared. Which is why I haven't put my foot down and done it sooner.

I love this man, but I'm terrified of what the future holds for us, because I can't even imagine moving in together at this point. I can't even imagine it. It will not get better just because it's a new place. It will not. I have serious health issues, and I HAVE to take care of myself. It's non-negotiable.

I'll be back to the slap-stick and ridiculous tomorrow, but today, I need this. Oh, and now I'm off to my interview and I've done nothing to prepare because I was totally focused on getting this out of my body. Soooo, wish me luck! (I'll need it)

Xo Sara

Happy Patrick Sharp Day!

I know that most people have to work today.



 But the fact that SOME people don't, because it's President's Day,  is causing me A LOT of ill will and pretty much diminishing my abilitiy to "Make it a great day!" As my father's voicemail greeting insists.



 For instance, all of public academia, from kindergarten to grad school gets to sleep in today. And it's raining, so obviously sleeping is the desired level of consciousness. My own father, who RUNS an olive company (read: mob? jury's still out) GETS TODAY OFF WORK. That's corporate America, people, respecting the presidents.



So all this basic INJUSTICE at the inconsistency at which some of us are forced to tolerate a five day work-week, while some of us get to bask in a four, has got me to wondering.



What EXACTLY, are these slackers fortunate fools celebrating, exactly, that can't be celebrated from their desks, per usual?

 And this is what I found:

President's day is practically bullshit. We're celebrating the birthdays of George Washington and Abe Lincoln, both of whom are DEAD and neither of which were actually born on February 21st. You know what else? Those Kanucks up north decided they wanted a long weekend to break up February and now a handfull of their provinces are celebrating two of OUR FOUNDING FATHERS', or at the VERY least, EARLY LEADERS birthdays.............. AND I'M NOT.



(Thanks, Wikipedia for the 30 second synopsis!)

 I'm a basketcase of emotion right now.

 Which is why, I'm CELEBRATING A CANADIAN on this, America's "Presidents' Day."

 Thank you Canada, for piggy-backing on our holidays as an excuse to have a day off of work, during which I'm still forced to be here, in my cubicle, posing as efficient.

 But really, actually, thank you for this guy, because I'll be googling pictures of him all day and trying to figure out a way to phase out his wife.

 How's that for efficent?

Everyone, meet Patrick Sharp. The reason I forgive Canada for stealing an American holiday, I, an American, don't even get to celebrate.


XO Sare