in my defense.

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


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


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


In a loving way?


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


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


I'm an incredibly defensive person.


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


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


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


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


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


Today I feel tired.


And defensive.


And I'm still moving in with Manfriend.


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


Xo Sara

well, that wasn't very smart

As I've mentioned, I became afflicted with a soul-crushing case of food poisoning this past weekend. As did Manfriend and my mother. Since my parents had three different restaurants cater in food for my brother's graduation party this weekend, it's hard to determine which culinary genius is at fault.

Obviously, I blame my brother. Had he never been born, he'd never have graduated from high school and warranted a grad party that required the services of two more restaurants than my own 2004 soiree. Although, he is a football player, so his army of numskull friends throw back a lot more food than mine probably did.

I also blame him for what's happened thus far this afternoon.

As is common procedure for birthdays in my department at the office, the honoree chooses a place we all order food from and one person fetches it for the rest of the flock. Pretty standard.

Today, the birthday woman, who is otherwise my favorite co-worker, picked a shitty restaurant that I hate, but everyone else seems over the moon for.

Being that I just took on a full-time unpaid campaign job in addition to this joke of a vocation and I had a four hour long training last night for my other volunteer group- I have a shit ton of email to pretend to read and today was also the last day of the week I can get my allergy shot. Plus I just started a new book and I was going to try to squeeze in a couple of pages.

I. Had. Shit. To. Do.

Please don't think I'm complaining either, I crave this flurry of activity and the earned exhaustion of being fully engaged in every ever loving thing I cram into my waking days.

But seriously, every lunch we have together, it's the same stories about one co-worker's family and the same collective awkward of watching each other eat because we don't have anything new to say.

But, I like this broad, so I suck it up and kiss my congestion-free weekend goodbye.

And you know what I ordered on my still-delicate empty stomach?

A fucking greasy-ass burger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake. My regular.

Arguably the worst decision I've ever made. I've been eating healthier for the past several months- Like, where I once would have consumed the entirety of this meal with ease and regularity, I honestly can't remember the last time I hit up fast food.


I've been cowering in my cubicle since the meal wrapped up. I feel like I have food-poisoning again. And just.... blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And a sloth. A SLOTH.

Me right now. Only not smiley because I feel literally within inches of death.

Maybe it was too soon after the illness or maybe my body hates grease now, I don't really know whats going on in there. But it's really not good. Grease and I are taking a serious break.

XO Sare

time to burn a bridge

Wanna hear about a large error in judgement?




At the beginning of this month, Katherine, Jessica, and I let an old friend from high school a random move in with us. Some may not call this person a "rando," but since I hadn't hung out with them in over five years and didn't know a lick about what was going on in their life up to the point they were moving into my personal space and haven of safety from the cruel, hard, world, they're a random to me.


As I've mentioned before, our house is kickass and plenty big for four people. We're swimming in square-footage over here. It's honestly a really odd phenomenon, and kind of sickening when I think about the box I rented in Chicago. We already don't pay an arm and a leg in rent every month, so we figured ANOTHER $75 off rent a month would be pretty badass,. AKA, we'd all only be paying $225. A month. WHAT IS THIS? (Read: the neighborhood is patchy... but whatevs, we know our neighbors and I've never felt unsafe.)


So, this person had just moved back into town and was for whatever reason looking for some place to live, a shoulder to cry on, way to generate income, ride everywhere, drinking buddy, etc. This person is what normal people would label as a "drain" or a "red-flag." However, being that we're softies and somewhat non-immune to sob-stories and charity cases, this person was ushered into our lives after an extended absence. AKA periodically disappearing for years at a time.


I've come to realize recently that between high school and age 25, people have to find a way to survive now that we're expected to pick up and go off and survive largely on our own. A lot of people, such as myself, fuck this up several times, but continue to struggle and claw towards independence and hold themselves accountable for the decisions they make. Other people just start sucking, badly.


Welp, fourth roomie is the latter.






EXTREME.






After discovering some unsavory things about said person, aka they're shady and untrustworthy and OMG I will shit a brick if they steal anything from me...... we get to have the "UM, you need to move out NOW because we've all been deliberating behind your back about how uncomfortable you've made our living situation since you moved in three weeks ago," chat.


Yippee!




It's happening tomorrow. Which means I will effectively be a jumble of nerves and stress until the confrontation occurs. And then until fourth roomie aka Shadeball vacates the premises and I have the house keys clenched tightly in my grimey little hands.


Man, it's just so disheartening how some people change for the worse and really show their true colors at the worst possible time, like after you've invited them into your home. I'm not even the one who's lost the most- Jessica and Katherine were better friends with this person. Katherine found this person a job where she worked. She lent them her bike to get around. (Which this person promptly wrecked.) Sometimes putting yourself out on a limb for someone just doesn't work out. This is one of those times.


I'm not a bad person, but I don't typically put myself into situations with people where I can be let down or made to feel like I'm being taken advantage of. It bums me out that this person got a break, and a pretty sweet deal if I do say so myself, in living with us and now has probably squandered the last good option for them to live.


And part of me feels totally quilty about the conversation we're going to have tomorrow, and the tone I willl inevitably be forced to take to get my point across. The cut-and-dry, you're out, this is non-negotiable tone.  The you're-a-fuck-up-and-I-won't-have-you-around-to-take-me-down-with-you voice. Because as much as I hate using it, nothing seems to be as effective. And as much as I may not always appreciate the fact that I have that voice, it sure does seem to get the point across.

I don't know where they're going to go, and maybe it makes me a shitty human being, but it's not my problem anymore. I'm on my way up, and nothing is going to slow my route.

XO Sare