Let's talk about breakfast meat: A beginning.

It's presently beeeeee-youtiful outside.

The snow's a-fallin'. And as much as I'd rather admire it from the comfort of my couch, curled in cashmere, sipping a heavily-spiked Irish coffee with a good book and a roaring fire in the fireplace, I'll settle for the white- white- world from my cubicle window. At least I have a window in here, right?

Snow is absolutely lovely, albeit semi dangerous to drive through. And by semi, I mean absolutely.

I'm choosing to have a good attitude about the current five inch dump of white, fluffy sediment from Mother Nature, and judging from the overwhelming general bad attitude on Facebook this morning, I'm the only one spinning this thing to the positive.

Yay, me.

There is something else highly responsible for my foolhardy good mood this morning, and it's a breakfast meat.

That's right, bacon, the candy of meats.

My love for bacon knows no bounds. If the health food craze is lost on me, bacon is largely at fault.

There are things I would do for a well-fried piece for bacon that I wouldn't do to save a life, and I'm completely serious about that.

Last night, in a rare and fiery bout of wisdom, I decided to fry up and bag some of the breakfast meat I hold dearest of my heart for this morning, to encourage a better attitude about life. It's done wonders.

Wonders.

So, I may have slid through a stop sign this morning, barely missing a police K-9 unit SUV, AND had the fear-shakes when I did finally make it work. However, I like my outfit, my hair looks cute, and I had bacon this morning.

Everything is going to be okay.

I like gas-station hot dogs.

Before I delve into the weird that was my weekend I'd just like to let you know that since the last time we talked I've acquired a very mini-sized tube of deodorant for my purse. It was the only responsible thing for an otherwise almost completely irresponsible person to do. So, even though I may choke on unsuccessfully dry-swallowed pills in the future, I will also have the peace of mind that if I die, I will indeed NOT be the smelly person at the office, even if I forget to apply antiperspirant before I dash out the door in the morning.

Whew.

Also, my sister and I, enroute to Columbus, Ohio, hometown of my beloved alma mater, for one final Christmas of the year, discovered that we both loathe two-door cars. Call us old biddies, but we both believe that the sedan is where it's at. I mean, driving a coupe is like admitting you have zero or one friends, you're cheap and will never offer to drive, or you don't give a shit about the comfort level of your passengers. Four door cars just make everything easier. I just need to know that I can access everything in my backseat easily, without having to awkwardly lean over the front seat with my ass in the air trying to find that other shoe... or something. Plus, a spacious backseat? I don't hate it.

On Sunday morning, Beth and I decided that after drinking heavily, sleeping in a house that I'm highly allergic to, and getting well below five hours of sleep, we were so in love with our manfriends that we would rise at seven in the morning to begin the journey back to them.

 Things got rullllllll weird.

 Mostly, me. Plus, Beth is the anti morning person to my schizoid total morning person... Usually when we're mixed together before noon or so, it will end in a verbal altercation that turns into a physical altercation.... that leads to one or both of us being physically or emotionally scarred for life... it's a pretty volatile combination. I'll just have you know right now, though, that we both survived a weekend of six driving hours together without any real bitchiness. Which is big. For both of us.

Now, let’s talk about a little thing called false advertising.

I have a problem with products that proclaim they will give you energy. AKA when I consumer said product, no matter the conditions,  I get the jitters, start shaking like a leaf on the tree, start wigging the fuck out for about two hours, and then crash and am completely worthless for the rest of the day. And I know this about myself. And I still decided I needed to take a five hour energy shot at 7:30 in the morning on Sunday. For S's and G's, since I wasn't even driving. Because I just can't say NO to impulses and urges. Ever.

Whatever, I also wolfed down a gas station hot dog before the sun was up, loaded with onions, ketchup, mustard, chili, and cheese, so I had basically already taken my own life in my hands.  Because I obviously lose any semblance of shame when I'm hungover.

These products that claim massive amounts of energy! without a crash! DO NOT give me energy, they make me loopy as all get-out, and then they make me feel within inches of death for the next 12-24 hours.

Anyway.... things got a little wacky for us at some point during the three hour drive and we had, I shit you not, this conversation:

Sara:  'ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I feel all flooby and I can't stop making weird noises.'

Beth: 'Yeah, you are making weird noises. You're actually acting like you've lost your mind.'

Sara: 'gahhhh, glooooody dooooody bahhhhh rummmpp pa pa pump."

Beth: 'When I'm babysitting I real like to make the children make animal noises.'

Sara: 'Uhhhhhhhh, I'm too hopped up on five-hour energy to fully grasp how not right that is.'

Beth: 'My favorite animal to have them imitate is a monkey.'

Sara: (cracking up/losing it) ‘You know what, you're fucking odd. I don't know why anyone would let you watch their children.

Beth: ‘Just last week, a little girl I babysit for named a poop after me.’

Sara: '.... And I think I'll climb into the spacious back seat of your lovely SEDAN and start acting like a chimp.'

I hope we never reproduce.

XO Sare

Practice makes perfect

I almost just died and before I tell you what happened, you should know that my last thought had I died would have been regret at never managing to master personal hygiene.

I was just reminded that I'm a mere mortal in one of the most disturbing ways, ever.

Earlier, around 12:38, when I got back to my little cubicle after lunch, I did my post-lunch routine of taking my vitamin and allergy pill. Only today, I didn't have any sort of liquid to to help wash them down. "No Problem," I thought to myself, "My ability to swallow pills without water is pretty impressive, I'm practically a dry-pill-swallowing Aficionado, this will be no problem whatsoever."

I pysch myself up a little and then go for a kill. I same-time it, hoping for the best.

As planned, the pill swallowing mission was successful and went off without a hitch.

I've mastered this task.

BOOM.

I continue my post-lunch routine of catching up on emails and checking facebook on my phone. I"m fine. Everything is status-quo.

Or so I thought.

I prepare some papers and take them up to the copier to scan to my computer.

I line them up, press scan, and cough.

I cough and then it feels wrong, so I cough again.

This time something unlodges itself from my throat that I didn't even know was lodged in my throat, and makes its way up my esophagus and back into my oral cavity. This is fucking weird. It tastes TERRIBLE, like worse than anything I've ever tasted, and it's not phlegm. I was expecting phlegm; it’s winter, I’m perpetually runny, and I have allergies. I immediately go into a panic sweat. It's literally like every single one of my goddamn pores is opening and expelling sweat at once, for a split second.

WHAT IS THIS CHOKING ME AND APPEARING IN MY MOUTH, UNINVITED?

I realize in that instant that I failed to apply deodorant this morning. I'm an adult, for all intents and purposes, and I can't even manage to put on deodorant in the morning? The HELL? I wonder how many times I've failed to put on deodorant in the time that I've worked here and not even noticed. What if I'm the smelly one? What if my cubicle stinks? OMG, I can't live with the embarrassment.

I'm freaking out about possibly being smelly and also the thing that just appeared in my mouth.

I'm dying.

Focus, Sara.

 I look around to see if anyone is looking at me and I reach into my mouth to investigate.

IT'S MY PILL. My sonofabitch allergy pill. Mushy and chalky and DEFINITELY not successfully swallowed.

I'll probably try again tomorrow.

XO Sare

I miss my shoes.

To say that Manfriend's 130 pound English Mastiff isn't well trained is a VAST understatement.

Luckily for her, she is a lover. She wouldn't so much as nip a soul. She'll bark, she'll act whackadoo chasing her tail around the living room, she'll slime you with an amount of digusting slobber that doesn't even really seem possible to be coming from a single mouth, but, to her credit, she is not by any stretch of the imagination mean or vicious.

Unluckily for her, she's earned the nickname "Monster." And she's now, officially, on my shit list- And for the moment, she's the only one on it.

I'm currently in mourning. I like to think of myself as a particularly non-materialistic person. I guess I had the pleasure of fancying myself that way when I still had material possessions of value that I could choose not to place at high value. That plan, my friends, has gone to shit.

   I'm about to fucking kill a dog.


   Let me explain.


  I am a dog person, I love dogs. I love big dogs. Dogs always have the right attitude. I love the dopiness, the codependency, the walks, the snuggling. I love the way their faces and ears are so soft and you just sink your nose into their fur and it smells so doggy. They sense your moods and know when you need comfort and they can be taught to do just about anything. I love coming home to a wagging tail. I'm into animals as a whole, but I love dogs the most.


However, right now, my already low patience threshhold is being pulled and stretched to its outermost boundaries and I'm SOOOOO very close to totally losing my fucking cool.


I may have met a dog that even I, the eternal dog lover, cannot handle. And she's mine.

Last night, by means no short of supernatural, Hally managed to fenagle her way out of the safety of her crate. We only keep her in a crate at night when we're at my house and the thing, quite frankly, is massive, as is everything we have to buy for her. Seeing as how she's a 130 pound mastiff. That I'm deathly allergic to. Neat.


Hally, the little angel, managed to weazel her way out of said nightime domecile and proceed to fucking GO TO TOWN on everything in sight.

And my my my, does she have expensive taste.

Not only has The Monster chewed to the point of near irrecognizability multiple articles of my clothing, the majority of the furniture in Manfriend's house,  a pair of Rainbow sandals, a pair of Nine West flats, a pair of Steve Madden Pumps, a pair of Michael Kors heels, and a very nice coffee table; she's also now torn a hole in the wall of my RENTAL home, trashed numerous keepsakes, scratched excessively an original wood door from when my RENTAL home was built in 1895, eaten a shelf right off a wall, and destroyed a DVD that belonged to my roomate. As if that's not enough, she's also managed to find a way to bust herself out of the secure cage in which Manfriend and I put her on the rare occasion we stay the night at my house.

The pairs of shoes she defiled of mine were just that, only shoes. I didn't wear the heels that much. But, they were dizzyingly expensive, luxuries from a past life that I can no longer afford, and don't know when I will again be able to do so.

I've tried to take deep breathes all morning and focus on the task at hand, hurrying home to deal with the disheveled remains and acting happy to see her.

But, I.... just....can't deny it. I am fucking livid.

Manfriend reminds me sometimes that she's really our dog. That I only refer to her as his dog when she does something really distructive, and as our dog when she's being cute and calm. Maybe that's true. But I sure as shit didn't get to take my go-around at training her when she was a puppy, so I think I deserve to be able to call her his dog when she's bad.

Animals, man.... they're ANIMALS.

I wrote that little ditty yesterday when I was still seething. I spent last night with Hal and we cuddled and essentially made up. As much as you can make up with a 130 pount lump of pure muscle that hogs the bed and doesn't have foggiest idea you were even upset with her.



But I still duct taped her cage door shut last night.



Just in case.

 XO Sare

GOOD morning.

Happy New Year, by the way.

I'll soon get around to posting my GOALS for 2011, since resolutions are soooo five years ago, but I guess this also means that if 'a halt to procrastination' was on that list, I'm already failing. However, the joke's on the list because since it isn't published yet, I can still omit lines. Bahahahaha.

But enough about that, let's shift focus, shall we? Whew.

I wake up early.

I wake up early willingly and not just in the fuck-I-have-to-get-to-work  sense. I like it. It's kind of sick, but the morning is my shit.

I relish in watching the sun languidly make its way over the horizon, then the tree line, then the clouds. I sip coffee, read the paper. I'm productive. I sing in the car on my daily 7:20 am commute. I'm the cheeriest person at the office in the morning and sometimes, I suspect my co-workers are scheming to knock my awake-level down a few notches. Or plotting to end my life. It's that bad. I don't even like anyone at the office that much, but I just can't turn down the morning cheer. (Unless I had a wine night that previous evening, in which case I'm usually trying to disguise the shakes and/or convince myself that I should at least attempt to survive the day.)

I get more done in the hours of 7-10 am then most people manage to do all day. I am the nails-on-chalkboard annoying person that's always in a good mood before you've recovered from the sound of your alarm rousing you from that weird and mildly disturbing dream you were having.

I am a morning person.

There is one problem with this chronic, jovial, early-morning-riser song and dance.
 

NO ONE else I know is blessed with the same sentiment as I am regarding the being awake side of conscienceness in the early-morning hours, especially Manfriend.

Believe you me when I say that entire days have been ruined between me and Manfriend as a result of my unrelenting early-morning-pep.

However, not for lack of trying. I put in a legitimate effort at least once a month to sleep in, but I never make it past 8:30. MAYBE  9:30, if heavy drinking has been involved... and even then... not so much.
 

Butttttt... it gets worse. You know in Big Daddy when that adorable little kid pisses the bed and wakes Adam up to tell him and Adam just lays down a layer of newspaper and instructs the child to go back to sleep, himself falling right back into bed? Remember how the little kid keeps rolling over and over and tossing and turning until Adam Sandler finally gets up, yelling and cursing? And it's kind of worrying that he's an adult and really thought laying newspaper down would work, but also a little bit heartwarming that he's so inept at parenting, but giving it the old college try? Well I"m the little kid. Minus the peeing the bed.

Once I'm up, if I try to stay in bed, I will fucking toss and turn and become the most irritating being in existence. I can't help it.

Manfriend would sleep until noon every. single. day. if it was acceptable. And stay up until 1:30 in the morning or something equally unrealistic and unbeleivable. Except, I've found, for people my age, it's really not that unreasonable. At all. Which is disconcerning for me, because am I already on my way to the early-bird special and those weird geriatric space-age-looking sunglasses? I really don't see the problem with it.

Usually the exchange goes something like this:

7:37 am, Saturday Morning

Sara: (Opens eye, stretching) Thinks to self "Ahhhh I just slept an extra hour, GAH  I love Saturday. I'm hungry. I need to pee. I'm bored. What's Manfriend doing? He's sleeping. I should wake him up so we can hang out!  WAIT! Don't wake him up yet, he'll be cranky, he'll be TICKED, the rest of the day will be filled with badness. Close your eyes, Sara, TRY to go back to sleep."

7:41 am, Saturday Morning

Manfriend: ZZZZZ

Sara: Thinks to self "Wow, he's really sleeping. Is this creepy? I'm watching him, that's creepy. I'm SO bored. I should go pee. I'm hungry. I wonder if Manfriend would be cranky if I woke him up now. Maybe he's hungry. He doesn't look that hungry. Yet. " Pokes Manfriend.

Manfriend: ZZZZZZZZzzzzZZZZZ

Sara: Gets out of bed to scavenge the fridge/use the bathroom/mill around the house aimessly.

8:02 am, Saturday Morning.

Sara: Thinks to self " I AM SO BORED. He's practically waking up. Did he just open his eyes? He's going to wake up. I'm starving. I. MUST. HAVE. FOOD. ::Shaking Manfriend:: "Babe, babe, are you awake?! IT'S MORNING!"

Manfriend: "Ehhhhhhh" Rolls over

Sara: "Are you hungry too? I'm starving! I had this dream last night where I was in a hot-air-balloon and the trees were made out of lollypops and then we went to this car dealership and the cars were all made out of cotton and I was like, 'will that cotton hold me?' but then the cotton made it so no one got hurt in crashes and so then we decided to drive to Japan......

Manfriend: Pulls pillow over head.

Sara: Shakes Manfriend violently. "BABE!!! LOOK, IT'S DAY!!! THE SUN IS OUT!!!"

Manfriend: "What time is it, Sara?"

Sara: "It's practically noon, look where the sun is in the sky. The day is basically half over. Wake up and feed me."

Manfriend: Looks at phone, realizes it's 8:04 am. Makes angry sounds. Rolls over and attempts to sleep while I continue to badger him for the next 45 minutes until he is finally convinced to get out of bed, cranky and broken.

CONCLUSIONS:

1. I am an asshole.

2. I become incredibly dependent on Manfriend to meet my basic needs on the weekends.

3. Someone could come and kidnap Hally and me at any time between the sun rising and noon and Manfriend wouldn't even notice we're gone until it's too late and we're murdered and chopped up into little tiny pieces and burned and then dumped in a landfill, never to be found.

4. I have an overactive imagination.

5. Manfriend should go to bed earlier so he can wake up earlier.

May your mornings be forever merry.

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.

The yule log looks like a poop log, anyway.

Well, Christmas has called me up and its breathing heavily into the receiver like the cheap, tawdry, affair it is.  As much as I've been struggling to get into the "Christmas Spirit" this year, even my snarky attitude isn’t immune to its kitschy charm. It is Christmas, and this is middle America, after all. Lately I’ve found myself hesitating at the seek button when Bing starts crooning on the radio, and even signing my emails with a somewhat aggressive, yet heartfelt, ‘Have a great holiday!’ to even the most demanding of customers at the office.

However, if there's one thing I hate about Christmas, it’s trolling around a random Kohl’s or some other shitty store of the like that I would otherwise never set a foot into, because I'm desperately looking for inspiration for some stupid-ass gift that will probably be received with a forced smile and a quick glance back into the box to make sure I enclosed the receipt for easy returns. Which, I rarely ever manage to do anyway, because I have enough tiny slips of paper in my life and frankly, I can’t keep track of the damn things.

I’m no Scrooge; I like, no, I love giving gifts, don't get me wrong. I love it when I'm absentmindedly browsing a store during some downtime and I'm struck with inspiration or I see something that immediately makes me think of someone and have. to. buy. whatever it is for them. Those are the gifts I love giving, because despite how effortless they are, they're perfect, and if I care enough about you to think of you on my own time, then you deserve a gift. Seriously though, fuck forced gift-giving. Gift giving where I’m forced to rack my brain for something, anything to give someone else with my own meager amounts of cash is really not enjoyable for me.  I'm rarely struck with effortless inspiration in a panicked trip to an overcrowded Meijer, where I'm most definitely out of the spirit of giving before I'm even parked because I’m freaking out and some jackwad can't park straight, or at all, or created their own ::genius:: parking spot. This is especially worse in more affluent areas because for some reason the rich feel more fucking entitled than normal when they’re in parking lots.

Regardless. The stockings have been hung next to the refrigerator with care, because I'm allergic to the room Manfriend's chimney is in because of his ginormous dog.

I'm reaaaaaaaaaaally trying to get into this.

One thing I never have trouble getting into the spirit for is making Christmas lists. My own Christmas lists. For myself.  Usually I make them and then don't share them with anyone and end up getting things like a spare tire cover. (Which was very nice by the way, thanks, Mom and Dad) but it wasn't this:

Mama needs a partyyyyy dress, you know? Modcloth.com, I’d spend all my money on you if I could.

Anyway, I've composed my Christmas list for this year, but don't feel obligated to get me every single thing. One or two items from each person will suffice. Thanks in advance!

1.    Go back in time and un-invent the Kindle, Nook and every other apparatus of the like.

Um, I'm sorry, but when did we as a society get so fucking wired that we can't actually pick up a print copy of a book and physically turn the page ourselves? I'm so annoyed with it that I can feel myself tensing up as I type this. I hate hate hate these devices. Blah blah blah yeah, it's so awesome, you can fit like 2834789237 ENTIRE BOOKS in one tiny hand-held screen. I don't care. I hate it on principle.

Books, they're tangible. You can write in the margins, you can fold the pages, you can smell the binding and get the corners a little wet in the bathtub, they can be lent and loved by others and they deserve due respect. They’ve got character. Electronic reading devices completely bastardize the entire reading process for me. If I see someone reading from such a device, all I can think about is tripping him or her and watching the blasted thing fall to the ground, with any luck, cracking the screen. A book could take the fall.

2. Concert tickets. And whiskey money for said concerts: one per month, for the year. I think that’s pretty reasonable. I also wouldn't be opposed to a sober driver to and from each event, and also maybe a t-shirt from each one as well. I like souvies. It’s all about the memories, you know? I’d be happy to give you notice on which concert I’d like to attend each month. To make this request easier I would definitely settle for Rothbury making a triumphant return, because that was, for all intents and purposes, the greatest four days of my entire life. I'm honestly not kidding. Frolicking around in a magical forest,  wandering, wasted, from awesome concert to awesome concert and basically throwing all hygienic concerns in the wind? Yes, please. 

3. 

Just get me season tickets to all home games at the Shoe, too. Watching games isn't the same unless I'm watching them with 110,000 of my closest friends. While you're at it, you may as well throw in the bowl game as well. I prefer A-deck, but really, there isn’t a bad seat in the place. Um, also, I wouldn’t mind a sober driver to and from these functions as well. Actually, you know what, let’s just say:

4. I’d like a sober driver on call, please.

5. The motivation to attend a gym setting and/or participate in gym-like activities on a regular to semi-regular basis. And I'm just throwing this out there, but being able to adorn myself with the latest and greatest workout attire certainly wouldn't hurt the cause. Also I think a kayak is a reasonable request because it’s exercise for my arms muscles and I immensely enjoy water settings. This is really just basic logic.

6.  Admission to grad school, the program of my choosing. I won’t even ask you to pay for it, because I feel like I probably should be held financially responsible for it. Just getting in will be more than sufficient.

6. I'd really like it if everyone of age would register and drag themselves to their polling places at least for the general election. I really don't feel like it's too much to ask of people to get minimally involved with the process that essentially rules their lives. It’s once every four years. I do other things I enjoy WAY less far more frequently than that. Plus, they give you a sticker when you leave now, they’re pretty much all the rage.

7.  My childhood lake cottage. Restored to its original beauty. Complete with hammock overlooking the water for afternoons of reading.

8. I'm 24 years old and I want a slumber party. Complete with pajamas and minimal makeup. I'd like all my girlfriends to convene in one place for one night and drink to excess and carry on and play games and act silly and have fun and go for brunch in the morning. No boyfriends. More importantly, no cell phones-I find them to be goddamn distracting and annoying.  The only people that matter are the ones there. Just once. It would be nice, you know?

8.  No. More. Allergies. This would seriously make my life. CURE ME, PLEASE. Between weekly allergy shots, fucking $60 prescriptions WITH INSURANCE, perpetual itchiness/hives/red eyes/general misery I'm really struggling. After 4 years of non-answers from referral upon referral to various ‘specialists’ and my manfriend's 130-pound Mastiff, who sends me into allergic fits within inches of death at the mere sight of her, I'm honestly at a complete loss here. I'm allergic to life; it would be really nice to be able to enjoy it instead.

9. A snapshot into the life of every asshole I have to deal with on a daily basis at work.  Maybe this would give me perspective when I’m dealing with them and ready to throw myself through the phone/computer screen at them. Maybe it would let me just give them the benefit of the doubt and let it gooooo. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t really want to know that they’re the kind of people that kick their dogs and feed their kids Mountain Dew with every meal and then give them cold medicine to ‘calm them down’ at night. OR MAYBE I DO, at least I’d feel superior.

10.  I’d like to meet Joan Root. Yeah, I get it, she’s dead. But she was also a kooky weirdo and a total badass and what can I say? I really like kooky weirdos and total badasses. Since I can’t actually meet with Joan Root, I’d accept a trip to her home in Africa and a séance led by a trained professional. Joan would eat that shit up.

11. Some seed money and a high powered financial planner to create and manage a portfolio for me so that I can make literally boatloads of cash doing essentially nothing and fund my various passionate, yet often short-lived, hobbies and wild adventures.

12. All that heartwarming stuff that makes the world go ‘round for me, and you. The ‘and you’ was basically me giving you half of one of my wish list items, so, you kind of owe me one…. Better get crackin’ on that, eh?

I think there are a couple more things, mostly odds ‘n ends, but they can probably wait until next year. Or at least my birthday.  Other gifts will be welcomed and accepted, but, you know, I’ve pretty much laid out what I want, so try to stick to the plan.

I hope you get everything on your list this year. Merry Christmas!

(…and if you don’t celebrate Christmas, I hope you get some presents anyway, but really, maybe you should at least pretend.)

XO Sare