oh sweet jeebus

http://ohsweetjeebus.tumblr.com/

2009-03-17T14:04:00.007-04:00

posting here from now on... mostly because the interface is easier to work with and it let's me merge a bunch of communication "tools" into one (I use the term loosely. Especially in reference to twitter). Anyway, catch y'all on the flip side.

i die.

2009-03-16T08:56:00.003-04:00

she speaks to me.

2009-03-13T11:56:00.005-04:00

[via jezebel]

So, I know what I'm wearing for Halloween '09.

the problem with the internetz

2009-03-11T12:45:00.005-04:00

"...I think the problem was/is that your maturity level is far beyond his, and I'm not sure if it would have ever caught up. Plus, he never really deserved you..." - Rob

Notes like these, are one of the many reasons that we're friends. I needed to hear this. More importantly, I needed to hear it from someone who was there all along.

-------

Let's all just admit that Facebook, can sometimes be detrimental to one's mental health. I don't really miss the guy that this note refers to. It was a long, long time ago and we've both moved on. But this is where Facebook screws with you. A photo gets posted. One that reminds you of what you saw in them at the start. Before it got complicated and broken, there was that something.

With past relationships, it can be hard when you're reminded of the something. It makes your heart ache just a little. Historically, for me, it's been easier to demonize him. To pretend like the mess that got made was all his fault and there wasn't anything remotely redemptive about who he was as a person.

And yet.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew that it simply wasn't true. Following the initial break up, there were a few years of randomly making out before finally (and inexplicably), I knew that we were really done. His character, like mine, was comprised of his good traits walking hand-in-hand with the bad. I dated him because he made me laugh, because I was fiercely attracted to him and finally, because the person I thought he would one day be, was a person worth loving. This is where the fault is mine. I dated who I thought he might become. Not who he was then.

The photo reminded me of the something. Rob was there to remind me of everything else.

Dear Face,

2009-03-09T14:58:00.004-04:00

Nose is about to raise a white tissue flag and truthfully, I can't blame her. Even Teeth are protesting the current state of affairs. They're aching like wounded soldiers and it's all your fault, Face.

Please, I beg you, stop taking your cues from lactating mothers and leave the leaking of fluids to them. I'm fond of you, but I don't know how much longer I can tolerate these shenanigans.
-s-

notable (if only to me)

2009-03-09T10:54:00.008-04:00

Jackie walked. I cried just hearing about it.

Feather succeeded in stealing my attention (and heart)

I mentally compete with both noted authors and Martha Stewart. Deep down, I think I must believe I deserve their acclaim though I have done nothing to earn it. Summary: All ego, very little action.

I, who am a power sleeper of epic strength and proportions, have been waking at 3 am regularly. I have no idea why.

Big, billowy dresses that hide all your flaws? Maxi dresses are about to dominate my wardrobe.

My heart got a little bit wrenched. I blame Facebook.

After two consecutive days of TaeBo Cardio and TaeBo Flex, Billy Blanks can bite me.

I'm developing some serious friend crushes. The sort where you literally have to stop yourself from saying "No really, can we hang out again soon? Say, tomorrow?"

In 12 days I go home. I will see a friend get married, snuggle with my dog, hang out with my parents and find a way to avoid The Chicken Dance with Kricket. I really cannot wait.

For whatever reason, I decided that turning 25 would be a turning point for me. Now, all of life feels like a countdown.

we all go for different reasons I suppose.

2009-03-02T16:52:00.006-05:00

Aunt: Was "HE" there?
Me: Jesus was. My favorite eye candy wasn't.

------------

Even so! I seem to have found a church I don't totally hate. The reasons are plentiful but I'll give you the short list as to how/why my ass has regularly found it's way into a church pew for the last few weeks:

There's a guy (as you might have gathered). A ridiculously tall guy who I'm shamefully fixated on.

Sidenote: Capt'n Hottie Pants is in good company. I'm also a little obsessed with a guy from the train (he gave up his seat for an old lady) and another guy who somehow manages to make a Long Island accent sound sexy. Which seriously, I know. Long Island accents are about as sexy as finding gum on the bottom of your brand new shoes... It's a weird combination of cute and ick.
TGC meets in this beautiful old church. A completely swoon-worthy space that gives you plenty of things to pay attention to if the service ever gets boring. Not that it has, but I like to have a back up plan.
On the way into the Lent service this past Wednesday, one of the friends I was with dropped the F-bomb. She did it casually as though it was no big thing and really, there's nothing that could have made me love her more. Not only that, but everyone I've met there has been unbelievably lovely.
It gives me something to do on a Sunday night, when normally I'd just be laying on the couch resisting the urge to dive bomb a tub of Ben & Jerry's.
The pastor regularly calls us out on our nonsense.

For example, I'm all for gays having the same rights as legally married straight people and I think the church should stop focusing solely on gay marriage and abortion as the only two issues of cultural significance. As a result of these beliefs, I tend to get cranky with the church collective, which may be justified, but whatever they're doing from way up on their high horse isn't really the point. If I care about the rights of gay people, then I should be doing something about it rather than hating on the institution at large. Likewise, if I think the environment is of monumental concern but can't be bothered to do anything about it, then that's a reflection of my character and my priorities. Not theirs.
A few weeks ago I drank a glass of wine before church. I'd forgotten somehow that I hadn't really eaten that day, so I ended up sitting in the back row feeling tipsier than one probably should while trying to pray to the big man in the sky. Incidentally, that was also the night I first spied Capt'n Hottie and spent most of the service sneaking glances at him. On the way home I decided that I was basically begging to be struck down by lightning because really, drunk and on the prowl in Church? I very much doubt that Jesus would be impressed. I figured I owed him at least a few weeks of my attention to make up for it.

So. Umm. Yeah.

That's the latest on that, I guess.

philosophy

2009-02-17T15:54:00.000-05:00

"In the winter, a boyfriend's job is to function as a human-sized blanket...like a Snuggie minus the sleeves."

If you can see them live, do it.

2009-02-09T09:33:00.005-05:00

Beirut.

want.

2009-02-06T12:50:00.004-05:00

highly doubtful

2009-02-02T18:44:00.004-05:00

K: Have you read "i was told there'd be cake" by Sloan Crosley? i haven't read it yet but the review i read sounds strangely like you...

Me: D%$@it. How am I going to write a book about nothing if other people are already doing it?

K: Yours will be better. Reading this is just research.

conversation

2009-02-02T11:32:00.006-05:00

NOTE: I am tall. I get it from my Dad's side of the family. I'd bet money that their gene-pool single-handedly created the market demand for pants with a 36" inseam. I am aware of my height and yet people seem to enjoy pointing it out to me. Like maybe I have forgotten to glance in a mirror. Ever.

Last night I was wearing boots with a heel. Normally, I don't wear heels because I'm kind of lazy and tend to prefer shoes that don't make me want to inflict pain on innocent bystanders. But these boots, the ones I was wearing, are jawsome (jaw-dropping awesome). So, they get worn, even in spite of their 2" heel. Problems arise when wearing boots like that to an event where everyone else happens to be eye level with your navel. It's awkward. Anyway, the height thing is the only explanation I have for the conversation below:

L: How tall are you?
S: 5'10"
L: My mom decided that you should be a model.
S: Oh! Hahah!! Well, I like eating so that might be a problem.
L: No, I think she meant a model for curvy girls.
S: Oh.... Umm...Thanks??

I spent the rest of the night walking around in socks and eyeballing the desert table. Incidentally, tonight I have big plans to do a kick boxing video and then eat a dinner comprised of celery sticks (negative calories!).

I'm kidding. Sort of.

-----

EDIT: Before anyone overreacts, yes, I do realize that in the world of modeling anyone outside of the scope of a size 2 body is right or wrong (hint: wrong) considered "plus sized". I also realize that in the real world, I am neither plus nor minus sized. I'm average I suppose. Still. The sting, it burns.

room for rent.

2009-01-28T17:48:00.012-05:00

I cut my own hair. Sometimes in stages. Usually while working my way through a bottle of wine. The mess doesn't get swept away until I've decided that while not perfect, the cut will "do".

At the end of the day, the last thing I feel like doing is straightening up. As a result, there's a trail clothing from the door to the couch. In the morning, the same trail is replicated in reverse. From my bed to the bathroom, pajama bottoms and tanks are tossed. An anthropologist might infer that I'm changing my clothes as I walk. They would be correct.

I go to bed by 11pm during the week and generally prefer inaction to action between the hrs of 8pm-11pm. If you ask me to work out with you, I might. But only after excessive nudging in the direction of the gym. The whole time I will whimper and in the morning, I will probably point to the various areas of my derrière that ache. I'm charming like that.

On occasion, when especially bored, I'll knit something. Whenever said project is complete, think "Watch yo'self Martha! I'm coming for you and your domestic empire!" This is also my response to completing basic household tasks like cleaning, or cooking a meal with more than one ingredient.

Last week I was gearing up for a ski trip. Every night I'd come home with a new purchase. Gloves. A hat. A coat with fleece on the inside. And, every night I'd try on the entire ski outfit just to be sure that A) It was warm enough and B) I didn't look like a total idiot. One key element of the outfit was my new bib snowpants. Pants that were so poofy and outrageous, that each night's dress rehearsal was followed by two minutes of giggling.

Apart from any considerations of the person living within it, the apartment itself has its own personality. Spewing water from the walls and lighting itself on fire whenever it feels it hasn't been given enough attention. But as much as I mock it, it's mine. My first New York apartment. The first place I lived alone. The first neighborhood that I was able to claim as my own. A neighborhood that moves beyond my ability to describe it, except to say, it is lovely. It's home.

Andre, my maybe-future-roommate, knows all this and yet still seems willing to tolerate living together for the sake of lowering our collective expenses. Dude is clearly a saint. Several decisions have to be made before either of us commit definitively. We're laying down the ground rules, thinking about it, and discussing our concerns like real adults are supposed to. This, after all, is the guy with whom I share Saturday morning breakfasts so we can discuss our dating lives (or lack thereof). The guy who knows me well enough to know that Christmas presents in the form of concert tickets, are right up my alley. Therein lies the rub. I refuse to mess up a friendship that I rely heavily on.

Internal debates aside, I am already contemplating what kind of super-power-vacuum I might buy with the spare rent money. A vacuum that could suck the tar off of a street corner, or maybe a new computer with all the programs pre-loaded so I can tinker to my heart's content, and maybe, just maybe, snowpants that don't make my butt look like the Michelin Man's. The options really, are endless.

Aye mateys.

2009-01-28T16:39:00.002-05:00

Just in case, dear reader, you were looking for pointers on how to dress like an urban pirate.

do I need this?

2009-01-23T10:55:00.001-05:00

I'm gonna go with yes. Definitely.

in a NY minute (woo-oo-oo everything changes)

2009-01-23T10:38:00.003-05:00

Life seems to be moving quicker than is comfortable. This morning I overslept and was therefore forced to abandon the usual routine of getting ready. A routine that involves lots of sitting around and mulling over a bowl of cereal before the day begins. It takes about a half hour of this sitting before I feel ready and willing to face the day.

It was 6:45am and already I was late.

The shower ran longer than usual, due to the upper portion of my legs which were in desperate need of some special attention. The night prior I'd glanced down and was a little horrified to realize that a winter's worth of neglect left a swath of hair on the back of my thighs. Hair that really, should only be seen on the legs of a lumberjack. Still, I thought I'd manage to break even. It was not meant to be. The list of things that I'd meant to take care of before leaving the apt. included removing my nail polish, putting on makeup, finding the receipt for a purchase I intended to return. Instead, I flew around grabbing my shoes and keys. Pulling the straightener through my hair. Settling for an outfit that only barely qualifies as such.

It seems like it's been this way since the year began. I need this weekend to slow down. For time to move at half-speed. Just long enough for me to catch my breath.

give me a moment to gloat

2009-01-20T14:53:00.007-05:00

NATIONAL DAY OF RENEWAL AND RECONCILIATION, 2009

- - - - - - -

BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

A PROCLAMATION
As I take the sacred oath of the highest office in the land, I am humbled by the responsibility placed upon my shoulders, renewed by the courage and decency of the American people, and fortified by my faith in an awesome God.

We are in the midst of a season of trial. Our Nation is being tested, and our people know great uncertainty. Yet the story of America is one of renewal in the face of adversity, reconciliation in a time of discord, and we know that there is a purpose for everything under heaven.

On this Inauguration Day, we are reminded that we are heirs to over two centuries of American democracy, and that this legacy is not simply a birthright -- it is a glorious burden. Now it falls to us to come together as a people to carry it forward once more.

So in the words of President Abraham Lincoln, let us remember that: "The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

NOW, THEREFORE, I, BARACK OBAMA, President of the United States of America, by the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim January 20, 2009, a National Day of Renewal and Reconciliation, and call upon all of our citizens to serve one another and the common purpose of remaking this Nation for our new century.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this twentieth day of January, in the year of our Lord two thousand nine, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and thirty-third.

---------------
Also, further proof that DC's subways are nicer than our own.

The link and photo above were pulled from the 2009 Inauguration Flickr feed. It'll be interesting to see what gets loaded in the next day or two.

2009-01-16T14:19:00.006-05:00

It's not a secret that I've had a long standing love affair with my television set. How else am I going to see Michael Phelps half naked in my living room? Short of developing some serious swimming skills and landing myself in the 2012 Olympics, it's just not going to happen. So to all you haters, who don't understand the fascination, I give you this, Taylor Kitsch of Friday Night Lights:

hells. yes.

hypocritical me.

2009-01-15T08:58:00.006-05:00

New Yorkers are sort of babies when it comes to the weather. Granted, we spend more time in it than most people since we're not moving from place to place in our SUVs with heated seats. Still, it's a little ridiculous when the weather forecasters act as though temperatures below 35-degrees constitutes an Ice Age of sorts. On days like these their segments are essentially "Today it's going to be cold and windy and ZOMG COOOOLD!"

A few weeks ago, we had a snowstorm that amounted to a few inches of accumulation on the ground. At about 10am, the owner of our company walked from desk to desk telling people that if they needed to leave early, due to the horrible conditions outside, they could do so. The whole place, with the exception of a handful of people, was cleared out by 1PM. I thought this was hilarious. For one thing, I used to drive to and from work in white-out conditions. In Michigan, you can pretty much expect as much between the months of December and April. But in New York, we have subways. Subways that only stop running when there's construction or massive flooding. Weather doesn't really have anything to do with my commute. Therefore, when it comes to inclement conditions, I tend to glance around at all those who are whining about how crappy it is outside and think to myself "friggin' pansies."

It turns out though, I'm one of the biggest babies of them all. Because in spite of mocking the weather forecasters and their fatalistic reports, I still thought on the way in this morning "I need a new coat. A long puffy coat. A long puffy coat with fur around the collar."

Don't judge. It's cold.

It's safe to say that I take after my Dad.

2009-01-12T11:36:00.008-05:00

Well, OK.

If you were to ask the question, and I were to answer honestly, then I’d have to admit that yes, I may be slightly obsessed with the new vacuum. After cleaning the carpets umpteen times last week, I realized that I was missing the satisfaction of the clink-cluck-ger’fliunk-sound of stuff being pulled up by the mighty, mighty power of the Kenmore Magic Blue Canister Vacuum.

I would not go unsatisfied.

Why else would I plunk down $100 for my shiny new toy, if not to be entertained by it?

This might explain how everything in one closet, curiously found its way to my bedroom floor this past weekend. The floor in that particular room now looks like a war zone of cotton vs. wool. Several innocent polyester blends appear to be fighting a losing battle by running interference between the two. It's a ridiculous, completely unnecessary mess. But oh, it was so totally worth it. That closet is spotless.

because all the cool kids are doing it...

2009-01-02T10:27:00.006-05:00

I suspect that 2008 was God's way of giving me a break from the year that was 2007. In 2007, I spent a few solid months crying into a pillow until finally, I managed to dust myself off and move across the country. In retrospect 2007 was good for me. I was forced to change, grow as a person, etc. etc. but oh, it was just so exhausting. After all that, having a year (a WHOLE year!), where I got to be blissfully happy, was great. I needed that year to recover and to figure out that I wasn't an unhappy person, I was at the time, just a person who was unhappy with the circumstances life had handed them. Beyond that, there's not much I can say about 2008. I got to find my feet again, and for that, I am grateful.

So far 2009 is looking pretty effin' fantastic. It started with massive amounts of sushi and today, I found out that The Powers That Be have decided it should be a half day. Mmm yeah, I'm not about to protest that decision. In fact, in honor of said decision, I'm going to buy myself a new vacuum... it's safe to say that in '09, I plan on living life on the edge.

Xxes and Oh's, friends. I hope your holidays were lovely.

----
EDIT: The photo, in case you were wondering, is of yours truly and the baby sister who is not actually a baby anymore. This small fact still manages to dumbfound us all. Anyway, the story behind the photo is that Mel and I were standing in separate dressing rooms when I started giggling. Without any hesitation a voice crept over the wall, "We look like Power Rangers." Pajamas were, for obvious reasons, purchased.

estoy bien

2008-12-23T09:54:00.003-05:00

Every morning (or close to it) I walk past a restaurant on 16th St. tucked between 5th ave and Broadway. There is a short Hispanic man that works there, cleaning and straightening up before the doors open. Without fail, at the moment I happen to be walking by, he glances up. If he's outside spraying down the sidewalks he'll yell "Hola mamacita! Como estas mi amor?" and I'll yell back "HOLA. I'm good!" If he happens to be inside, we settle instead for furiously waiving at one another.

I don't remember how or when we established this routine of ours, but I love it more than words can say.

my survival instincts are severly lacking

2008-12-10T17:07:00.008-05:00

My apologies again, Internet. It's not that I don't love you, it's just that lately I haven't had much to report. This time of year all I want to do is hibernate under the covers until Spring. And somehow, I just didn't think you'd all appreciate an in depth analysis of why the blankets from my alma matter are the greatest creation in the history of blankets (hint: it involves sweatshirt fabric).

-------

Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while, knows that issues with the apartment are old news. I mean, why should it surprise anyone that my Sudanese landlords decided to grill indoors? Why should it be shocking that my apartment filled with smoke and now, four days later still smells like a 4th of July backyard barbecue? It was cold outside dear reader. Why should they have resisted the urge to bring the Webber indoors where they could more easily warm their chilled fingers against the open flames?

Truthfully though, my own behavior from that night is only slightly less appalling than theirs. I thought I'd smelled a whiff of smoke, but brushed it off. It was 8pm on a Monday night. It was Gossip Girl time. For those who don't understand why GG would influence my decision to investigate the source of some flames, you should know this: given the choice between life or death by smoke inhalation, I would chose the later just as long as I made it through to see the scenes from next week's episode.

So there I sat, watching GG, telling myself things like "That's not real smoke. That's just your brain doing funny things in response to the smoking hotness of Chase Crawford." Denial was working well until the alarm started bleeping at me. For whatever reason, I promptly panicked. It was one thing to smell smoke, it was quite another to have my alarm recognizing the presence of said smoke. Moreover, it seemed that the smoke was starting to billow around the light fixtures.

I then did what any sane person would do: run around the apartment unplugging things and feeling up the wall for hot spots. It should be noted that the walls of my apartment got more action in that five minutes than I've had in months (hi mom!).

ANYWAY

As I bolted around the apartment yanking cords out of the outlets and groping the walls, I also noticed the mountain of laundry I'd been neglecting. It was sitting in the center of my bedroom floor, in plain sight of the fireman who'd be barreling down my door at any minute. This was no ordinary pile of laundry. It was a pile of underthings. Unmentionables. Bits-o-fabric-to-cover-m'bits... if you catch my drift. The unmentionables were promptly shoved into a closet along with a smaller pile of discarded outfits. My apartment building was burning down and I was concerned with what the fireman would think of my housekeeping. This disturbs you and me both. But, while we're on the subject, what was I planning on doing if I found a hot spot? MacGuyvering the wall down and extinguishing the flames with the sheer force of my mind? I have no explanation.

The mystery source of the smoke was discovered when I leaned my head out the window to check for flames and noticed a light shooting out of a doorway below. There stood my Super, grinning ear-to-ear. He'd gone back to Sudan for the last few months and the lamb barbecue happening beneath my floorboards, was his welcome home party. All this was explained as he offered me bits of meat and reminded me to "be careful of who you love." I just barely resisted the urge to confess my undying love for him. He is unbelievably adorable and if I could haul him around town in my purse, I totally would. As far as I'm concerned, he can grill inside whenever his little heart desires. Because the Sudanese? They can marinade a lamb like nobodies business.

clues that you may resemble someone else.

2008-11-26T15:14:00.004-05:00

1. When you glance at a photo, assume it's them and then realize that no, it's you.

txting

2008-11-26T10:27:00.005-05:00

The texts in my outbox:

"Unless it's Chase Crawford, I don't care."

"No idea! Want to do something?"

"Doubt I'll make it. Give everyone my love."

"Hungry for falafel?"

"This is just painful to watch."

"What's the verdict on Slumdog Millionaire?"

"Uh yeah. It was a completely pathetic showing."

"Cleaning my windows/contemplating my need to get a life."

"Hey girl, you and steph heading to church tonight?

"Perfect. Meet you guys there."

"In the lobby."

"Ri-Ri is wearing a mother effin bedazzled eye patch. Chris Brown needs to dump that, stat."

"Are you watching the AMA's? Her outfits make me angry."

"AND HER BIONIC WOMAN SHOULDER PADS?!"

"I love her for her talent. Her fashion sense will require some e'splain to her grandchildren."

"I live in the fashion capital of the world. She looked like an alien with an affection for hair product."

"So she's an alien pirate, Susan?"

"Hey love. Go ahead and buy tickets without me. I've seen it. You two will absolutely love it."

"Walking towards your place."

"You're grounded."

"The real name isn't much better. Olwyn."

and they're back

2008-10-27T09:25:00.003-04:00

remember this?

Last night, I was sitting on my couch reading Wicked (thank you, Kricket) when a little thing went darting across the living room. I had just gone out to dinner with Andre so he was the first person I thought to call for help. As I was dialing, I looked down and realized that I was standing sans pants, in the middle of the couch yelling at what now appeared to be an empty floor. The mouse was hiding under the couch. Which is probably why when Andre suggested that we buy some humane traps today, the sort where the mouse goes in for a snack and can't get himself back out unless you release him, my response was something like "ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME???!"

There will be no catch and release. Fievel is going down.

listen, the leaves were really pretty OK?

2008-10-20T09:57:00.004-04:00

my apologies for the lack of updatage. I spent the weekend catching up with friends, drinking mimosas and posing for photos like this:
more later.

-----
EDIT: If you followed Twitter at all you might have noticed the numerous references to where I was. In retrospect, it appears that every other word tripping out of my mouth was "Chicago". It was a long overdue vacation in a city I love, with friends that I love even more. Suffice it to say, it was hard to leave. Last night sitting in the back of the cab, I was entirely relieved to be back home until I looked over at the skyline. Staring back at me was the sight of a purple and orange Empire State Building. I will not apologize for the eye-roll that followed. Sometimes, New York, you're a little much.

Interior Design Mag

2008-10-10T13:07:00.001-04:00

Ok, so this will be down and dirty. I only have a few minutes to spare. But how friggin' fantastic are these designs below? They (and other really great new products) are some of this year's Best of Year Awards Finalists by Interior Design Magazine.

[I want to lay in the middle of this rug and pet it.]

[lovely classic piece with such a subtle twist.]

[lust]

fashion's response to flying squirrels

2008-10-02T16:33:00.000-04:00

I used to love Lucky magazine because it walked that fine line between the sale rack at Target and jaw-dropping fashion that only the Olsen Twins could love (and afford). Which is why, when I spotted a recommendation from editor, Ami Pak to shop at pixiemarket.com due to their CUTE and AFFORDABLE dresses, I thought "Oh my friggin' goodness! Cute, affordable AND delivered to my doorstep? Count. Me. In."

... and then I went to the website and realized that only, in case of a flying, parachuting emergency would I have a reason to shop here.
I wondered for a moment if I was being unnecessarily harsh. Some of their skirts were cute even if they didn't exactly fall under my standard definition of "affordable." So I nosed around the site a bit longer only to end up dousing my computer in Gatorade upon spotting this pair of light denim Jodpurs.

So tell me friends, do you wish you could undo the damage you just did to your irises? Yeah, that was pretty much my response too.

bored? thirsty? need friends?

2008-09-30T17:39:00.000-04:00

Join us for the second yodeng meetup on Oct. 8th at Spitzer's Corner on 101 Rivington. We'll be there from 7-9pm.

life not explained.

2008-09-29T10:01:00.001-04:00

"I want to do it, so I know how... the last time I was just kind of hoping gravity would do its thing and held the tube straight up in the air. I got it in there, but it was messy."

"Oh, shoot. She's leaking. That was my fault. You didn't squirt it in the top hole did you?"

"Gross. No. The side one"

"OK, good. Now screw it in and unclip the tube."

"Ohhh. That's the part I missed. I kept thinking that it didn't seem nearly so difficult when you did it."

"Ahh. Yeah. You forget sometimes that there are a hundred little steps that you don't even think about until you have to explain it all to someone else."

a night of broken dreams and fractured hips

2008-09-24T15:32:00.000-04:00

*sigh* these both fall into the category of things I want, but cannot afford. Prints by Yee-Haw Industries.

ridiculously proud.

2008-09-24T10:43:00.000-04:00

She turns two in a few weeks. By this age, most children are walking alone, talking, becoming mini-versions of their adult selves. But this week just shy of her second birthday, Jackie sat up. She amazes me still.

do YOU want to be anything other than what you've tried to be lately?

2008-09-18T13:51:00.000-04:00

An email to Susan, who shares my love for snacks, bad acting, and shows that have completely predicable plot lines (i.e. everything on the CW network.):

"The episode was so brilliantly entitled "Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly." And fly I did, Susan. My emotions flew from the highest heights to the lowest lows. They were like a drunken sparrow that didn't know up from down.

Q's funeral was the primary focus of this weeks episode. Turns out that even though you might have maybe assumed that Q came from the ghetto, what with his slightly ghetto nickname and all [EDIT: oooh and his ability to dance. You don't learn to dance like that in the 'burbs], he ACTUALLY came from a lovely middle class home with a mom who had an unwavering faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. Her faith was, to quote Hailey, inspiring. But it does beg questions as to why Q was such an a-hole in earlier episodes. I mean, his mother was lovely so wtf with the bad attitude, Q? Anyway since it's not nice to speak ill of the T.V. dead, we'll move on.

Brooke, just spent the whole episode being angry at the world for her beat up face. But she and Peyton made up by the time it was all done and over with. So at least there was that. Also, Nate swung by Brookes apartment and talked really poignantly about how he could relate to having totally awful parents (which, seriously he ended up with Dan as a dad and whatsherface as his hoochie mom. Dude definitely got the short end of the stick.) The conversation ended with Brooke saying something like "they never gave us a chance, did they?" At which point I cried, again.

Jamie became friends with Q's little brother who was ADORABLE and made me want to eat his cheeks. Then at the funeral, Jamie put the cape he'd made for Q across the coffin and Brooke got over her bad-attitude and stood by Jamie's side looking pretty weepy and torn up. Honestly though, I think she was grieving that her face was still a hot mess. I grieved the fact that though this show is ridiculous, I still get all emotionally bent out of shape over it.

So that's basically it. Get your butt to a couch next week. Because all this typing makes my fingers cramp and even though I love you enough to type through the pain, I don't want to spend every week woefully aware of the fact that I may be arthritic at the ripe old age of 24."

NOTE: In case anyone takes issue with the ghetto bit, keep in mind that I lived in the ghetto (gun shootouts and all). But that my friends, is another story for another time. Also note that even in spite of having lived in a neighborhood where our friends would have dance offs in the street, I still cannot comfortably shake that junk residing in my trunk. At the time when I should have been learning skills that would be, you know, useful I was way too busy singing the theme song to The Little Mermaid and skating around in circles. True story.

U.S. of A.

2008-09-12T17:25:00.000-04:00

Seven years and one day ago, I was standing slack jawed in my freshman dorm room as I watched the two towers, towers that I'd grown up seeing outside our third floor window, collapse. Then as my brain tried to register what I was seeing, there was the realization that all those people I grew up with may be impacted by two buildings inexplicably ceasing to exist. I use the word may because it didn't feel real. They were too big not to exist. They were a part of a skyline that I grew up taking for granted.

One of my uncle's accounts was located in the WTC towers. So, I along with everyone else, spent the day trying to get through to the East Coast. Finally, at 5:30pm there was a call from my grandma to say that he was fine, our family at least, was fine. We were left unscathed.

I wasn't in New York then. So I cannot and will not attempt to speak to what that experience must have been for those who lived here or commuted daily from the surrounding cities and boroughs. I just know that today, I feel incredibly grateful to live in a city that has managed to overcome what was an incomprehensible tragedy. I am also proud, that the inhabitants of this city have not (for the most part), let that day serve as justification for the war that we are now still engaged in or as an excuse for an administration that used the emotions surrounding the towers' collapse as leverage for four more years in office. My fear, in facing November 4 is that people will cling to what is familiar and comfortable and ignore the fact that what has gone on for the last eight years has not worked. I realize that personal beliefs often dictate political leanings. Abortion and marriage remain two hot-button issues that seem to separate in some peoples minds the "right" leader vs. the "wrong" one. That said, the conversation shouldn't end there. What happens to the environment, our government's national debt, health care options beyond the flawed system we tolerate today, our ability to mediate between foreign nations rather than dictate what their political system ought to be... these, at least to me, are also worth paying attention to. I do not assume that Obama will be the magical wand to fix every problem our society faces. But for damn sure, I think we ought to at least give him the opportunity to try. And, if our country confirms my worst fears that we're collectively capable of ignoring the facts in front of us, then come November 5th I'll be the one drinking more than is wise and hiding beneath the sheets.

EDIT - Read this and try not to whack your head against the key board. I mean really, this is the woman we're going to comfortably elect as second-in-command to a dude who could kick the bucket at any moment? Come on.

Oh and this. Which makes me all sorts of happy on the inside. I heart you John Stewart. Call me.

putting my college education to use

2008-09-05T12:12:00.000-04:00

Consider this proof that I am doing my part to make my parents really, really proud:

Sarah,

You have been registered for World's Largest Flip Cup Tournament. You are registered as a player on the team 'Bayside Tigers'. The team's captain is [redacted].

You must review, print and sign the release and bring it with you on the day of the event.

Thanks! We look forward to seeing you at World's Largest Flip Cup Tournament

The Flip Cup Guys

E: flip@flipcupguys.com
T: (201) 751 4754
W: FlipCupGuys.com

open letters

2008-08-18T10:59:00.001-04:00

Dear Olympics,
Are you trying to turn me into a sleep deprived, weeps-at-the-sight-of-athletes-moms sort of a person? If so, you are succeeding. I would hold this against you, maybe threaten not to watch you religiously but, it turns out I am incapable of resisting your charms. Also, Olympics? You need to get out of my head. On Saturday night, I seriously considered going for a late night jog only to glance at the clock and realize it was 12:41AM. There are so many things that are wrong about that last sentence, namely that I thought about going for a jog for fun. Ugh. I'm done talking to you, at least until 7:30PM when I'll plop myself on the couch and start making kissy faces at the T.V. See you then! Oh wait, I'm angry with you. I will see you then, maybe. - Sarah

Dear Michael Phelps,
Can you please move into my apartment and just walk around with your shirt off? Also, since I think lisps are ADORABLE, you should feel free to say things like "Schara, I jusht misshed you so much today." (sidebar: has no-one else noticed this in listening to his interviews? Does it take one reformed lisper to hear it in the voice of another?)

Back to the subject of YOU, Michael, in exchange for your shirtlessness I will make you waffles and promise not to get angry when you eat all my snacks. Because according to Bob Costas, in addition to being an athletic wunderkind, you are also a human trash compactor. I'm ok with that, but if you touch the Cool Whip, so help me Michael, I will be forced to require that you walk around in a Speedo. Xxxes and ohhhs - Sarah

NEWSFLASH - my dad thinks ladies underthings are pretty fantastic

2008-08-14T09:22:00.001-04:00

Sarah - Have you been watching diving? It's aahhhmaaaaazing.

Dad (former diver) - Yes! I just turned the T.V. on and saw a sploosh.

Sarah - **silence as we both watch two dudes step up to the diving board** Those speedos are ridiculous. They're so unnecessarily small.

Dad (former diver) - They are small, ours were like that but bigger. More like boxers. They really are the best though.

Sarah - Huh?

Dad (former diver) - Yeah, they work like girdles!

Ladies and gentlemen, as far as I'm concerned, statements like that deserve a round of applause.

if it's yellow...

2008-08-11T16:58:00.000-04:00

"I'm practically showing ass crack with my in depth assessment of the situation and he's like 'I plunge, yes?'" - text message sent regarding the toilet that clearly, hates me.

A few months ago my toilet decided that it was tired of being taken for granted. It channeled the attitude of a hormonal 16yr old girl with a love for all things glitter, and pitched a motha-effin-fit. This was the third time I'd had "issues" with the toilet, so calls to the landlord started out relatively calm "Oh hi. I seem to have a hehehe plug in my toilet or something and I can't unplug it and I don't know... could you please come check it out?" and then degenerated into progressively more panicked voicemails "IT'S BEEN A WEEK OF NO TOILET. PLEEEEEASE FIX THIS TODAY. NOT TOMORROW. TODAY!"

I spent my evenings planning out bathroom trips. Before I left work I'd take a trip to the ladies room regardless of whether or not I actually felt the "urge". It felt like I was 4yrs old and leaving on a 13hr road trip with no potty breaks in between. Every. Single. Night.

I literally spent hours plunging and snaking the thing. I poured enough chemicals down there to burn the hide off a big, angry Rhino and still, nothing. Finally Desmond, the Jamaican repairman who I swear smoked a bong right before tapping on my door, showed up. He stared at my dinner and made hungry faces, but since I was angry, I was all "No, no seafood burrito for you, Mon." After about twenty minutes of pounding, plunging and creating a foul toxic mess, he ripped the thing out of the floor and wall only to disappear for the remainder of the weekend. At this point I was ready to burn the building down and call it even.

Understandably, I began to panic when the toilet started acting up again this past weekend when the flushage was increased x2 due to the presence of a houseguest. I scolded Jane, demanding an inventory of the last three days of her bowel movements and asked really polite questions like "WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN EATING?!" I explained that Toilet was a whiny little priss incapable of handling more than the lightest of loads (pun intended). Thankfully, in spite of my mad skills at hosting, Jane and I are still friends. Toilet on the other hand had better clean up its act. Because I've got a bottle of liquid plumber and I will not hesitate to use it.

my AM commute

2008-08-06T11:12:00.000-04:00

There's nothing like seeing a homeless man blatantly rummaging around in his nether regions to really make you appreciate the city you live in. For that sir, I can spare some change.

on jackie.

2008-07-23T18:43:00.000-04:00

Each time I sit down to write about Jackie, it always begins with the same sentence "she's her own kind of perfect." That's also where I usually stop writing, my finger hovering over the space bar, because I don't know what to say beyond that. She is broken and by every definition fragile. But still, to me at least, mind-bogglingly perfect.

Once a month, I throw some clothes in a bag and catch a train to New Jersey. As soon as I'm there the bag gets tossed aside, the baby is kidnapped from whatever brother happens to be entertaining her at that moment and then I hold her face up to mine to whisper my hellos. I look for a flicker of recognition and some part of me hopes that she'll smile, knowing that the chances for both are slim. She looks in every direction but mine, and still my heart regularly explodes. Her eyes. One eye, her right eye wanders off randomly. Her eyebrows also go up and down so that she constantly looks surprised by what she's seeing. Surprised by what's in front of her and off on the periphery, where her right eye is exploring things. She looks ridiculous and heartbreakingly cute.

I have never loved someone more or wished for the outcome to differ from what it will likely be. Probably not today (it's been months since her last uncontrolled seizure), but eventually and entirely without warning she will be there, nose pressed up against mine and then, she won't. This is the part that I cannot accept. This knowledge, the result of articles and google searches that always leave me bargaining with God.

Her last trip to the hospital, for an annual check-up that we'd known about for months, showed an almost constant rate of seizure activity. We hadn't prepared ourselves for that blow. Or, maybe it was just me that was unprepared. I sometimes manage to convince myself that she'll outgrow all this. That she'll get better as she gets stronger. I tell myself that she's beaten the odds so far and so, no one can definitively say what her future will hold. It's a mental pep-talk that keeps me from focusing on what might be, and focusing instead on how perfect each moment with her is. Even so, whenever she ends up in the hospital, I become painfully aware of the delicate balance between life and death, and how absolutely incapable I am of handling that transition with any sort of grace.

crushing my spirit in one easy step

2008-07-14T15:05:00.000-04:00

My boss and I have this thing where at least 2-3 times a week, one of us buys some form of chocolate on our lunch break. You see, chocolate is what stands between us and a mountain of stress. Well, that and Cool Whip.

Have I spoken of my love for the whip that is both cool and refreshing? No? It could probably be described as a minor obsession. In the hierarchy of personal obsessions, Cool Whip falls somewhere between Richard Simmons and face creams. Two subjects that I'm ashamed to say occupy far more of my attention than is probably healthy.

Once, back in high school my mom asked what I wanted for my birthday cake, and I replied quite seriously that I wanted "a tub of Cool Whip that no one else is allowed to eat". Needless to say, I got my tub. Unfortunately, that still didn't prevent me from pitching an epic sized fit (like only 16 year old girls can) when someone other than me, dared to dunk a finger into that little tub-o-deliciousness. Since then, plenty of well-intentioned/concerned friends have read me the ingredients list, rightfully observing that Cool Whip is not so much a dairy product, as it is a witches' brew of chemicals waiting to rot my stomach. What they fail to understand is that in my mind, even if it does rot my stomach, at least I'm going down happy.

So, just imagine what my jaw did when I opened a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter cups and saw that the liner was advertising Reese's Whipps. For one brief, awesome moment I envisioned all the snacks that would benefit from a dunking in whatever product combined three of my favorite things: whipped topping, chocolate and peanut butter. I could not google it fast enough. But nooooooooooooooooooo, Hershey's was just toying with my emotions. Reese's Whipps with two stupid p's instead of one, is a candy bar. And now? Well, now I'm just kind of bitter.

I defy you not to fall in love

2008-07-14T10:20:00.000-04:00

clearly, I have no dignity

2008-07-10T10:29:00.000-04:00

I wish I had a plausible excuse for disappearing off the face of the internet for the last month or so. But, to be totally and completely honest, Internet, I don't. Not that I don't love you. We've got a pretty good thing going right now. You're like cheap therapy and for that, my whole family thanks you.

In other less boring news, I joined Match.co m. That slapping noise you just heard was the sound of my mom's jaw hitting the keyboard. And that tinkling noise? Uh-huh. She's reaching for the keys.

Before you start giggling like a hyena with a caffeine problem, let me just explain. I joined on a whim and then I filled the damn profile in a less whim-inspired moment. After that, I sat and waited. As of this post 862 people have viewed my profile and from those 862 people an infinite number have winked, sent flirty messages and in every other fathomable way possible, tried to assert that we were DEFFINITELY a match. Apparently men are able to reach this stunning conclusion by staring at a picture for a few minutes. But here's the thing, I sort of hate it. Except now it's like a bad relationship that I don't know how to get out of because Match is still charging me for this stupid experiment.

The feeling vaguely resembles that of a first date where one person (me) just wants to make googley eyes at the other person and the other person (match.com) wants to go to third base with my bank account. To state the perhaps not-so-obvious: I am just not that kind of girl. So now I'm back to square one. Making googley eyes at real people rather than a computer screen and feeling much more comfortable with the current state of things in general. That said, if you happen to know any single men living in the NY metropolitan area who are between the ages of 24-30, taller than 5'11, are emotionally available but not too mushy because that makes me all itchy and uncomfortable AND are ok with the fact that I will always love sweatpants more than I love them, will swear like a sailor but still expect their butt to be in a church pew come Sunday then for shitsakes, hook a girl up.

I have to say, the BEST and I mean tears-rolling-down-my-face-laughing email that I received was this one from a guy who I can only describe as a crazy bigot who couldn't spell worth beans.

"I don't know if you understand this, so let me spell this out for you.......You are a good-looking woman and your probably really annoying, I mean you really do appear annoying and I bet most of your past
boyfriends cheated on you b/c your so annoying....So get up and go annoy everyone in America, b/c you seem to be an expert on it.

P.S you should change your intro to hi my name is Sarah and I'm really annoying...."

Sadly, I just don't think it's going to work out between us.

who's a big bad adult? this girl.

2008-06-04T08:40:00.000-04:00

After turning a year older it's probably best to make sure you continue with your regular routine of sleep. Not just because you're OLD and OLD (seriously, I think I need to train the coworkers on things that you just do not say out loud), but also because 12hrs of sleep spread out over a weekend does not qualify as enough cycles of REM. Especially for a person who believes that 10pm is a totally appropriate hour for bed, when the only thing on T.V. is Law and Order SVU reruns, which hellooooo I have already watched. Twice.

Also, it's probably best to avoid reading a stack of birthday cards when your already hyper emotional, for no clear reason other than that you are a girl. An overly emotional girl. The words "I miss you" from three consecutive friends, and one hand-made wonder from your Mom, will result in tears that know no end. Keep in mind though, I also welled up this weekend reading an article from the NY Times Real Estate section. Because there is nothing like genius floor plans to make a girl really turn on the waterworks.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm starting to suspect that I will singlehandedly keep the bodega downstairs in business on the basis of ice cream sales alone. Just a guess.

thoughts on memorial day

2008-05-29T11:56:00.000-04:00

After spending the long weekend in the mountains of New Hampshire, I have decided that if NH was a person we would totally make out. I might even let New Hampshire hold my hand and take long, romantic walks up a mountainside together. THAT IS HOW MUCH I HEART YOU NH. Why so much love for the Granite State? Mostly because my family knows better than to ask if I am "feeling ok" or to ponder out-loud if I "just finished crying" when I walk into a room. Because in spite of evidence to the contrary, my dear coworkers, I did not just finish crying - that is simply how I look sans makeup. But thanks in advance for pointing out that this "look" doesn't so much work for me. I appreciate it. Really.

Also, you're just not going to have conversations like these in NYC:

S (glancing around the room): Is it safe to say that these people are all kind of granola-y???

J (without hesitation): Uh, yeah. We call it "crunchy".

S: I bet they all brush with Tom's of Maine.

J: Definitely.

"I think I have mouses..."

2008-05-20T10:18:00.000-04:00

In the last month or so my apartment was somehow taken over by a mouse. Initially, when I spotted him darting across the living room, I had a good old fashioned freak out and proceeded to text Julie messages like "MOUSE. I HAVE A MOUSE!"... which was followed up with much saner messages like "MOUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE. I AM LOSING MY SHIT." I saw him often enough in the last few days, that I took to stomping around the apartment in my Ugg boots every night when I got home from work. I looked like Atilla The Tall Dutch Hun. Finally, this past weekend I dragged The Uncle to the hardware store. After consulting with our local Sears Consultant we went old school, and bought a set of six bait'em and squish'em traps.

Theoretically, I was relieved to finally be dealing with the mouse issue. While stomping around the apartment does have its own entertainment value, consistently freaking the hell out every time something darts across the room, does not. Also, that little sucker ate my cashew nuts thereby forcing me to toss the whole bag. For anyone who reads this site but does not have the pleasure of knowing me in real life, it's safe to say that you do not want to get between me and my snacks.

Yesterday morning I checked all the traps and sure enough, Fivo was there staring back up at me. I disposed of him and proceeded to make gaggy faces for the next half hour. THEN last night in the middle of the Gossip Girl finale, I heard two traps go off in the living room. Two traps. In the room where I was sitting. Internet, I do not consider jumping up to stand on the couch while yelling "Ewwww. Ewwww. OH LORD IT'S STILL WIGGLING!!!!!!!!" an overreaction. I dare say it was tame, because I swear on snacks and everything else that is good and holy, I have never wished for a boyfriend more. So I did what all single girls do when they live alone, and are faced with things that should be handled by those without a gag reflex. Chugged a beer and edged it into a dust pan. This morning there was another one, which leads me to believe that Fivo did not in fact go west, but instead invited the whole damn clan up to my place for a party. I'll keep you all posted, but in the meantime I'll be the one stomping around 1R in her boots.
----
Edit: Unfortunately, the title of this post did actually come out of my mouth. I said it yesterday while riding in the car with The Uncle, only to glance over and notice him staring at me, like "Woman, I'm about to beat you with a Websters and I won't even feel bad. Your parents will thank me." So, I stared back and stated as eloquently as I possibly could, "I write good." In my family, it's not so much a function of being right all the time, as it is pretending like you are even when you know the facts are stacked against you. Because facts? They are just small, insignificant details standing in the way of you winning an argument.

the secret

2008-05-09T08:46:00.000-04:00

Yesterday my coworkers and I got into in-depth discussion of The Secret. Which led me to conclude, without having ever cracked the cover, that it's some kind of new age tripe that begs to be made fun of. I happily obliged them.

Not believing it, hasn't stopped me from having conversations with the universe. Last night, after stepping on my new sunglasses and getting another parking ticket, I stood in the middle of my kitchen and was all "Listen Universe, I just don't think today was your best work, dawg. I mean, you've got 13 billion+ years of practice, I expect more from you at this stage of the game. Today just didn't do it for me."

Apparently, I DO believe that conversations with Universe require channeling Randy Jackson. Who knew.

i'll bring the sweatbands

2008-04-29T13:19:00.000-04:00

Granted, this is the lazy approach to posting. BUT, emails like these provide insight into how this mind of mine works. Also, let's all just take a brief moment to acknowledge that my friends are incredibly patient people when you consider that they have to put up with obsessions like these:

"...secretly I've been wanting to go on a Richard Simmons cruise. Mostly because I think it'd be hillaaaaaaaarious. The only problem is that I bet said cruise involves significantly more effort and significantly less eating than I'd like. These are only minor details, my friends. Just imagine, the OPPORTUNITY to see Mr. Simmons in his trademark shorts. Is there anything more fantastic in life? I think not. Someday, those shorts will be dipped in bronze and labeled as the 8th world wonder."

I'm so classy

2008-04-22T17:52:00.000-04:00

The following conversation took place after some magic that involved layers, masks, and a little sumptin' sumptin that we like to call adjustment filters. Hot.

Sarah: not to be cocky, but I just totally rocked photoshop's world.

Jay: oh yeah?

Sarah: CS3 now feels the need to smoke a cigarette and thank me for a job well done.

Jay: oh wow.

Sarah: that's what it said.

second guessing pre-coffee wardrobe decisions

2008-04-09T11:22:00.000-04:00

This morning after noshing a bagel and tossing back about a gallon of coffee, I looked down and thought "hum. I may look a weensy bit like I dressed for the set of a 1980's dance video today.

In my defense, the forecast this morning was 60 degrees and sunny. I had also just finished doing laundry last night which means the options were endless. My creative juices were flowing, the limitations of dirty leggings, pants, underwear, etc. were GONE. I felt unfettered. I also apparently, felt like I could dance on through my life.

And because these situations deserve to be mocked, even at one's own expense, behold the bodaciousness that was the 1980's:

(note the shirt which is ALSO a skirt. Rad)

therapy

2008-03-27T16:58:00.000-04:00

Therapy session 1: Sitting in sweatpants, drinking wine and chatting with one of my favorite people on this earth. We were crying and telling one another just how much we loved/valued our friendship in 20 minutes flat. Happily buzzed in 45 (both complete light weights), and elbow deep in our take-out Thai food about an hour after that. Note to self: need weekends like this more often.

Therapy session 2: Holding a sleeping baby. Realize that she is her own kind of perfect, even if the uncertainty of her future sometimes devastates me.

Therapy session 3: Driving into work because I can't find street parking and refuse to get another ticket. Accidentally land myself in the middle of a construction zone, stuck behind a cab driver who is trying to put his car in reverse. One yelling match (complete with waving and dramatic hand gestures) later, I realize that I have managed in that moment to get rid of every stress from the last 3 weeks. Decide to yell at cab drivers more often.

whoops

2008-03-14T10:25:00.001-04:00

If anyone needed proof that I am not remotely prepared to be a parent, they needed only listen to my mom's voice mail from last night. "Hey love, this is mom. Just calling to see how your weekend was...if you went to NJ...how the baby is doing. Also, just wanted to make sure that you were ok after your date with Abdul."

Interpretation: Because if you are NOT ok, I will most definitely drive down there in your defense and do things that the Lord himself might disapprove of (full disclosure, my mom is a pastor).

In highschool I went to my senior prom with a boy who was in college. A boy who had played football. About two weeks after the event, I told my dad I was pregnant just to see what his reaction would be. This was my own form of entertainment - watching my dad change from an odd shade of green to straight up pissed. But in this particular instance, it hadn't even crossed my mind that my parents would read this post and wonder if I'd gotten myself into a situation I couldn't handle. In truth, Abdul was a gentleman. A gentleman who winked. A lot.

We go get dinner *wink*...I move, but I come visit *wink*... I get job with city, and then we go somewhere special!! *wink, wink*... I call you, yes? *wink*... ooooooh no, we have to say goodnight? *wink*

As if Abdul didn't make the night interesting enough, we managed to get ourselves into a political debate with the only other diner sitting in the restaurant. We were sitting there chatting about the upcoming election and how pretty Hillary's pant suit looked on this last debate and how Barack is so friggen' great that it warms my politically apathetic heart. Then out of no where, random lady pipes up from across the room that the media is treating Hil "SO unfairly" and being "TOTALLY BIASED towards Barack... because, well, because he's Black and they don't want to appear racist!"

I tried very hard to wipe the "wtf" expression off my face. I suspect that I failed miserably.

Fortunately, this didn't seem to bother her a whit and she proceeded to blather on for a few minutes about her own views before bringing up the last election. At which point, I stated quite nicely that I didn't vote in the last election because I couldn't really support either candidate. I didn't like Bush, but I also couldn't figure out what the hell Kerry stood for except that he was "Not Bush." Random lady stared at me, and then (I shit you not) said "Well, then you're just as responsible as Bush is for sending this country to war.

So, there you have it. I am responsible for inducing heart-failure in my parents (sorry guys), and for sending our great nation to war (REALLY sorry about that one, America).

it was the marriage proposal that gave it away

2008-03-13T08:45:00.000-04:00

Par for the course, in terms of my dating life, last night I accidentally wound up on a date with my bodega guy.

For those non New Yorkers, a bodega is a little shop on every street corner. They carry beer, toilet paper, an assortment of cookies, ice cream and Cheez-Whiz. In terms of inventory, it is almost like they tore a page out of my diary. The entry that was so aptly entitled “What Makes Life Worth Living.”

I happen to live directly above one of these little shops, which is soopa-fantastic for multiple reasons. First, it means I have no neighbors downstairs to irritate while doing my kick-boxing videos. Second, it means I can pretend that I might (in some other alternate universe), do kick-boxing videos whenever the spirit moves me rather than simply catching up on episodes of The Hills.

On Sunday mornings, I romp down the steps in my sweatpants and fuzzy slippers, walk all of two feet to the store to pick up The NY Times. Then, I march up the street to get a pumpernickel everything bagel. I do this every single weekend. And so, I see Abdul every single weekend.

Last night, I got home and Abdul was standing outside the store. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, how quickly this week was going and then, just as I was about to head inside, he asked “want to go get some food?” And I, being an idiot, thought to myself “THAT’S SO NEIGHBORLY!!!”

Turns out that in this particular case, Abdul’s definition of “neighborly”, involved getting to know each other in the biblical sense …I think that perhaps he was referencing a different dictionary than I was.

lightening in the microwave

2008-02-25T13:44:00.001-05:00

[the greatest toilet seat known to man]

I spent all weekend (and by "all weekend" I mean non-social daylight hours) finishing up some painting projects around the apartment and enduring a semi-hellish trip to IKEA. I heart IKEA almost as much as I do snacks. But by noon the place was infested with parents and all of their 10+ offspring. I don't care what kind of eye-hand coordination skills you're trying to develop in your kid, it's not cute to hand them a shopping cart and let them navigate the overly crowded aisles. It's just not. If you're a parent reading this, and are guilty of said offense, then I would just like to be the first to inform you that every other person there who didn't haul their kids along for a 5hr shopping trip, probably wanted to throw their Swedish meatballs at your head. Or, maybe that's just me.

Sunday, I looked around the digs and felt like the work had finally paid off. The things about the apartment that initially drove me crazy, I decided I loved. Sparky toilet seat? Best. Toilet. Seat. Ever. Fixtures that had been painted with tacky brass paint? Quirky and adorable. I even danced a little jig to fully express my satisfaction. I danced as only a white, dutch girl can dance. Badly.

Then, this morning I wake up and notice what looks to be char marks on my newly painted walls. Apparently I had an electrical fire and my fire alarm didn't bother to warn me about it. MOREOVER, I now have CHAR marks on my wall. The wall, that I just finished painting.

Oh, the irony.

Once in high school, one of the siblings stuck something with foil on it in the microwave. The whole thing promptly started sparking, and my mom could only point and yell "LIGHTENING! LIGHTENING IN THE MICROWAVE!!!!!!!" Today, when I noticed the burn marks, I whispered "lightening... in my wall."

I get kinda hectic inside

2008-02-22T09:06:00.000-05:00

Sometimes between work and life, I forget all the reasons that I love living here. Reasons other than the most obvious one: every kind of cuisine can be delivered. Here's lookin' at you Coco Roco. Because even though I haven't tested you yet or your Chicaron de Calamar, I love that when I do have a hankering for some Peruvian, you've got my back. And so dear friends, in the name of remembering why NY is a city like no other, I give you my favorites from the last 24hrs:

1. Seeing 50+ police cars with their lights all on sitting in a parking lot for no other apparent reason than to provide a) a surprisingly great light show OR b) the appearance of a overly collaborative department of po-pos.
2. Listening to my male dressing room attendant sing every word of Mariah Carey's Fantasy
3. Different store. Different dude attendant singing Beyonce Dangerously in Love.
4. Finding out that Barack Obama carries a picture of me in his wallet and made me a mixtape. Which really, is just all kind of adorable.

floods + compliments = troo lov

2008-02-18T11:03:00.000-05:00

My apartment Super is Sudanese. Not Sudanese in the way that I am Dutch, cheap, and love Stroompwaffles. Rather, Mr. Hassan is Sudanese in the way that allows him to easily define the world "genocide" even though our government only manages to figure it out in hindsight. Which is probably why I've developed a slightly ridiculous affection for him making me want to feed him cookies, wrap him in a blanket, and apologize for our idiotic President all while pinching his cheeks. Every now and then I get notes shoved under my door full of phonetic spellings and have to fight the urge to reply in kind. Not that it would be a long note, probably something like "Yor the best. Thanks for beeng soo grate."

This past weekend we finally had a reason to meet for the very first time since my toilet decided that it no longer felt like flushing. What it did feel like doing was vomiting all over my floor on a regular basis. Not just a trickle, or a spatter. We're talking Noah's Ark type deluge. In true grownup fashion, my response to the problem (after I called Mr. Hassan) was to stare at the lake growing on my floor, go make myself a gin and tonic, and settle in for a Law + Order marathon. Apparently sometime between hours 1 through 4 of my television watching, the flooding caused the ceiling downstairs to collapse. True story.

I was nervous about finally meeting him. What if he didn't like me? What if he freaked out that I painted the cupboards wasabi green? What if I couldn't resist the urge to feed him an endless supply of Pillsbury Slice n' Bakes? Would he think that the flooding was caused by an excessive use of Charmin Ultra? Because I have used Scott's and really, I don't think I could go back without risking some very serious chaffing.

Leave it to Mr. Hassan to fix my toilet and calm my fears. He came and we flushed the toilet just so we could witness the flood together. After we realized that in spite of all appearances, animals weren't going to come marching out of my bathroom two-by-two, he smiled, took my hand and said "Hi, Miss Sarah. I, Hassan Seleh. Don't worry. We fix it. I call plumber and he come." Then, as if my heart wasn't already melted around my feet, he yelled "SOOO BOOOTIFUL! You single? Not married? You should be MARRIED".

I. Lov. Him.

I left my will to live on the 18th floor

2008-02-08T10:00:00.000-05:00

Sometime ago a coworker and I decided that we would make it our personal mission in life to climb the stairs in our building on a semi-regular basis. We were hoping to ring in the New Year with firmer thighs and lifted bums without having to deal with Suzanne Summers telling us “you’re halfway there!!!” Because I’m sorry Ms. Summers, but I don’t think you earned that bum entirely on your own. In fact, I would bet money that somewhere, in a land where fat goes to die there is a doctor who put his kid through college by helping remove the cush from your tush.

ANYWAY.

Two days ago we finally ran out of excuses and actually did it. I will not even get into how hard it was, but if walking like an old geriatric is any indication, then I am well on my way to being fit. Super fit.

Hum. That last sentence reminded me of short-lived health kick in high school where I created the Wall O’ Inspiration on my yellow and purple plaid walls, which had sayings like “Be Fab, lose the Flab!” written all over it. It’s safe to say that I was really cool in high school.

ANYWAY AGAIN (have you noticed the A.D.D. nature of this post yet?)

Oh look, monkeys!

I kid.

Back to the subject at hand: my rump. Turns out that climbing 40 flights of stairs is hard, and resulted in me walking home at an extraordinarily slow pace. I thought I was doing a decent job of masking the pain until some random dude on the street glanced over and asked “Rough day at work?” I think I must have whimpered, or nodded in response because he then offered to rub my feet. And only because I still had some shred of dignity, I did not lie down on 5^th avenue and take the man up on his offer. Well that, and the fact that strangers taking a special interest in my feet sort of creeps me out.

----------------
Edit: I climbed 40 flights in 20 minutes and wanted to die. These people are out of their damn minds

(in)appropriate work conversations

2008-01-15T13:15:00.000-05:00

S: The baby has dropped. It's in position! I'm gonna win (referring to the office pool for the delivery date).
Coworker: How long has it been in position??!
S: A week! ... AND she waddles.
Coworker: Eh. That's nothing... you can be dilated for like, three weeks.
S (gasps): Nooo.
Coworker: Yes.
S (looking shocked): I am never, never having babies.

quick update pt 2.

2008-01-02T13:07:00.000-05:00

I went and saw The Peanut yesterday and she's doing great. Which really, is a small miracle in and of itself.

Happy New Years, friends.

quick update

2007-12-22T20:58:00.000-05:00

at 5:30 this morning I woke up to find policeman standing in the living room of The Aunt and The Uncle's house. Walking up the stairs I remember an "oh no!!" slipping out of my mouth, and shortly thereafter dissolving in a puddle of tears. Jackie was laying on the couch, in a full blown seizure making a sound as if she was clearing her throat. A few minutes later the paramedics showed up and began taking her vitals. I lost it all over again, when one of them looked shocked at the response to the standard "How long has she been like this??" The answer: "30 minutes". As they got ready to take her away, I leaned down, touched her head noticed that her lips were blue.

It's really hard not to freak out in moments like this.

The last time this happened, we were really close to losing her. This time didn't seem as bad, but then details of what was happening at the hospital would slip out "...did he tell you that she stopped breathing?" Not panicking for me, wasn't really an option. The strange thing though was that I seemed to flip between the two. Falling apart, and then making coffee. Incapable of finding words because the words are directed at a crying 11 year old, and then starting a load of laundry. I think you move because you have to. Because it brings logic, and normalcy to a time that is anything but. So at 7 in the morning I sat there with my coffee, wondering if it was an inappropriate hour to have a drink. All day I found myself doing stupidly mundane tasks - laundry, cleaning, running the kids to practice, cooking, making paper snowflakes... I wanted to feel something other than helplessness. I don't think I succeeded at all. I came last night because I'd missed her since I moved to Brooklyn. I came so that I could cuddle with her, and remind her what I looked like. I held her 24hrs ago, and didn't see this coming at all.

She's still in the ICU, and probably will be until monday. The good news is she's stable, and will hopefully stay that way.

To everyone that threw up prayers on Jackie's behalf, thank you so much. It means alot.

What. The. Fug.

2007-12-19T12:33:00.000-05:00

My dad didn’t seem especially sympathetic when I exclaimed on the telephone “It’s BRASS paint that they DRIPPED everywhere”. He quite logically pointed out that this is NY, and therefore unless you’re living in monstrosities like thisaone, there’s bound to be 10 coats of paint on everything.

Which is all good and fine, and probably very true. In all fairness to him, quite likely, me complaining about my really friggin’ fugly apartment fixtures is sort of like the skinniest girl in the room casually mentioning that her New Year’s resolution is to “go on a diet!!” and get “really, really fit!!” saying it with such seriousness, that you want to wallup her and simultaneously shove a burrito down her throat. In other words, it’s annoying. That being said, the slightly obsessive part of me is still very much obsessing about how I can remedy the affront that is brass paint. Lo, the "before" and "after" photos.I've decided that I won't bother with the door jambs, or door handles. The light switches, outlets, and lighting fixtures however, should probably fear for their lives.

2007-12-17T09:50:00.000-05:00

To the former occupant of 1R:

Somehow, though your reasoning dumbfounds me, you managed to paint every surface including, but not limited to the door jambs, light switches, outlets, coat hooks, door knobs, and light fixtures in a tacky bronze metallic paint. Not once, but apparently multiple times, so that removing said light switches, outlets, and coat hooks required raw determination and the strength of a friggin’ Viking (thankfully, I have both). Anyway, I just wanted to drop you a line and say thank you for your unbelievably thorough display of bad taste.

-s-

on jackie

2007-12-06T10:06:00.000-05:00

If you look at the pictures below, the one with the kid rocking a pumpkin outfit, you wouldn’t know. For instance, you wouldn’t know that in spite of appearances she’s not 3 months, she’s a year. You wouldn’t know that she’s had a really hard year, one like most of us thank God, have never had to endure. You also wouldn’t know that her parents astound me. They’re relentless in their faith. The family, collectively, treasures this little person more than I’ve seen anywhere else. Ever. You wouldn’t see us taking turns holding her, celebrating every minute victory (she gained 8oz!), or what happens to our insides when we realize that in spite of everything, she is, and will probably remain, really fragile. A few weeks ago, she dislocated her elbow. It was just her arm, not anything especially scary or traumatic. But she was helpless, and hurting, and she’s already been through so much. So we stood there, and cried along with her while the doctor popped it back into place.

I haven’t managed to give up on the hope that I’ll get to watch her grow up, even if statistically, the odds aren’t in her favor. This is my own form of denial, one that I’ll keep on living in, until circumstances force me out of it. I want her to have a future, even if that future looks dramatically different than I would’ve hoped for when I initially heard that baby #5 was on the way. The whole situation… the realization of just how much you can love someone and yet have no control over whether or not they stay or go, is both incredible and heartbreaking.

airborne - water = bad

2007-11-30T16:55:00.000-05:00

Facts you should know before you read the rest of this:
1. I'm fighting a cold.
2. I'm supposed to go to Ikea tonight and said cold is kicking my ass and making me just want to lay on the floor in a puddle and demand that those younger than myself (read: the little cousins) feed me orange juice through a straw.
3. It's friday, and I'm tired.

Instead of getting up like a normal person and walking to the water cooler, I decided to be lazy and break up an Airborne tablet into 4 little swallow-ey size bits and just down it with the semi-stank water that I had sitting in my Nalgene.

Now I have a bubbley sensation somewhere in the middle of my esophagus, which in addition to feeling just a weensy bit uncomfortable, has also resulted in Airborne burps.

Why I'm still single eludes me.

it's over.

2007-11-20T11:20:00.000-05:00

That apartment I mentioned? The one with a bedroom, separate from the living room, and miracle of all miracles a reasonable amount of closet space?! Yes, that one.

It's mine. Officially, it all goes down on Dec. 1st. To commemorate the event I bought a poster. A poster I love almost as much as I do closet space.

EDIT - No, I did not pay the 2K fee and somehow I managed to get them to drop my rent by $150/mo. The details are a bit fuzzy, but I do seem to recall throwing down the words "couisin" and "lawyer" somewhere along the line.

apt. hunt continues

2007-11-13T12:03:00.000-05:00

Last night I put a deposit down on an apartment. A massive 1bdr. apartment, in a fantastic neighborhood, with a laundrymat 2 doors down. I can handle 2 doors down. The space needs paint, and a fresh grout job in the bathroom. But, by the time I put the deposit down, I'd psyched myself out not to care. I thought things like "Paint? You LOVE painting. You were MADE to paint these cupboards something resembling Pantone 383C... or maybe 390C."

Did I mention that by the time I climbed the train to head back to NJ, that I'd already mentally decorated the place? Because I had.

First I'd tackle the kitchen and the bedroom and then I'd work on the hallway and living room next. Anyone that visited between now and whenever I finished said living room, was just going to have to suck it up and deal. Afterall, that's why God invented air mattresses. I'd graciously decided to overlook the fugly linoleum in the hallway, remembering that CB2 now carries FLOR tiles, and that CB2 just opened a store in Soho. If CB2 didn't have what I wanted, I could hit up Ikea, which in addition to air mattresses, is God's other gift to housewares.

So I guess, it shouldn't surprise me that this morning the landlord requested a broker's fee. Which basically equates to 2K getting shot straight down the crapper in the apartment that I have already decorated in my head.

And now I'm cranky, having to decide whether or not just to bite the bullet and go for it. Or go with option B) which involves me fully embracing my dutch instincts and telling the landlord where exactly he can stick his effin' fee.

watching the pumpkin grow up

2007-11-01T18:03:00.000-04:00

When I first announced that I was moving to manhattan, no one bothered to inform me that moving to New York is akin to winning a lottery. I don't mean this in the You've Just Won a BAJILLION Dollars sense of things, but rather in the There's Not a Snowflakes Chance in Hell that you're "moving" in the time frame you'd like to believe missy.

"Moving" has instead translated to living indefinitely with the aunt, the uncle, and their 5 off-spring. Fortunately for me, I adore them. Unfortunately for them, they've inherited child #6. Working in their favor is the fact that at least I am the child that calls when I say I'm going to call, goes to bed (ALL BY MYSELF), and pokes fun at The Uncle for the benefit of The Aunt. I've also mastered the art of baby-feeding which really, is no small feat when you consider that this baby likes to spit food back out projectile-style whenever she's decided that she's done with her supper. Because in the world of Jackie, who could possibly have time for eating when there is so much kicking and stretching to do? Mealtimes are a battle, especially when we try to feed her anything other than ice cream and liquid rainbows. All that being said, I wouldn't trade these last few months for anything. Mostly because there are days that are totally shite, and then I come home to this:

on becoming Mrs. Lee

2007-10-22T09:42:00.000-04:00

S: I don’t think I can date him…
Uncle: Why?
S: Apart from the fact that he makes me want to toss my phone across the room?
Uncle: Well yeah, apart from that.
S: If I married him what would my name be?
Uncle (snorts and then starts giggling like a little girl): Sarah Lee! …but think about all the cute pet names!!!!!!!! DATE HIM.
S: Muffin…
Uncle: Cupcake…
S: Aww my little strudel…
Uncle: You could name your kids after pastries!
S: Ooo you’re a sassy little Tart aren’t you.

(this went on for a good 10 minutes)

lunchtime in union sq.

2007-09-17T14:46:00.000-04:00

Today I was sitting in the park, quietly noshing on a burrito and reading a magazine when a skinny version of Milton from Office Space walks up and asks if I’ll play some chess with him.

I decline.

Milton asks if instead he can suck on my toes.

I decline.

Milton asks why sucking on toes freaks women out. After all, he’s doing the sucking.

I stare at him, and slowly tuck my flip-flop clad feet under the table.

Milton asks if he can hold my hand saying “I’m into those too”.

I decline again.

Milton sits quietly for a second and then sings in a high, screechy falsetto “Ok, fine. But just remember you’re looo-v-eeely” before walking off.

…This is my life these days.

VERY IMPORTANT

2007-08-21T12:09:00.000-04:00

Today I made a folder entitled "VERY IMPORTANT SHIT" which was supposed to remind me not to tuck away said folder in a random box. Also, because labeling it this way made me smile. The problem is that now the folder is now all "Oh hello Mr. Robber, if you're going to steal something you should definitely steal me." Which makes me think that 1. I am a complete and total idiot sometimes and 2. that I should use my editing skills to interject a "^ Un" in front of the "Important" part just to toy with the hypothetical stealers of my identification.

If anyone feels like volunteering for the role of organizing my life, I promise to love you to pieces until the end of time. Really, not a bad deal at all if you think about it.

jeans lust

2007-08-14T11:20:00.000-04:00

[image courtesy of NY Times]

Because I don’t like packing, and because I will no longer have to deal with my wardrobe choices being limited to jcrew, banana republic, and forever 21 (calm yourself. it’s just for bangley things) I’ve been getting rid of quite a bit. The wardrobe situation has been ESPECIALLY bad since Marshal Fields became Macys and the whole world collapsed around me. Which ok, fine. We live in West Michigan and no-one is really out to win the fashionista awards unless it results in a marriage proposal and a house with a white picket fence. Since I’m not looking for either at the moment, and because there's only so much shopping you can do over the internets, I guess I can relax. Also, it’s summer so clothes in general are less present than they might be in -5 degree weather. Come fall though, I have this sneaking suspicion that I’ll be entirely screwed.

Anyway, back to the point - getting rid of things. There’s actually not that much to get rid of. I’ve been fairly deliberate not to get too settled here, since I knew that in the long term I didn’t plan on staying. Which is partly why Rooms and I signed a lease that I could get out of at any point, and it’s also why there have been very few furniture purchases. Only a handful of what I have bought, or made, will be making the cut in the move. But somehow with the recent bout of pitching/donating, I managed to end up with exactly three pairs of jeans. When I realized that I’d effectively managed to whittle my wardrobe down to almost nothing, I had this moment of “take that you consumerist society!!!” This thought was followed with “day-um I’m low maintenance.” Until I got the new anthropologie catalog and remembered that my favoritest jeans that had the uncanny ability to make my ass look fiiiiiine had ripped from here to never-never land while climbing up on a roof. And now I want these. And these. And these.

lessons in innappropriate copy 101

2007-08-13T11:54:00.000-04:00

This is what happens when you're tired and are given a somewhat ridiculous writing assignment that involves State and Local Governments, competitively bid contracts (hott!), and direction from the powers that be to inject some humor into the whole bit:

super sexy contracts

Ok, so maybe talking about contracts and cost savings isn't the most sexy subject to discuss. But it deserves a brief mention when that contract provides a competitively bid alternative to That Other Program (which we will not name).

BetterTogether delivers the products you want, at prices you can afford - which is a little bit sexy, if you're into that sort of thing.

on moving, leaving, etc.

2007-08-08T23:33:00.000-04:00

I'm not good at goodbyes. There is some part of me, that wants to grip with both hands onto whatever I am leaving. Even when I know, deep down, that this is right. But still, I find myself wanting to sit down each person that matters, and fully communicate just how much I love them, just how much I'll miss them, and how this move has nothing to do with either of those factors. I find myself wanting to explain, that even though I get horribly depressed about the idea of giving up these friendships, the idea of staying is equally unhealthy. I want them to know that these things are true... and yet, in looking at the hours and days that are left, it's just not realistic.

I have two weeks to pack up a life that's taken six years to build. Eventually I'll wrap my head around all this, but right now it just feels like a blur.

moving on the cheap

2007-07-31T20:13:00.000-04:00

let's just pretend for a minute that I did not go out and spend money on a book to help me save money.

....i'm so dutch it's pathetic.

moving

2007-07-29T21:15:00.000-04:00

It comes and goes in waves. There are moments where I get giddy and am almost frantically excited. Then there are moments when it hits that I'm about to leave the life I've built here, for one that is so overwhelmingly different than everything that I've known so far. I'm unbelievably thrilled, and unbelievably terrified.

Which is an awkward and roundabout way of saying that I'm moving to NYC in the next 3-4 weeks. I got lucky, and a recruiter wound up with my resume in hand. What started as a conversation a few weeks ago, and resulted in me frantically pulling together a portfolio, ended up with a job offer last week. So I quit, which was easier than I thought it would be. And now I'll move, which I'm sure will be harder than I can even anticipate.

the weekend

2007-07-23T15:52:00.000-04:00

I spent the weekend in NYC and NJ. To those who say that NJ is our nation’s armpit I say this: perhaps, if that armpit happens to belong to Brad Pitt who doesn’t sweat or have bodily functions. Newark and Jersey City don’t count friends. They’re both the part of the state we all wish would float off into the sunset. Except then we would not have fishes in the sea because I’m fairly sure Newark would kill them all. So, we keep Newark, as a favor to our great nation. So there.

On my way back, Mary Kate Olsen’s name was called over the loudspeaker to a gate that was IN MY TERMINAL. I have no justification for the thought process that followed other than the fact that I was raised on Full House:

Thought 1: I wonder if she’s still rockin’ that boho-chic look
Thought 2: We’d totally be friends
Thought 3: Maybe I should go investigate
Thought 4: I kind of want to buy her a cheese burger. With bacon.
Thought 5: A burger? I’m such an ass.
Thought 6: You are going to stay put missy. If she wants to travel through Laguardia (seriously the worst airport ever) and dress like a bag lady, that’s her business not yours.

I did not go investigate, or introduce myself to my new best friend or attempt to introduce her to the glories of red meat and calories. Instead I got back to the more important business at hand – catching up on my Harry Potter. And you can feel free to judge me as being a monumental dork based on that last statement. But so far? Loooove it.

vacation

2007-07-04T10:39:00.000-04:00

Each day generally consisted of eat, slather on the SPF like it's going out of style, sleep, eat, frolic, sleep, eat, repeat in reverse.

It was heavenly in ways that you can't really put words too. It was also slightly ridiculous. One night the cousins, siblings, and tag-alongs decided to go mini-golfing. We've all got the weensiest bit of a competitive streak. Meaning that we all spent the entire evening swearing up a storm at each other and doing victory dances down the putting green. We were also the only ones dancing to Justin Timberlake as it came over the loud speakers, complete with golf-club microphones.

Other golfers loved us.

let this be a lesson

2007-06-17T20:21:00.000-04:00

S & R both looking horrified...

S: "I heard once that when you get a boob job you can loose sensation in your chest... so its not like you get new boobs for how they feel, just how they look."
R: "So they're just toys for boys? Oh hell no"

S, sounding confused: "Vaginal laser rejuvenation??"
R, answering the unasked question: "What, your vagina goes crazy and needs to be rejuvenated? Can't you just get rejuvenated with a cup of coffee or something??"

I would not recommend watching Dr. 90210. Ever.

tgfff (thank god for flip flops)

2007-06-14T12:46:00.000-04:00

I spent this last week working NeoCon. An event that generally consists of furniture girls gone wild, and designers who spend an inordinate amount of time staring longingly at the flowing locks of this guy:

Unfortunately during events like this one, the sum total of my entire vocabulary usually winds up degenerating into only 2 words. Flip Flops.

Conversations basically went like this all week long:

Coworker: "Sarah, what do you feel like doing??"
Sarah: *long stare* "Flip flops"
Coworker: "Dinner first?"
Sarah: "No, jeans. And flip flops."
Coworker: "Dancing later?"
Sarah: "Does that involve standing? No, sitting. And flip flops."
Coworker: (while out dancing) "How did you get into the club?"
Sarah: *confused stare*
Coworker: "They're not letting people in with sandals."
Sarah: "I winked at the doorman. Not a chance in hell I'm wearing anything that resembles a stiletto."
Coworker: "But seriously, flip flops?"
Sarah: "Mmmmmmhmmmmm"

scrubbing m'face off

2007-05-29T00:16:00.001-04:00

Has anyone yet experienced the wonder that is the Nutritioniste Regenerating Micro-Polishing Kit? When the line first came out, I mocked it for its faux french branding. So like the sucker I am, I bought it. All $17.99 of it for 4oz of scrubbity goodness. I am a marketers dream come true. I believe in spontaneous purchase decisions based largely on the hotness of the packaging. And yes, I know full well that it's overpriced and vain but that wont stop me from forking over half my paycheck if a product will provide the promise, or at minimum imply the possibility, of looking like my my cheeks crawled off a baby's butt and stuck to my face. Anyway, so I used it. And I swear to you I followed the directions exactly. Everything appeared to be going well until I glanced up in the mirror and I kid you not thought "oh sweet jesus, I scrubbed my face off". I have never, ever in my life, seen such red skin and that includes the time mistook SPF 5 for SPF 45 and fell asleep in the sun.