every little thing

I've been pretty much repeating the mantra "Every little thing is going to be all right" on a loop lately.

Partially because it's true and partially because I freak out a lot.

This week even minor things have been coming dangerously close to making me howl like a banshee and/or put innocent bystanders in mild to moderate danger.

Every little thing is going to be all right.

Despite:

...My hair desperately needing to be cut. Desperately. Sorry strands, not in the budget this month, stop splitting yourselves. Seriously. Not funny.

...Is that a piece of popcorn kernel or an infectious tumor under my tonsil? For the last three days. Poking my esophageal cavity every time I swallow or move. Just kill me.

...Two terrible mornings in a row. I mean running out the door with no shoes on because I'm late and then realizing it and having to go back in to find shoes and not being able to find me keys. Just, GAHHH.

...Trying to coordinate a bachelorette party for a lovely friend and only hearing back from one other member of the bridal party. OMG it's in less than a month. COME ON.

...Is that pair of pants TIGHTER than usual? Oh holy holy lord, please don't let it be so.

...Yup, they're definitely tighter. Time to go running... OH MY GOD THIS IS TERRIBLE.

...That shirt I need to wear to my mentoring session today so the school knows I'm legit? Yeah, it's nowhere to be found, and it's wrinkly wherever I'm not finding it.  Fuck.

...I think I'll commiserate over my trivial problems with one of my gal pals. OH WAIT, there's only one left in town. Vacation? I LOVE VACATIONS. *&#(*#$ When did travel to remote parts of the country and world get so expensive?!


Every LITTLE thing is going to be all right.

And they're ALL little things, in the grand scheme.

So I guess that means I'm a pretty lucky girl.

Maybe that should be my new mantra.

Xo Sare

the league

HEY GUYS IT'S SEPTEMBER RIGHT.


In the midst of my brother's sudden illness, other downer news, and everyone's general bumminess about things, I'd almost forgotten about my newest obsession/hobby/major manifestation of stress and anxiety.


Fantasy Football.




OK. I know, I hate me too. Just hear me out.




I've been invited for years to join one of these fake sport leagues for people who are obsessed with a certain sport and just can't get enough of it and aren't good enough to play it professionally.

 I love college football and getting drunk and tailgating and singing Carmen Ohio and crying over losing games, but I don't follow pro football at all and I really don't need something else that I'll ultimately and inevitably become emotionally invested in and lose my shit over.


So I always cheerfully say "No thanks!" and carry on with my life. Which is exactly what I did this year.


Until Manfriend joined a league with all of my college friends and former college roommates and they were going to be smack talking and discussing it like all the time and omg I don't want to be the left out loser in the corner who has no idea what they're talking about so I cope by eating my feelings and chewing on my hair.

At almost the very last second I gave in decided to join. NO big whoop, I wasn't going to get too involved, I just wanted to be kinda sorta in the loop.


So the night before the draft, I rested my head upon my pillow and drifted off to sleep without a care in the world. I probably dreamed about shoes and champagne, and canoeing on a river, and bubble gum. It was a solid sleep.


I got to work that morning and figured I'd do a tiny bit of research to see who I should select for my team- The Draft was at 7pm.


And I got to the first website and promptly freaked the fuck out.


Because this shit is seriously, seriously involved. One of the first tidbits of advice I came across was something like this: 'NEVER BE LATE FOR THE DRAFT. Would you show up late to a job interview? Of course not- and THE DRAFT is more important than any job interview, so be on time.'


Ever heard of a Sleeper?


Welp, I hadn't.


I felt lost and out of control and suddenly very at risk to become a loser, THE loser.


And so I did what came naturally to me, I became completely and totally obsessed.


I had approximately ten hours from the time I became fixated on fantasy football until the auction style draft. Ten hours to learn everything about players, team, and the rules. And I was starting with absolutely nothing, so I was essentially screwed.

Let me tell you, people are fucking unreal about this stuff. It means more to them than their real lives. THEY DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE REAL LIVES.  I don't know how I'm going to manage this one team and we're talking MULTIPLE TEAMS for a lot of these guys.


When I left work at 5 pm the day of the draft, I was armed with a belly full of panic and a stack of post it notes with random names and tidbits of wisdom scrawled all over them. my plan was to rush home and make CHARTS and nonchalantly pump Manfriend for information.


Five minutes after arriving home, I'm certain that he wanted to kill me. I was already half a beer deep and I could not sit still. My eyes were darting around. Post its were everywhere. I'm surprised he didn't just strangle me there to put my out of my misery.


Manfriend tried to keep reminding me that it's "Just for fun!" to which I wailed "I WON'T HAVE FUN IF I'M A LOSER!!!!"

Which, is obviously true. I don't really partake in things I'm not good at. I know that sounds pretty pathetic, but I mean, why would I? I try everything and then continue doing the things I found myself to excel at because they're the most enjoyable for me. Hence, not playing video games.

About an hour before the draft I was left home alone so Manfriend cold procure another computer and a six pack. For me. To ease my nerves. And because he honestly couldn't stand to be around my ridiculous stress level anymore. Easy for him, he actually watches the games!

AMIRIGHT?!

Anyway, in case you were wondering, the draft went fine. I played it pretty conservative with the fake-money auction, which is in stark contrast to real life where I throw my money everywhere except in a savings account and spread it as thinly as possible to insure I get the most possible cheap thrills. I actually got pretty drunk and deeply regretted it the entire next day at work. I also got most of the players I had my heart set on and it was OBVIOUS that I'd done my homework more than anyone else.

To me, at least.

I will declare myself the FANTASY FOOTBALL QUEEN if all goes according to my master plan.

Stand by.

XO Sara

close to home

I've talked about Drama Island before.






Look like fun, eh?



I met a few of my very best friends and favorite people and former heart stomping, soul crushing, love there.


The island has been a big part of my life since I stepped foot onto that rock for the first time on a blustery day in 2007. Riding the ferry over for my interview as the vessel was tossed by wind and waves, my stomach was in knots- and not the sea-sick variety, what was I thinking? 

In the end, touring the streets and chatting over pizza that day with my future boss felt more like an invitation than a job interview- and that's what I saw it as, an invitation.


I decided on the three hour drive home that day I needed to take a leap, and that leap would be moving less than three months later to a tiny island where I knew nary a soul for the summer and serving/bar tending for tourists and boaters. No grand internship to enrich my future, just cold hard cash.


Hey, totally NOT LANDLOCKED, of course I was going.


I'd just had an academically kick-ass junior year in college. I finally had the rest of my academic undergrad mapped out. I was going to make it with two majors and a minor in four years. I was doing it. I was fucking rocking it out mosh style.


My personal life, not so grand. Actually, kind of in shambles- blah blah blah heart break blah blah blah bad decisions.


So I ran away to a place where no one knew me. Again.


That tiny island, its quirky little community, and the other lost souls wandering up to staff it for the summer picked me up, shook me around a bit,  and wrapped me in sunshine. And booze. Lots of booze.


Drama ran rampant, real world problems didn't actually make it all the way over on the ferry. I was living in a bubble world, albeit one I knew I'd have to cut ties with eventually in order to thrive in the real one.


Yet I went back for a second, equally booze filled, equally dramatic, equally sunshiny second summer. Despite now having a college degree and a 'real job' waiting. I probably should have left it at one epic summer, but the island beckoned me back and I just couldn't shake the part of me that was content inside a carefree, effortless, irresponsible summer.


As things started to turn sour in early August of my second summer, I left that place and most of those people and haven't really looked back since, I can't really let myself look back. On the rare occasion I let myself mull over my time on the island,  I usually feel physical pain at how much I miss it. Other times I'll shudder at the notion of ever going back to visit-even for the day.


'I'll never have a place like that or times exactly like that again, even if I went back now,' is what I always remind myself as I shake the idea out of my head.


When I think about the people that I knew who are still there, I feel a mixture of empathy and furious jealousy. But with so few people, many returning year after year, relationships and alliances change like tides and even the most healthy friendship can quickly turn to a toxic cesspool. Not to mention the social hierarchies in place, they'll tear you apart if you step out of your line.


But, you also meet people that change your life. And stick with you after the dog days are over. And become your best friends.


It's just a little gem I keep the pocket of my memory, sort of surreal at times. It's smooth and it feels good to rub on the memories. I trust the island, I know it. I've outgrown the tiny rock, but that doesn't mean I don't love that I once lived and flourished there.

I ran all its roads and drunkenly stumbled along its paths. I've cheered, beer in hand, at many a softball game on the single grassy diamond and dined and drank at just about every restaurant and bar. I knew the police, took shots with the locals, saw the underbelly and alleys after a busy tourist-filled weekend. I swam in the pools at every hotel, legally and illegally, and watched the sun set from dozens of points in the shore. I've laughed, I've cried, I've given parts of myself I'll never get back to that place. It was home for those summers and I treasure that.


And now an unspeakable crime has rocked that tiny community.


Over the weekend, a man my age was murdered and left under a tarp, behind a rental cottage in the woods. He was found by his family 18 hours after he was reported missing. Brutally killed.


Plenty of people every summer get alcohol poisoning (myself included on my 21st birthday). Some get into minor squabbles or suffer other alcohol related injuries such as twisted ankles or gnarly sunburn. It's a place where if you get caught peeing in public, they throw you in the drunk tank over night at the tiny jail. Plenty of people get busted up driving golf carts around when they shouldn't be operating a vehicle. It's not a place without its dark side.


But never, ever, has such an act of violence been committed there.


I can't remember once locking the door to my apartment, even on the busiest of weekends. You never know when a friend or acquaintance will be wrapping up their night and need a couch to crash on, after all.


On holiday weekends such as Labor Day, thousands of people flood in on ferries and private boats from near and far for little tropical vacations in the Midwest, making the island families who own restaurants and bars rich, but turning the place upside down with filth and drunken lack of respect or courtesy for those who make the island their home.


And even so, never once did I think such a thing could happen here.


Which just means, it can happen anywhere.


My thoughts are with my tiny once-home island community as they struggle to make sense of a killing in their midst- I'll always think of this special place like a dip in cool water, drenched in sunshine, with music like a pulse coming from every direction.

Xo Sara

weather woes

I've been very reflective lately, which comes as no surprise to me because it happens every year when my body begins to sense that Summer is coming to an end.

In a way, it's a relief. The mornings a little crisper, there's college football, orchard trips and lovely red and orange and yellow landscapes. Autummn is beautiful in the Midwest, especially where I live, which is a little bit Country AND a little bit Rock N Roll. There are bonfires to be had, pumpkins to carve, layers to pile upon.

And Lord do I love a good pair of boots.

Mostly, though- I fight tooth and nail to keep summer going. I'll wear flip flops so long the ends of my toes will start to frost bite. I'll keep my windows down as long as I can, insist on spending every spare moment outdoors.

Summer is the answer to everything that ails me, it makes me feel more free, relaxed, better. With the start of fall I can feel myself winding back up.

The days are getting shorter, less sunlight steeps into my window every morning as I crawl out of bed. Soon I'll be driving to work under a blanket of darkness and getting home as the sun begins to set.

Winter is the hardest on me, and I can feel myself tense up at just the mention of it. It winds me tight and holds me down with its short short days and throws in my face the death portion in the circle of life.


I generally think people that complain about the weather are the worst kind of people; boring, dull, lamenting the most amazing display the earth has to offer us, one that can never be manipulated by all our technology and money.

You can't pay to insure it won't rain on your wedding day.


And now I'm one of those people.


UGH.

XO Sare

life doesn't play fair -part 2

This is a continuation of yesterday's post, so you may want to go read it, or you will probably be lost.



Almost immediately Eric and my mother are taken into an ER exam room, which to be honest is kind of surprising for a college town ER on a weekend morning... considering the one Sunday morning in college I needed to go to the hospital for a foot x-ray resulted in a seven hour ordeal.


They sit in the exam room, my mother's lips pressed into a straight line, most likely rifling through her purse to keep her hands busy out of worry, as she glances frequently at my now almost gaunt 18 year old brother, the football player, the hard hitter, the one who has been puking his guts out and running into walls the past two weeks, while still completing grueling practices and adjusting to college, the one who can now barely get out of bed. They wait for the doctor and hope for the best.


"Oh my, I can smell it from the doorway. Come here and let me smell your breath." Sounds the initial greeting from the Doc. He just arrived and he already knows what's going on here.




After some tests to confirm, the case was cracked and a diagnosis was reached: Type 1 Diabetes.




When they brought Eric into the hospital, his blood sugar was above 550 and he was entering Renal failure.




I know nothing about blood sugar, but according to my compulsive research,  a reading of 90 is normal in the morning. I do know what Renal failure is, or at least enough to recognize that you don't want your major organs or those of anyone you love and care for shutting down for the hell of it. The way our body says "I'm done."

 Just absurd.

 Thank goodness for mothers and their tingly spidey-sense feelings when something is wrong with one of their children.



And Eric will be fine, a fact for which I am so, so grateful. He was kept in the hospital for a few days until they could get his sugar levels down and teach him how to measure and administer the correct amount of insulin for his body. I went and visited him on Monday and he seemed okay. As okay as someone whose life is shifting underneath them without warning. As okay as someone can be hooked up to machines and unsure of what's to come. I'm grateful that my brother has the resources available so that he may learn to resume a life as close to his now as possible, with time.




But I'm also so, so angry. It's the side of me that wants to let out my fiercest growl start shouting toward the sky. The side of me that is confused, and hurt, and pissed- because the shell of invincibility I had fully believed  was extended around myself and those closest to my heart, swaddling us like a blanket from anything terrible- well, let's just say it was a mirage of mind.

 And it could be much, much worse. And I'm truly grateful that it's not. But this is a serious chronic condition.




The lifelong kind, where you have to monitor your every move. So all the sudden, Eric might not get to play college football, the thing he hinged all his decisions on and worked for almost his whole life.
 How do you tell a healthy, smart, regimented 18 year old, who is reaching for the stars and just starting the part of his life that's actually HIS OWN that he can't work out with the rest of his friends because you don't yet know how certain insulin amounts will react with his blood when he's exercising? Or that if he hadn't been brought in RIGHT THEN he would likely have fallen into a coma he'd have never woken up from? I don't know.

I just don't know anything.


I mean, I supposed I know it could be SO SO SO much worse, but at the same time all the sudden my baby brother has this huge thing to carry with him for always, influencing almost every decision he makes for the rest of his life. No drinking or partying or last minute road trips or ice cream stops or maybe even football, for now. Isn't that what being 18 is all about? Can you imagine not being able to grab one of those suckers from the bank or share a soda with your significant other, or just snack for the sake of snacking? For Christ's sake, I SNACK ALL THE TIME.

It feels like maybe there's been some mistake.

Life is this wonderful, exciting, intoxicating ride that sends you on all sorts of adventures and puts good music in the speakers and gives you so much.

But it just doesn't play fair.

Or maybe it's just incredibly fragile.

Like I said, I don't know.
Xo Sare

life doesn't play fair- part 1

Sixteen days ago my parents moved my brother, Eric, into his dorm room- a healthy eighteen year old college freshman eager to hit the books and  hit the football field and hit the booze. 


I watched my brother grow up, he was born when I was almost seven. He's more like me in personality than either of my other two siblings. He's a sarcastic little bastard... as am I.  He's always excelled academically and despite bad Asthma as a kid, worked extra hard so he would excel at football.




And excel he did.




We've always been a big football family, and I mean tears are shed and entire autumns hinge upon the sport, but I swear I've spent the past several years rolling my eyes repeatedly during every family interaction because of the degree to which my parent's lives have obviously revolved around Eric's football aspirations. But who wouldn't want to have supportive parents willing to get involved and make sure you have everything you need to succeed?


Not only have my parents never missed a game, my dad flew and drove with Eric to schools around the country as he was deciding where he would go to college and ultimately, play football. He had lots of schools interested in him athletically and academically. And I get to brag about him because he's my brother.


He's good.


He's just really good at football.


So when he finally chose a school only 45 minutes away from home for college, it was no surprise that part of his decision fed into the fact that he wanted my parents and the rest of our family to continue to be able to come to every game. And he picked a smaller school because he planned to start. As a freshman.


Stubborn determination, always. We have that in common as well.


And then graduation and this summer flew right by,  a whirlwind of work-outs, getting ready for college, figuring out what classes a physical therapy major takes their first semester, and corrdinating who was bringing what with his roommate. In all the activity and heat and hard work, he lost thirty pounds. Granted, he was still like 220 lbs, but still, he was looking svelte and ready to hit the books football field. All the sudden BOOM he was gone at school and my life didn't change that much.


And then yesterday morning my mom got a funny mom-sense tingle that something wasn't quite right, because despite hard work-outs and a slight environmental change, there was no possible way her son should have lost what was now 40 pounds.


So she got up, drove to his college, and took his ass to the hospital.




And almost immediately, everything changed.




To be continued...


Xo Sare

GREETINGS FROM MY COUCH

HELLO BLOGOPHERE!


So, I think I can for real for real finally say that I'm up and running with the home internet connection. 






IT IS AWESOME. 






I MAY NEVER NEED SLEEP AGAIN. 




I have so much to do. 




But really, the internet viewed not from the scope of mostly restricted websites on internet explorer is basically a vast wonderland. 




And I'm about to fall deep into the rabbit hole with my unlimited access wireless connection. 




ZING. 




I even tried to have a photo shoot with Hally for your viewing pleasure. I fully realize photos of my dog will get old, but for now the novelty hasn't worn off, so enjoy! 

She almost doesn't look like a monster and I almost don't look like it's 11pm, two hours past my bedtime, and I'm basically cracked out on internet euphoria. 

she's obsessed with me. Jesus Hally, enough on the PDA. 

Happy Weekending, I know what I'll be doing. And come Monday, when I wake up with my skin glued to the leather couch from sweat and inactivity, riddled with bed sores and my eye balls have fallen out of my face, please be gentle. 




XO Sare