a weird day. a full day.

Yesterday was a weird day.

 

 

Too full of emotion and heartbreak and inspiration and strength for one day. No. Not too much. Actually, if I had my way, every day would force so much feeling. So much recognition of what connects us. So many reminders that this is humanity and it is what we have to work with and the best we can do is to seek to stretch the limits that confine us. Push it out. Let ourselves feel it all. Look up from a book at the library and realize you're crying. Not because something sad or catastrophic happened, but because someone finally found the words to say that one thing. Because it feels like it could be you.  

 

 

Yesterday was an emotional revolution for me, from start to finish. On a personal level.

 

 

I learned a lot. Isn't it bizarre that sometimes you learn so much in one span of wakefulness?

 

 

I was honest with myself for the first time in a long time, the kind of honest that feels good even when it's not what you wanted to hear or admit.

 

 

A friend told me yesterday that she'll struggle until the day she dies with the idea that life isn't black and white, and that resonated with me. Because wouldn't it be easier? I can't help but think of myself as black and white sometimes, drawn to the poles and extremes. But the gray, the different shades that fill in around everything easy to place, that is perhaps our greatest treasure, the most important gift granted to humankind.

 

 

The gray. The interpretation, the individuality, the hard call that went the way you weren't expecting, that is the beauty of us.

 

 

Which I think I was trying to say yesterday before I got caught up in confession hour and media criticism.

 

 

We may strive for black and white, for understanding and clear lines, but the truth is that we're gray and I'm beginning to realize how thankful I am for that fact.

 

 

The other day I posted about a friendship I didn't think I could salvage, so I'd decided to scrap.

 

 

For some reason this fits: "Man plans, God laughs." I don't know if there is a God, but I sure hope someone is laughing at all the folly.

 

 

It was done, for me. I was going to cut my losses, even though they were big. Then I thought, maybe after one last conversation. Yes, I decided to go for the confrontation. And in thinking and worrying and trying to form any semblance of organization in what I wanted to express, I realized that maybe I was wrong.

 

 

Not wrong in how I felt, or wrong to take a step back. Every friendship, every true friendship has tests and moments of tumult. But I realized that once I let people in, gently ease my level of heavy into their hands for a moment so they can gauge it before I take it back within me, sometimes, on rare occasion, they hold my gaze and say "Oh, that's how much? Yes, yes, or course. That's no trouble at all. I can help carry that," and then a certain agreement has been reached. That I'm responsible too, for their heavy. That periods of silence can be comfortable and that sometimes what we're carrying ourselves gets too heavy to allow anything else. Not that we don't want to throw it right on top and carry it too, we just can't.

 

Friendship, it doesn't mean approving of every decision, or not stepping back. It means making the hard calls, and also accepting that sometimes, for no other reason than that we can and we want to, we change our minds.

 

I know that I've already done my resolutions, and I'm off to a pretty winning start, although I haven't delved into the bubbly since NYE, but I want to add one more, not for this year, but for forever, for my life. I want to, need to, start dancing in the gray parts. To see the beauty in the fact that nothing, nothing that has to do with the realm of human relationships and the spectrum of our emotional capabilities is black and white. Not just because it's so rare that I feel things absolutely anyway, but because it wouldn't be fair to expect myself to.

 

We are fluid, not steel, not matter how hard we try to be. But that doesn't mean we're not strong, perhaps it just means we have the advantage of flexibility, and change.  

 

And that's just part of what I learned yesterday.

 

 

my shady past... with dating. part 2. time machine addition.

Yesterday I talked a little about my shady history with the wide world of dating.

And now I'm going to talk about it a little more.

I'm sure you're overwhelmed with joy.

Now where did we leave off? Somewhere around me bragging like an asshole over how easy it was for me to find men to date. Right.

The only problem while I was dating all these wonderful eligible men that wanted to take me home to Mom and carve our initials into the old Oak in the back yard of their childhood home?

I was totally unprepared to be dating at all.

Let's travel back in time and crunch some numbers and facts for a second.

I graduated high school at 17. During those 4 years in high school, I spent 80% of my time worrying about running track and cross country and hanging out with my team and 20% worrying about school. That's 0% time spent thinking about boys.

Okay, maybe only 78% on things running related and 2% on boys aka Freddie Prinze Jr.

Still.

I had exactly 2 'boyfriends' in high school. They were both my senior year and lasted 4 and 3.5 months, respectively.

Between the 2, I estimate 3 make out sessions, 4 real dates, 1 prom, 1 break up due to me being tired of always having to drive to his house to hang out and then having to pay and 1 break up because I wasn't willing to have sex.

That's essentially 0% preparedness to attend a frat party.

OH my GOD do I hate math.

And then I turned 18 and was magically a mature adult (HA!) and moved to another state and attended the largest university in the nation (that year) and proceeded to start dating the first guy that walked me home from the first kegger I attended, the second night I was there.

We dated for three months until I met The First Serious One, who we'll come back to, eventually.

So here's the deal. That's when the cycle started.

I like to call this little cycle The Child or the Cheerleader routine.

Because that's what I became every. single. time. Since I didn't have a clear understanding or knowledge of what I wanted in a relationship, I just dated any 'good guy' I found, and then I forced myself to fit into a box that met their vision of how our relationship should go. Hence, becoming someone they felt they had to take care of, the child. Or someone that was constantly telling them how great they were and encouraging them to reach for their dreams, hence the cheerleader.

I can be both of those things, when the time is right, but those qualities do no define me as a person. Except, that they did. For a very, very  long time.

Which we'll talk a big more about tomorrow.

XO Sara

my shady past... with dating. part 1.

Let's talking about dating for a minute... or like maybe four posts.

Now, I've been out of the scene for a hot second at this point, but I remember it well. For me, dating largely consisted of flirting with friends of friends and playing hard to get with men I'd flirted with in bars until one of them snared me into a casual hangout that led to emotions without me realizing it and the rest was history an ensuing battle of me trying to valiantly escape without anyone getting hurt. I'd never intentionally entered into a serious romantic relationship.

Never. Intentionally.

Yeah, that's a true story. Ask my first college boyfriend what I said when he finally got up the nerve to ask me to be his girlfriend after we'd seen practically nothing but each other for three months

It was something along the lines of, "Ummmm. Well. I mean, I'm a freshman. I don't really want a boyfriend, you know, a serious one. But, I guess we could give it a try. Let's just keep is casual, okay?"

Fast forward to our HORRENDOUS breakup a year and a half later. He's ugly crying on a park bench and I'm standing around like an asshole waiting for it to be over so I can go cry to my girlfriend over ice cream about him crying over me.

Rinse, repeat for six years.

One minute I'm perfectly happy running around like a crazy person on my own. But never really on my own, you know? Just surrounded by the best and happiest people I can find.  I'm so busy and full of life and movement and the next thing I know, BOOM, I'm either dating a total asshole with bigger commitment issues than myself, or I'm shaking my knee like I've been holding in four big gulps for an eight hour bumpy ride with my father behind the wheel. Antsy. Shifty-eyed. Trapped with absolutely no idea how I got here.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not heartless or especially cold or incapable of emotion in any way. I cry during movie previews for christs sake. I ended up caring deeply about everyone I dated over the years, whether it was for three months or twenty. I formed friendships with their families, who they ALWAYS wanted me to meet. I grew to like many of their friends, and I liked almost all of them as people. But it took me a REALLY long time to realize that kind of compatibility doesn't necessarily mean ROMANTIC LOVE in capital letters, as least not the kind for which I was looking.

You see, my problem was never that guys were hard to find. In fact, my problem wasn't figuring out places to meet decent men, it wasn't weeding out men, it wasn't getting men interested in me. It wasn't even getting men interested in me for my personality instead of my looks. Although honestly, I'm kind of an asshole and don't really pay much mind to my appearance, so that part kind of escapes my logic.

(Please note that I'm not implying that men were flocking to me like Salmon during the spawn, nor am I a hussy by any means. I just got really good at figuring out how to screen out shady men and make the rest really like me.)

My problem wasn't in logistics or the pool.

And no issue of Cosmo or Glamour or even Carrie Bradshaw herself was telling me what the eff was going wrong here, despite my desperate perusal or any advice they had to offer.

It was me.

And tomorrow, I'll tell you why.....

Xo Sare

adventures in volunteering

I was volunteering recently with eight year old girls for Girl's Inc. Just an hour, once a week for six weeks. They run cycles four times a year.  This was week five, our second to last class together. The girls were sitting in small clusters around round tables drawing pictures of themselves doing something amazing and eating their lunches. I walked around, asking the girls what they were drawing and encouraging them to finish eating, they are always very animated and want to tell me a million stories. I've never felt so popular.

 

The girls are from a variety of different home lives and backgrounds. Some are very poor. Even in third grade they are starting to realize who are the 'haves' and who are the 'have nots.' They don't do it meanly, it's almost like some invisible force is pulling them into groups. It's heartbreaking sometimes, but this group is always polite and kind and encouraging to one another. They were willing to share and eager to answer questions and so candid with their responses that many times I had to smile to hold back a laugh. No one feels afraid to speak up for fear they will be ridiculed, which I admire so much in them and wonder how long they have like this.

 

As I was circulating around and finding out how every one's week was going, one girl motioned me over excitedly. She always has a broad smile, unbrushed hair, and clothes that don't quite match. She's confident and social to everyone and undoubtedly, a 'have not.'

 

"My mom had her baby!" She exclaimed with happy excitement. 

 

"OH MY, that's wonderful" I gushed back,  "A little brother or a little sister!"

 

"A little sister,' she said suddenly sounding a little shy.

 

"Well what did she name her?" I encouraged.

 

And then she hesitated and looked back down at the picture she was drawing of herself kicking a game-winning goal during a soccer game. She'd mentioned to me in an earlier class that she was very athletic.

 

"We didn't get to name her, because, the family that, that, that adopted her will name her." She said carefully. She looked heartbroken, but not in tears.

 

I was so taken aback with her willingness to share and her bravery and honesty at the situation that I didn't know what to say. Another girl at the table, having overheard as kids are wont to do, piped up quickly with a "Why? Why don't you get to keep your sister?" Not meanly, but just with genuine interest at what surely seemed like a strange situation to her.

 

"Well," hesitated the first girl, "That couple couldn't have a baby...so....." That's when she trailed off and sat staring at her toes.

 

"How wonderful of Morgan's mother to do such a kind thing for that family." Was all I could think to say. Because what can you say? She's eight. She doesn't get to have a baby sister and it just isn't fair.

 

Eight year olds know much more than most people give them credit for and she knew more than she'd been told in words. She knew that her Mom couldn't keep that new little sister and seeing it was heartbreaking.

 

Maybe she'll be fine and she'll cope and grow and go on to win hundreds of soccer games. But sometimes I catch myself wondering what would have been the right thing to say. How could I have helped her carry the load? What if she doesn't have anyone else to talk to?

 

Working with those girls has been a wonderful and eye-opening experience. And it's given me new ideas to consider as I try to figure out my career path. If you have even an hour a week I'd highly recommend volunteering your time to give a girl someone to talk to.

 

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

junk ima liking

Boom, change up.




I'm not really feeling a cohesive entry slash narrative today. Instead, I'm going to provide you with a vaguely comical  list of stuff that's keeping my whole cheery disposition situation sustained, you know, sunny side of the street and all that.


Enjoy!



Smelling like mint:

I'll make ya smell like the mint. yummmmmy.

I have no idea what is with me lately, but ever since I started using this stuff on my hair I've been obsessed with smelling like mint. It's just fresh, you know? If I catch a whiff of myself during the day (and if I'm actually wearing clean and laundered clothing at the time) and it's minty, I just can't help breathing in through my nose and sort of lifting my shoulders as it fills my lungs, it's a whole body movement. Especially in the summer months when everything is a little sticky, it's like a little arctic puff of refreshment. Thank G.










 This seemingly adult lip adornment:


Remember how I was talking about being too immature to figure out lipstick? It pretty much spurred an obsessive compulsive episode in which I searched high and low for a lip product that makes me look and feel like I can pull off lipstick like real adult women- Since lipstick seemingly hasn't waned in popularity and I'm probably getting too old to carry around a tube of lipsmackers and call it good. (Don't worry Dr. Pepper LipSmackers, I'll never truly desert you.) Well, I FINALLY found this. It's basically perfect, I get to feel all mature-like because my lips are reddish and shiny and stuff, and more importantly, my lips don't send mean, dissenting letters through my brain waves because they're dry like the desert from the chalk-shit I just smothered them in. Win-win!

actual hue I personally slide on my kisser. sassy, no?

 Crack chips:


Sweet bajeezus. Have you tried these? If you haven't, I honestly don't know whether to tell you that you should delve into this world of addiction and need or that you shouldn't and thus condemn yourself to a life without a taste of pure chip-heroin.


I just can't stop consuming these. That's all.

I WILL ruin you for every other chip- past, present, or future.

Doing my run at night:


I have been love love loving night runs lately. Damn it, now all I can think about is Night Moves. Shit, Seger, man. Boss. But seriously, I'm making some major night moves these days.


I don't know what it is, but when it's warm during the day and it cools off at night, I just really feel it. I run faster, I actually enjoy the act of running for longer, and I'm waaaaaaaaay less distracted with sensory overload, so I actually get some decent though-streams flowing. It's wonderful.


I may tryyyyyyyyy to start running pre-work in the mornings, but I'm probably kidding myself. I just like the idea of sucking back a few brewskis on an outdoor patio after work and not worrying about drunkenly twisting my ankle two miles away from home in the dark.


Could be an adventure, though.


Probably not a fun one.

 Being hot:




I'm not talking about my appearance here. I'm talking about Summer, y'all. I'm so in love with it that, if it were legal and Summer asked my dad permission first, I would actually engage in nuptials with it.


BURN ME BABY.


I get so bored with people who are all blahblahblahblabhblahcomplainabouttheweatherdayinanddayoutnomatterwhati'mnotsatisfied.


Get the fuck over yourself.


I personally don't care for being cold, but I've learned how to survive because the Midwest is my home. Boohoo, I'm not going to cry about it.


THIS IS SUMMER,  THIS IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR CONSTANT SUN.


Oh, and on behalf of Summer I'd just like to say YOU'RE WELCOME for the days lasting longer, asshole.





Finding fun shit on my computer that allows me to entertain myself::


Last night I arrived after work to an empty house and something very dangerous happened. I opened Photobooth on my Macbook for the initial time in many moons and I, like a virgin, tinkered around with the video recording device for the very first time.


Other than getting pissed at myself for constantly looking at myself and not the actual camera mechanism when I was talking, this feature and I got on swimmingly.


TOO SWIMMINGLY.
 To the point where I was pretending to be drunk while trying on my sister's things and holding confessionals about the time I got broken up with via text message TWICE by the SAME GUY.


For the record, we're talking long-term, abundant with the capital L emotional three word displays, and numerous occasions of familial contact with each other's relatives. In fact, I was actually living with his sister the second time.


Not really important, but maybe I can humor that up and make it a story for another day.


We'll see.
 I had an absolute ball with myself.



Getting emails containing this kind of content during the two o'clock lag at work:

This little pick-me-up came from my friend Erin just in the nick of time earlier:

'yesterday i worked a little after 5 then pulled some maniacal move-making trying to get to chase before 6 so i could finally resolve my lack-o-debit card issue. i also got my auto loan to be directly taken out or whatever AND found out if i didn't have a consistent month-to-month direct deposit of $500 or more, i would be CHARGED to bank with chase. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ABOUT?! apparently the whole world has always known about this but there is NO FUCKING WAY i would everrrrrrr bank with a bank that charged me JUST to keep my fucking money there. PLEASE, YOU ARE USING MY MONEY EVERRRRYYYDAYYYY TO GIVE OUT TO SCHMUCKS WHO WANT CARS AND HOMES. YOU'RE WELCOME! assholes. i hate chase, and really any financial institution that's making money off of money. YOU ARE NOT ORIGINAL! MAKING MONEY OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY IS THE EPITOME OF GREED. HAVE FUN IN HELL, BITCHES!

ugh, chase just bothers me in a non-logical way. much the same way republicans and small children with big mouths do."


END QUOTE.

This is the kind of entertainment that I'm fed on the DAILY from her. I just really appreciate a little well-placed rage.


 This band covering Modest Mouse:

Iron Horse. If you like freedom, think puppies are cute, and think splinters SUCK, then you'll probably definitely love this band. I recommend their cover of Trailer Trash to start. It's perfect. Just like your mom.

They make my ears so happy that I'm not deaf.

Happy Happy Thursday and all that.

Xo Sare

silver lining? my pee is clear.

My job is easy.


Like, if not for fear of electrocution, a beaver could simultaneously build a dam and do my job successfully. OK, I really don't like that analogy either, I'm sorry. A dog. A dog could do my job. Let it be known that I adore the entirety of the canine species, but we don't keep dogs around for their smarts. We keep them around because that tail a-waggin' is such a candid expression of joy that giving them a pat on the head is completely undeniable. Dogs are loyal, and bad ass, albeit dumb.


A dog could easily do my job.


Which is probably why I don't particularly care for the way I keep myself in the black, so to speak.



I loathe my job with the heat and fury of 100000 suns.



However, having a job that requires so very little actual brain power has its perks. Very FEW perks, but still, they exist. Minimally.


For example, despite the fact that my boss seems to get his kicks out of treating the workday like an eight hour criminal lock-down, I get to spend an undue amount of time worrying about things that in my normal, everyday life I wouldn't even really consider, let alone set aside actual moments for. Such as hydration. I can honestly say that I've never been as well-hydrated as I am at this particular, peculiar point in my life. It's almost a compulsion. I fill up two water bottles, I drink them. I go back downstairs to the water-cooler and re-fill them. I drink them. Repeat for eight hours. My piss is clear. It's fucking almost water-clear. It's phenomenal.


Thanks, job. I don't give you enough credit for forcing me to find valid reasons to leave my desk as many times a day as possible. The water distraction is two-fold because it also makes me pee about 23874387 times a day.


Another reason to leave my desk? I'll take it!




Also, I must say that my nails and hands have never been in such great shape. Being that I stare down at my hands the majority of the time that I'm not staring at the computer screen in front of me, I've really taken an interest in putting my best hand forward. I moisturize, A LOT. In fact, I even have to take off my ring to do this task, so it takes a few seconds longer. If I look down at any point in the day and my hands look even the least bit parched, I stop everything I'm doing to attend to lotioning them up. Equally as important, my nails and cuticles. I thought those movies and shows I saw as a child where ladies working at desks are always picking at their nails were just to make them look worthless/trashy/lazy. But really, it's because it's true! I have almost an entire manicure kit in my desk.

I feel at this rate, I could someday be a potential candidate for a hand model in a national commercial. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but I like to set my sights high.

Finally, I spend OODLES of time staring at the computer. I'm the kind of person that's interested in almost everything... but I'm a bit absentminded, and I take a slightly ADD approach to life. AKA I'm always stumbling upon giant piles of awesome that cause me to go "WOAHHH, man, I gotta read/listen to/buy/see THAT! And then I wander away and can never quite remember where I saw it or heard of it, or what it was called, just that it was rad and I forgot and I'm an idiot. Seriously, a lot of my life is that whole song and dance. HOWEVER, since I'm basically confined to this desk all day, with an UNLIMITED amount of post-it notes and ink pens, I've developed a strategy! It's called writing it down AS SOON AS it happens to strike my fancy, whatever it is that I've discovered. I've got more interests and interesting things to tamper with then I even have time for! Tiny scraps of paper everywhere!

Plus, my cubicle has a window.


I know, you're still jealous about the pee thing.


HYDRATE, fools!

XO Sare

rub a dub dub get out of the tub... for your facebook picture.

I've been having some thoughts lately regarding your favorite social networking site and mine, the book of faces.


Despite Facebook's ability to make actual human interaction completely unecessary, illuminute us on the minute interactions and daily details of people we otherwise wouldn't have thought twice about ever speaking to again, and its ability to act as a catalyst for petty drama, I actually like Facebook.


We've had some times together, Facebook and I. Months of compulsively stalking exes, blocking haters, hours of penning clever photo captions and album titles, tons of emo song lyric statuses during my college daze, and LOTS of obscure interests, these are all things I never would have had the opportunity to master had it not been for the joy and wonder of Facebook. Once, Facebook and I even took a six month "break" that ended when I moved to a new place for the summer and needed, somehow, to keep track of everyone I was meeting there. SO MANY PEOPLE.


I NEED FACEBOOK TO KEEP TRACK OF ALL MY HUNDREDS OF FRIENDS.  


Not really, but at this point, the benefits outweigh the faults and I'm riding this train all the way to the station.


Sure, the powers that be at Facebook like to shake things up and completely change the viewing format to keep everyone on their toes, or strategically so that they'll get more traffic from people trying to figure the damn thing out... again, which is infinitely annoying and kind of makes me want to do violent things to the undeserving, but the bonds run strong between Facebook and me.


It's gotten to the point where I can say, completely unembarrassed, that I actually gauge how much I will likely get along with a person based on their Facebook personality. And if I'm beating them at life.... you know, competitive little me.


For instance... I can tell that if someone has The Great Gatsby in their favorite books, we won't hit it off, just the same as if they list Cosmo, which for the record, IS NOT a fucking book. Don't get me wrong, I personally got immense enjoyment out of the book and think it's a gentleman and a scholar among literary gems. However, really? Really? You're going to list a book that was required reading in HIGH SCHOOL in your favorites? Holy Unoriginal. I'm certain there has been a time in my six-year F-book career that The Great Gatsby was listed in 1/3 of my friends' favorite books. Don't you want people to think you're smart?! My bad, I guess people think listing that book does make them look smart. Maybe I'm friending all the wrong people.


And another thing, what is this list-every-band-you've-ever-heard-of-in-the-indie-rock genre in your favorite music section? Sometimes I just want to challenge these mother fuckers to name even one album from every artist they list. It annoys me. Just give me an idea of if we would get along together on a long road-trip.

And now, we have the minimailists. At least I think that's the cool thing now. Tell as little as possible, but leave one pithy quote to sum it all up. Bonus points if you can limit it to one word. OR, on the other end of the spectrum, you have the people that update their statuses sixty times a day, using gross abreviations and emoticons.



I sound like I hate people WAY more than I do.



Really, I'm probably the weirdo for reading into the things people nonchatlantly splash across the internet the way that I do. And also, all the stuff I listed above can be forgiven by other redeemable qualities, such as making me laugh so hard in real  life that liquid splurts out of my nose, or a nice comment on one of my wall pix. However, there is one F-book infringement that is unforgivable, other than the obvious, close-minded and ignorant political bigotry in the form of a status-update.


What I'm talking about, sad but true, will genuinely determine if I will make an effort to like a person in the world beyond that safety of the interwebz. The profile picture. I guess this requires some explanation. This recent discovery of myself stems from  something my friend Jessica told me recently; that only girls who think they're pretty leave their profile pictures open to public viewing. Maybe that's true, maybe it's not, but the girl has a point.


I don't mind if you have a picture of your dog, your child, your boyfriend doing something embarrassing. I don't even give a good goddamn if you have a picture of your newly engaged hand with a huge diamond on it, or if you're particularly proud of a vacation body that you worked your ass off to look bangin' in that bikini for. I'll probably not hate you if you have some angle pics that are better suited for MySpace, although I'll most likely get some laughs at your expense.



The picture you post of yourself is your own perogative, it's how you want the people you know to see you, and I respect that everyone has a little different idea of what makes them feel pretty. Once, I posted a picture of myself three sheets to the wind with a sugar-glider on my shoulder and four chins because I was literally screaming in terror that the thing was going to nibble on my earlobe. We've all got different views of what makes us most attractive.


But I do have a deal-breaker, I just don't do bathtub pictures. I don't care how skinny, hot, beautiful, hipster, indie RoCk 'N rOlL, or badass your are, there is absolutely no reason in my mind that any person, from age 18-98 should ever, ever post a picture of themselves in a bathtub with water running all over them. I recently came across a picture of a young lady that is a REPEAT offender of this one rule, and I must say, I'm completely baffled. Her profile pictures are public, and there she is, at various stages of undress, chillin' in a tub o' water. Will she never need a job? I don't think sitting in a bathtub with water hitting your body is a marketable skill. THIS IS THE MIDWEST, I'm pretty sure no modeling careers are taking off around here. I'm just so confused, does this make one popular with the fellas? Because who wants to date, seriously be committed in a relationship, with a person who's giving previews to every other guy on the block book? It's times like this that I just want to bring these girls big terry-cloth robes, sit them down and give them a hug and preach just a 'lil bit, because maybe SOMEONE already should have. It doesn't matter what super-alternative angle or lens you use to take the picture, it's still a bathtub picture and you still look like a fool.



And also kind of like a hussy.



RESPECT YOSELF.



Xo Sare

Dramazzzzzz.

Hi There!

Wow, I bet you just about shit your little Soffee shorts when you saw you had an email from me, huh? That's ok, if I were you, I would have done the same thing! I just hope you weren't taking a sip of a drink or using any sort of sharp object when you saw my name pop up. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself! Anyway, fear not, I'm not going to threaten to reach down your throat, pull out your lungs, and use them to make balloon animals. I just though I'd drop you a quick line to educate you a little.

So, instead of resorting to violence or sending you a pithy and passive-aggressive message like the one I got from you, I'm just going to be completely straightforward with you. Ok? Perfect!

Sweetheart, breakups are an absolute bitch, huh? You think you know a person! You let them in your pants, you give them cards signed with x's and o's and you introduce them to your friends, and what do they do? They just up and decide you're not the one! Then they have the nerve to start dating someone else after they break up with you! Just doesn't seem fair does it? Well, maybe that's because it's not, and don't I know it, I've been there a time or two. Fortunately, I learned this about the world and life in general: There are no rules. None. That is a lesson, and you're welcome.

People break up and get together thousands of times a day, all around the world. And my! It's a big ole' world isn't it? So yeah, you know what the smart ladies do when they get broken up with? They put on fuck-me heels and get liquor drunk with their girlfriends. They listen to emo-ass music and ceremoniously burn keepsakes of the lost love.  They watch chick flicks while simultaneously eating their feelings and crying. Seeing as how you're fairly young and all, you may be a tad new to this, so I thought I'd drop you a line, speaking from experience. When the person you've been in a relationship with was compeltely faithful, loving, put up with your craziness, and broke up with you because you aren't the right one for them, you thank your lucky stars that you made it out alive and that was as ugly as it got. It sucks, it hurts, but guess what?! It's been happening for years and ::somehow:: the world is still in orbit.

You know what you don't do after someone breaks up with you if you have even a trace of class in the blood running through your veins? You don't whip out your trendy little cell phone and start chatting up your ex's best friend for deets on their new life, and you certainly don't continue to do it for months and months on end, guilting them into responding to you.  You know why? Because it's not going to make you feel any fucking better and because that's how stupid little bitches ruin twenty year long friendships.

I've been really trying to find a way to play this out in my head in a way that doesn't make you look like a pathetic psycho.... but let's face it, there isn't one. And you know what I hate even more than that? The fact that your shitty judgement and character has made me feel anything in your direction. At all.

On the upside, my conscience is now COMPLETELY clear.

Were you really hoping to be thrown a few scraps of conversation to wolf down so you could let yourself pine away for however long you have left in you? Ew.

Hey, I'm not a mean girl. Well I definitely can be, but I'm not being mean to you.  I'm thanking you for making it so easy for me to dismiss you as a whack-job. I'm helping you.

If you are ever hoping to have a healthy and adult relationship in the future, you really need to mind your business, get over yourself, and move on. I don't appreciate being jarred from my happy life of x's and o's and basically complete bliss and harmony to deal with bullshit because you don't know the appropriate way to handle yourself.

XOXO

Sare.

Oh, and PS, babe, you probably don't want to eat your feelings too much, you know, if you're going to try to get back out on the horse anytime soon.