whirlwind weekend.

Sweet baby Jesus what a weekend.


And yes, I realize it's now Wednesday. However, the weekend kind of steam-rolled through Monday and right over half of Tuesday and then there was a going away party last night for one of my besties, who is moving to Good Korea to go teach their youngins how to speak Amuuurican... so, yeah. I need to do laundry.


Plus I don't know about you, but WEDDING SEASON is now in full swing; as in I've got three nuptial-fests in the next four weekends to attend. I'm not complaining, but two of them aren't open bar.  We're even talking completely dry. So.... kid's table for me.


Anyway, I think we left off after my weekend opened with a midnight movie and I went all Harry Potter sobfest on you the next morning via lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. By now most people who are HP fans have probably already seen it, so let me just say a few words.

Mrs. Weasley saying the bitch word? AWESOME. Ginny's 19-years-later hair and ass? Both a little large if you ask me. Seeing all those death eaters peace the fuck OUT when Harry springs back to life after dying/resurrection stone-ing. Priceless. Lurve, lurve, LURVE. Notable absence? Hagrid. I know he makes a brief appearance and all, but man I missed that giant hunk 'o ... giant.


Anyway, I'll tone down the Harry Potter talk now. I mean, I'm not making any promises, but I'll try.  I think that's really more than anyone can hope for.


After dragging myself through work on Friday, I crashed pretty early that night. Plus Manfriend took me out to dinner and I ate my weight in pasta with a cream sauce of some sort... so it's not like I wasn't going to need a nap after that meal anyway.


True to form, we're slated to leave first thing Saturday morning and when I come out of my pasta coma ten hours later I still haven't packed. Nary a knick-knack or pair of undies had found it's way into any type of controlled pile/wadded up bundle. So, I frantically threw my toothbrush,  some conditioner, and like ten pairs of panties into my backpack and said a quick prayer to the luggage gods that they were actually clean.


Saturday morning was A BIT stressful. I ran over to my parents house to 'finish packing' aka see if I had received any birthday cards containing cash while Manfriend set off to run a quick errand aka go buy more deodorant. OF COURSE I left a baby gift and like six more things I needed at Manfriend's (slash I guess my house) so he had to scamper back over there and get them for me.


All in all, we left two hours late, which is pretty good for us.

We arrived in the Windy City by early afternoon and, my my my is Chicago in the summer a different place then Chicago in the dead of winter. Which would be the time of year when I resided there. When basically all I did was futilely apply for a million jobs and wait for my roommate to get home so we could watch TMZ and get drunk together. And hole up in my room, watching an entire season of Veronica Mars a night. 

Okay, end of vivid, depressing flashback.

As soon as we blazed into town we met up with my friend/spirit sister Colleen and proceeded to hit up a neighborhood festival and the zoo. Really any time I get to spend with otters is never disappointing.  Between everything, overwhelming success. Saturday night was a blast of outdoor patio cocktails- and if my two bloody mary brunch Sunday morning isn't an indication of my level of relaxation/hangover, then I don't know what is. I then proceeded to nap for several hours. Vacation means never having to say you're sorry. (Oh my god, okay. I'm sorry for wasting a sunny afternoon napping, Chicago. Nothing personal. Pinky promise.)


Sunday night involved an entirely different type of Mary.


THAT'S RIGHT, REUNION TIME. The gals got to catch up a bit, Mary's husband got to meet Manfriend,  and Mary and I completed our first ever shared domestic task, making a salad together.  I also got to meet her adorable daughter, who is only four months old and has already been saved by fashion. True story.  We drank some champagne and reminisced the good old days, which happen to STILL BE GOING DOWN. It's fine guys, she pumps her milk. RESERVE SUPPLY. Which means that NEXT TIME I'M BRINGING A BEER BONG.


Just kidding.


Kinda.

Whew. Monday, Manfriend and I were still in Chicago, so we pretty much wandered around Wrigleyville until the Phillies v. Cubs played. And we got a batting practice ball. (Manfriend took it TO THE FACE. hahahahahaha ahahaha I love him dearly, but it was hilarious.) BOOM. My friend Dev and his lady friend joined us for the game, which was sahweet.

Basically in a whirlwind weekend, and I saw everyone I wanted to see in the windy city. Frankly, I'm quite tired.

Which is why I'm going to channel George from Seinfeld and attempt to take a nap under my desk this afternoon. The only real problem is that my bosses' cubicle shares a wall with mine. It's really just an added degree of difficulty. And this girl? Up to the challenge.

Happy hump day!

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

i play favorites and july is the best.

I don't know if you've noticed, but TOMORROW IS JULY.

HOLY SWEET MOLY, IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!!!!!!!

That's totally what I look like when I'm jumping for joy, okay?

You know what happens in July? No? WELL LET ME INFORM YOU:

All kinds of wonderful amazingness crammed into thirty one days of melting Popsicles, canon-ball splashes, and copious hot dog consumption.

AND DID I MENTION 4th of July is my favorite holiday? Well it is. Fireworks? Um, yes please. Show me lovely fire sparks falling back down to the earth in cool patterns. Make me say ooooohh-aaaaaahhhhh- murrmurrmurrmurrrrrrrrr.

PICNICS? BASEBALL? OVERWHELMING HEATS WAVES?

Hold me, it's too much to feel.

PLUS, almost smack-dab in the middle of this fuck-yeah-fest is MY BIRTHDAY.

Presents?

For little old me?

Nahhhh.

And by "Nahhh" I mean I'd like this watch please:

yummmm.

Great, thanks.

And where will I be to mark my 25th year of falling apart and coming back together on this fair planet?

It's funny you should ask, because I actually just started firming up some plans this very morning.

My birthday weekend will begin with an end. As in, the dramatic conclusion of the Harry Potter series in cinematic drama. Yes, I'll probably cry. DON'T HASSLE ME, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL CRY IF I WANT TO. I'm honestly planning on going to the midnight screening with is more geek than I really thought I had in me, but if I'm going to do this thing up, I'm taking it all the way.

My brother Eric and I go see all the movies together when they come out, it's tradition. He's 18 now and nearly too old for his geriatric sister, so it will be nice to hang out with him before he's swept off to college to knock the shit out of other kids on the football field for four more years and maybe learn a little something about sports medicine. Not from experience, in the classroom.

Anyway, back to my birthday weekend.

I'M GOING TO CHICAGO! AND MANFRIEND IS COMING WITH ME. We've never been together. Yes, I find that a teeny bit odd, but it doesn't matter now because IT'S GOING DOWN.

I'll see Coll and Dev. And frolic. Lots of frolicking.

This trip is also falling on the full moon, just saying.

Anyway, I'm going to drag Manfriend all over Chicago for the weekend, carrying champagne with me the entire way. THE ENTIRE WAY. That step is pretty crucial. Luckily, I like strawberry Andre a lot, so it shouldn't be too pricey. But I can put that sweet nectar back like none-other, so we'll see.

Oh yeah, the best part?

ON MONDAY, we're dodging work and going to Wrigley Field to see the PHILLIES. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but Manfriend is probably the world's biggest Phillies fan. I don't think a day has gone back that I've NOT seen him adorned in something Phillies-related. I swear to god. He's obsessed. He loves them more than me, probably. We haven't gone to see them play together in two years, so this is going to be awesommmmmmme.

Anyway, this baseball thing has had a trickle-down effect on me over the years and so now I actually watch baseball sometimes for fun of my own free will.

I know. I know.

But seriously, WRIGLEY FIELD. Chicago. Harry Potter. Champagne. Best Friends. Lovers. Extreme heat. Hot dogs. BEER.

Boom.

July, July, you never fail me.

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