tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60674159256562512442024-03-13T16:26:55.492-07:00Sarah Be Mye...Finish the sentence.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.comBlogger166125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-92210014332288478742016-04-24T18:45:00.001-07:002016-04-24T18:45:53.405-07:00Keyboard player<div>So. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">A few weeks ago, I was invited to join a band. Not invited to audition. To join a band.</span></div><div><br></div><div>So I agreed. </div><div><br></div><div>I went to a practice, and, for the first time in ever, I played actual keyboard instead of piano. With effects and xpositions and shit.</div><div><br></div><div>It was hard. I told them I was out of my league. They told me I really wasn't. And then I played my first gig with them.</div><div><br></div><div>Mind you, 2 hours of practicing does not prepare one for a 4 hour gig.</div><div><br></div><div>I practiced more on my own. I fooled with effects. I listened and listened and listened.</div><div><br></div><div>At the gig, I was terrified. I couldn't hear my keys or my vocals, and I had no idea if anything sounded good, though I absolutely knew immediately when I screwed up.</div><div><br></div><div>And I did screw up, but again, this was new. And I looked really cute.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6nlBG1E8phi7JT4p8_YyYFK4978CGl_VvnxQ985LOiA7xvH7qRYIAMY5Z6SVCnDIf2V1EzfMtBg7J8-J9Zm6DRj0xwoOU44FDYFLVQ1BNMgRqSResdWyTCj_dHPJncRYKXwC3MppVEqP/s640/blogger-image--1063003978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6nlBG1E8phi7JT4p8_YyYFK4978CGl_VvnxQ985LOiA7xvH7qRYIAMY5Z6SVCnDIf2V1EzfMtBg7J8-J9Zm6DRj0xwoOU44FDYFLVQ1BNMgRqSResdWyTCj_dHPJncRYKXwC3MppVEqP/s640/blogger-image--1063003978.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So, a few days later, we practiced again. This was harder, but I did ok. I sang well.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And we had gigs lined up for the next weekend. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I got booted from the paying gigs. But was asked to play the freebie. :/</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But that was all fine, because a few weeks later, they had lined up a casino gig. Big money, big exposure! And two whole weeks to practice!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But I've now been booted from that, too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">That's very disappointing. My closest friends and oldest son have agreed that I am ok with being a little butt hurt about that. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And meanwhile, I have bought a ton of music paraphernalia I never expected to need. I have read a bunch to find out what to do better. I have practiced a shit ton, and for the first time in my life, feel actually musicked out. I didn't even know that was possible.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">They swear I am technically "in" the band.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I just need to decide if I really want to be.</div><br></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-62699340866085854012015-08-10T12:17:00.000-07:002015-10-30T13:30:52.598-07:00Bikini Wearer?It's unholy ohmygodforreal hot here, in Louisiana, in August. The baby is back at school and people are legitimately wondering if they will be allowed to go outside for recess. It truly is THAT hot.<br />
<br />
But that's not what I want to talk about. I want to ask this. Should I wear my bikini?<br />
<br />
Yes. That.<br />
<br />
Here is the picture.<br />
<br />
I am 5'3". I weigh 138 pounds (which is pretty goddamn fantastic, honestly). I have a concave behind, an extraordinarily short torso, a helluva a belly, and a wide rib cage. And a rack. I have a hefty, though adorable, rack.<br />
<br />
From the front, I look relatively slender. I'm not wide on the sides. I have tiny hips. <br />
<br />
In profile, though, sweet Christ. I look like Hank Hill.<br />
<br />
If I lie on my back, all the fat slides away and I look like I have abs.<br />
<br />
All of this said, I'm going to wear the bikini. I wear it in Hancock Co., Mississippi, where the average person must be considered morbidly obese.<br />
<br />
I wear it out in the back yard, where I sweat for an hour in a desire to look black (for my next show, this is an actual thing, not a racial slur) until I can no longer bear the oppressive, heavy, disgusting heat that is right now.<br />
<br />
I do not wear it in front of my mom. I did, once, and she said, "If you pulled it up it would hide your love handles." I could not pull it up even a millimeter more.<br />
<br />
Would I wear it at my gay friends' house/pool? Probably not. Am I skinnier than said friends? Yes, but they are dudes and the rules are different. Am I skinnier than their other (female) friends? No.<br />
<br />
Would I wear it to the water park? Maybe. It depends on if my mother is going.<br />
<br />
Would I wear it on the boat on the 4th of July? Not a chance.<br />
<br />
Would I wear it to my friend KT's dad's house, with it's gorgeous pool? Highly doubtful. Even though this one time, a girl named Crystal wore a bikini there, two-fisted beers and made me pretty much entirely envious of her entire existence, and she had to weigh close to 200 lbs.<br />
<br />
Later, that same year, Crystal died. That's a sad ending to a girl who I found very inspirational.<br />
<br />
Fuck it. I want to wear the bikini. Invite me to swim. Invite me to a water park. I need to get blacker and I need to show my fat little tubby belly and I need to get to a point where I can do that without worrying about it.<br />
<br />
I want to wear the bikini.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-46413769821276165752015-06-20T08:09:00.001-07:002015-10-30T13:31:15.247-07:00GrownupThe kid flushed a washcloth down the toilet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Know what that does to a toilet? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I didn't, either, but miraculously, it flushed all the way and nothing bad happened. I consider this a miracle.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The kid, this boy, and I are doing fine. We just got parts in another play (he finished with Drama Camp, so this makes his 5th). I'm playing my dream part, with beautiful solos and an amazing cast, and I don't have to be a lesbian. I can't freaking wait!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And the other kid? He and his wife are having twins. TWINS.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So between being the boss at my job (and doing a damn fine job at it, too), still continuing as the youth music leader at church (and doing a damn fine job at it, too), enjoying the company of an almost-nine-year-old, and expecting twin grandbabies, my life rocks.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, and I'm teaching piano lessons, too.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And doing a damn fine job at everything.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm such a grownup all of the sudden.</div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-70540640006950067552015-04-03T07:28:00.001-07:002015-06-20T08:09:53.221-07:00Holy shit, I have a blog that I forgot aboutSorry.<div><br></div><div>So first things first. I quit that new job. It was awful, y'all. Humiliating. Degrading. So on Monday, I went to work, handed the worst boss my key and my computer, and told him I don't want to work there anymore. And I left. And I went to the beach. It was magical.</div><div><br></div><div>In other news, I did a show. First show since 1992. I played a big old crazy lady and a little lesbian girl, and I had a solo, and I fell completely in love with theater all over again. There will be more.</div><div><br></div><div>By the way, I start my new job on Monday.</div><div><br></div><div>I guess what I'm saying is this. If you are my boss, you don't get to yell at me about your personal life, about wifi I have no control over, or tell me to pick up trash on a New Orleans street corner. I'm the boss at new job.</div><div><br></div><div>Pretty sure this is the best Easter ever.</div><div><br></div><div>Boom.</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-43482727003023381372014-12-30T09:45:00.001-08:002014-12-30T09:45:08.250-08:00Happy Update From the SarieIt's been a while, and I need to update what-all is going on.<br />
<br />
1) I've started my new job. I like it. It's super fun, the commute isn't as bad as I worried it might be, and it is making me <i>smarter</i>. That said, I've lost a good bit of time (chalk up almost 2 hours/day to commuting, although I technically arrive at work at the same time that I used to do so), so I'm feeling tired. That and the fact that I actually have to think during the day. Combined, I'm tired. But happier. Also, it's New Orleans, and also, there is a bar IN THE OFFICE. Win.<br />
<br />
2) Christmas (well, and before that, Thanksgiving) has come and gone. It was the best Christmas I can ever remember. I got some nice things, mostly gift cards and a (much needed, much desired) watch, but the kicker was watching the baby. He was OVER THE MOON with his present from me. So much so that I still get a little misty grin thinking about it. I haven't ever seen him be so happy with one thing before, in all of my life. I got him an iPod, which doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me, but to him, it is the world. And he has been texting me, which is amazing, since he is both adorable and also in Georgia right now. I enjoy staying current with the baby.<br />
<br />
3) My marathon is a no-go. I have to work that weekend. This was an enormous blow when I found out, but weeks have gone by and I am no longer that upset. Truth is, that race was going to completely kick my ass. Utterly. So really, I'm better off this way.<br />
<br />
That's pretty much my last several months in a nutshell. Couple that with me finding my mother sharing a drink and a smoke with the Kirby salesman and the time she tried very hard to convince me that it would be okay for her to pick up a hitchhiker, you will see that she is the same as she ever was.<br />
<br />
Hope all is well with all (both) of you.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and by the way, there is a BAR IN MY OFFICE. Just reminding you that.<br />
<br />
Happy days!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-7865172480304258722014-11-03T14:02:00.002-08:002014-11-03T14:02:41.766-08:00QuitterI turned in my notice at my job last Friday. On Halloween. Haha. Boo. Fuck you. Just kidding. Sort of.<br />
<br />
I got a new job, in New Orleans, with a little more money and a lot more responsibility and pretty much a whole lot to offer.<br />
<br />
My problem is... well... these next two weeks, y'all. How? How do you survive the final two weeks, when the boss person is FURIOUS at you because you <strike>dared to disobey her commands</strike> <strike>showed what an ungrateful brat you are</strike> made her feel like you don't love her anymore. <br />
<br />
That's the thing, I kind of have divorced my boss.<br />
<br />
Mind you, it is the right thing to do, for lots and lots and lots of reasons, and I am super duper excited about the next phase in my life, but I cannot help but sit here and be miserable. I don't want to be miserable!!!<br />
<br />
So... I think, in the end, that there is just one thing to do. Practice saying, "I'm sorry, this is just too uncomfortable for me. I would have liked to give two weeks' notice, but I'm going to go ahead and leave," and have a nice glass of wine on the regular. Eventually one of two things will have happened. I will either use what I practiced (trust your training!) or I will have survived two weeks. Either way, same result. <br />
<br />
Either way, new adventure. Bring it on.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-41613058761766153032014-10-28T20:46:00.001-07:002014-10-28T20:46:35.212-07:00ReminiscerThree years ago yesterday, my ex-husband moved out of my house.<div><br></div><div>In the past three years, I also did this:</div><div><br></div><div>Run a half marathon</div><div>Signed up and began to train for a full marathon</div><div>Said goodbye to my favorite cat ever</div><div>Fell in love with two new cats</div><div>Bought a house and painted that bitch</div><div>Figured out that I am so very capable</div><div>Of anything</div><div>Been on exactly 2 dates</div><div>Figured out that I don't much care for dating</div><div>Taught a little boy how to ride a bike without training wheels</div><div>Read Harry Potters 1-3 to a little boy</div><div>Watched a little boy light up a stage</div><div>Watched a taller boy get his diploma</div><div>Watched a taller boy win a really hard fight</div><div>Watched a taller boy say he does to a beautiful girl</div><div>Sat in the company of a dozen teenagers who love me</div><div>Loved a dozen teenagers</div><div>Made music</div><div>Made friends</div><div>Drank tequila</div><div>Watched jeopardy</div><div>Ate some really fantastic food</div><div>Ate some absolutely god-awful food</div><div>Cooked some absolutely god-awful food</div><div>Paid my bills on time</div><div>Got a raise</div><div>Laughed a ton</div><div>Said goodbye to a good friend (Love you, Joebie.)</div><div>Dyed my hair</div><div>Lost 30 pounds</div><div>Put ten on again. Then lost it again. Then gained five and called it "stasis."</div><div>Sang karaoke. And a gig. Or three.</div><div>Got beaten at Trivial Pursuit.</div><div><br></div><div>Lived.</div><div><br></div><div>Been a pretty damn good couple-few years.</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-83107907019804488022014-09-03T08:39:00.002-07:002014-09-03T08:39:35.746-07:00Gossiper, with my mother. As per usual. Only with more vulgar language.This weekend, I was sitting at a pool with my mother, my brother, his wife and a friend. We got to talking, as we do, about people, you know, the gossip.<br />
<br />
We got to talking about somebody in particular, who recently got married. Oddly enough, that same person has become 1,000 times nicer to everybody. We are shocked, pleased, and feel like talking about such things.<br />
<br />
"I always said she just needed some D," said my brother.<br />
<br />
"What?" Said my mother.<br />
<br />
"D. She just needed some D," repeated my brother.<br />
<br />
"D? I don't know what you are saying," said my mother. "I could understand 'S,' for sex, but "B? D? I don't understand."<br />
<br />
"DICK, MOM," my brother said, pretty loudly. "I SAID SHE JUST NEEDED SOME DICK."<br />
<br />
As the families sitting nearby looked over, I was reminded that I live in Louisiana, now, and they did exactly as they ought. They smiled or even chuckled a little bit.<br />
<br />
Also, I'm glad that person got some D and is now pleasant to be around.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-43868828990115389002014-07-17T20:13:00.000-07:002014-07-17T20:16:28.179-07:00Black Poltergeist Home OwnerMy very best bestie in the whole wide world is coming to visit this weekend. Janetpalooza is imminent, and I am excited, and I am bouncing and starving. I don't expect you to get that, so here's an asterisk and I will explain later on. There's something else I need to tell you about right now. So here: *<br />
<br />
When friends are coming, I generally like things to be neat, so I wanted to sweep and vacuum and what-all, but I've been putting it off because I've been sick and lazy but mostly sick. So tonight I did do all those things I wanted to do, like clean the bathtubs and the floors and everything. <br />
<br />
Anyway, so I got that all done, and then I did the whole <i>ahhhhhhhhhhhTimeToSitOnTheCouch</i> thing, and it was lovely. Having forgotten that I need to stare intently at CNN and wonder at the fact that I LITERALLY DO NOT KNOW WHERE THINGS ARE IN EASTERN EUROPE AND THE MIDDLE EAST, and oooooh airplane shot down and ooooooooh war???? - wait, where was I? Oh, yes. I had momentarily forgotten all of that, so I figured, hey, Jeopardy!<br />
<br />
I have lots of episodes. I watched one last night from May 27. MAY. 27. I'm a little bit behind.<br />
<br />
Julia is still winning, if that means anything to you.<br />
<br />
Okay, so anyway, I sat on the couch, yarn nearby, and I turned on the DVR, and I saw this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrc4CXST-2DQYOdJkvzttfN9KA-h8Au8vS6VoE0ZC3bv9knU9JX_yOL_0N55COqhib0N3EbUfOz003OjA2OipeJTgSgihURasIBFZqKgOCwVOnf0uVT0qJKnKP1BjmFAP7JF6UVnJTvXvr/s1600/Moesha.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrc4CXST-2DQYOdJkvzttfN9KA-h8Au8vS6VoE0ZC3bv9knU9JX_yOL_0N55COqhib0N3EbUfOz003OjA2OipeJTgSgihURasIBFZqKgOCwVOnf0uVT0qJKnKP1BjmFAP7JF6UVnJTvXvr/s1600/Moesha.jpeg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Now. Let's discuss a few things here.<br />
<br />
Thing One: This was recorded at 9:17 a.m. I was at work at 9:17 a.m.<br />
<br />
Thing Two: It got the whole episode. 35 minutes.<br />
<br />
Thing Three: BET. The High Def one. I did not even think I got that channel. I've certainly never not once watched that channel. I obviously don't have time, when I can't even watch my Jeopardy collection.<br />
<br />
Thing Four: Seriously. 38 episodes of Jeopardy. Also, do you want to judge me for Return to Amish? Yeah? Fuck you. Also, High School Musical is mine, not Caleb's. I OWN MY CRAZY.<br />
<br />
But seriously. SERIOUSLY. Moesha!!!<br />
<br />
There is no sign of break-in. I called Sam and asked if he stopped by my house today. "No," he said, then he muttered "weirdo." That might not really have happened but kind of it did. Anyway, I told him what happened, what I found on the DVR, and he agreed that this was, indeed, really fucking weird.<br />
<br />
I also texted my dad, the only other person in this town that has access to my house, as my mom is out of town. He didn't come over, either.<br />
<br />
So I called him and told him the deal.<br />
<br />
"So no sign of break in?" Right. "Could you have accidentally set it up to tape?" I guess I could have, but I seriously don't think that happened.<br />
<br />
Katiebird thinks that my cat did it. I'm inclined to agree. Little Hitler likes Brandy. But even that requires some serious coincidences. He'd have to have already had it on the right channel. He'd have to have hit this tiny button the the remote. It's the smallest button on there. I'm not sure...<br />
<br />
In the end, my dad has decided I either have a black poltergeist or there is a message for me (from God, via Moesha) that I need to experience, so...<br />
<br />
I'm going to go watch Moesha. I'll let you know.<br />
<br />
<img src="http://campuslately.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/moesha.jpg" /><br />
<br />
And if another thing records, I'll know it's the real deal. I've got <i>guests</i>. They coming fo' me, 'lizabeth!<br />
<br />
* Years and years ago, before cell phones, I was going to visit Janie or she was coming to visit me, back when we lived 4 hours apart, and anyway, so she had left me a voice mail at work. I had a post it in front of me, as one does, where I took a note while I listened to the message:<br />
<br />
"Hi! I'm so excited! I can't wait to get off work so we can get together. I'm totally bouncing off the walls!! Also, I'm STARVING so let's plan to eat..."<br />
<br />
I wrote: "Janet - bouncing & starving"<br />
<br />
And a trend was born.<br />
<br />
Here we are, a good solid, what, 15? 17??? years later, and I'm here, watching Moesha, and bouncing and starving!<br />
<br />
<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-10225456764302044632014-06-14T20:27:00.001-07:002014-06-14T20:27:27.212-07:00Traffic violator.I got pulled over today.<div><br></div><div>It wasn't terribly dramatic, but I truly had a "what the fuck did I DO" moment. You see, we were jamming to- I kind you not- Vacation Bible School music, so I figured I must've been speeding.</div><div><br></div><div>But no.</div><div><br></div><div>I had just turned left onto a road, a road with a light, but no turn signal. As one does, on the green light, I pulled halfway into the intersection- signal on- an waited for a gap in the traffic so I could turn left. </div><div><br></div><div>No gap came, and, again, we were <i>jamming</i>, so maybe I was a second late in proceeding through the turn under red.</div><div><br></div><div>At any rate, that's what I was pulled for, for running a red light.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm due for a ticket, but even as the cop told me to step out of the car (!), I figured this one was worth fighting.</div><div><br></div><div>I handed him my license and insurance card and registration, and smiled ruefully to myself. Well, hey, thought I. I just dropped $200 at the vet for annuals for my furries. Whatever, I will figure this out.</div><div><br></div><div>Then the cop came back to me, handed me my shit, told me to be more careful, and drove off.</div><div><br></div><div>No ticket. Fucking SCORE!</div><div><br></div><div>But really. Doesn't <i>everybody </i>pull half early through the intersection on a left turn without an arrow?</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-31039517779617494182014-06-02T20:40:00.001-07:002014-06-02T20:40:22.433-07:00Pooper. It is what it is.This weekend, the baby and I drove to Baton Rouge to watch my nephew's dance recital. Which rocked.<div><br></div><div>Before the recital, C said he needed to go to the bathroom. I told him ok, and off he went.</div><div><br></div><div>Moments later, the littlest nephew said HE needed to go potty, so I said, "come on. Nanny'll take you." And I did.</div><div><br></div><div>(While in the potty, baby k asked if I was pooping, kinda loudly, and then he wanted to look for himself. Awesome.)</div><div><br></div><div>We came out of the bathroom and found my brother, who was laughing, with C. </div><div><br></div><div>"Caleb asked where you were. I told him you were still in the potty, that you must have needed to poop."</div><div><br></div><div>"'Thats <i>all</i> she can do,' Caleb said. 'She's a girl, and girls can only go number two.'"</div><div><br></div><div>My brother tried to set C straight but he and I both laughed about this for a good long while.</div><div><br></div><div>It makes sense, if you think about it. I do have to sit.</div><div><br></div><div>But I don't always have to shit.</div><div><br></div><div>:)</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-25587080841427156872014-05-27T11:05:00.001-07:002014-05-27T11:05:22.040-07:00Birthday GirlToday is my 39th birthday.<div><br></div><div>I've had the most kick-ass weekend, with like a little taste of all of my favorite things, well, except a visit from you- but everything else.</div><div><br></div><div>As I write this, I'm sitting in this gorgeous New Orleans church (St. Charles Ave. Presbyterian, if you find yourself nearby and need a church), where my dad's chorale group will be performing soon.</div><div><br></div><div>A little aside- the director and conductress of this chorale ensemble recognized me at a concert last year. "I know you," she said. "We went to LSU together!" I left LSU in 1993. Something like 20,000 students go there. Granted, we were both music majors, but still. !. The next thing she did was offer me a spot in the ensemble. Bless her heart. The past 20 years have featured a LOT of cigarettes... Pretty sure she wouldn't want me if she knew how I sound now!</div><div><br></div><div>I tend to celebrate my birthday for days- a week even. This year has been no exception. I started out on Friday, which I took off from work, so that the baby would see this when he got home from school (on his last ever day of 2nd grade ohmygawwwwwww):</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZeItZpAza0JAdoMzk97lCiJMZCUAXiaDDcaw2ILOnBu3V1AoTumBEFM0WvvgLwMpygKS2E-ubWzLmosTMBymweIZwU4SZavs66DejccTlWQozAanKrPwlTdCC1SBejsefUHwFAehhxew/s640/blogger-image--49563678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZeItZpAza0JAdoMzk97lCiJMZCUAXiaDDcaw2ILOnBu3V1AoTumBEFM0WvvgLwMpygKS2E-ubWzLmosTMBymweIZwU4SZavs66DejccTlWQozAanKrPwlTdCC1SBejsefUHwFAehhxew/s640/blogger-image--49563678.jpg"></a></div>Total kickass mom win.</div><div><br></div><div>Friday night, we were lazy and did nothing, but it was nice.</div><div><br></div><div>Saturday, I took El NiƱo and two of his good friends to the beach. This is them:</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOJCzVXB_ksr_CZY6Q-c7P1yZlK6mIcHo9qqu-g9NEbbfBlCJDPOAkMlubux6y9_aXYSDuEzQbB7etE2z3Hw8RzSOOjOcw8j_u2epcXZTaMkkUSmqYdw6_O_A_3P8CgHHTlSeCvWT3V3W/s640/blogger-image--255344385.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOJCzVXB_ksr_CZY6Q-c7P1yZlK6mIcHo9qqu-g9NEbbfBlCJDPOAkMlubux6y9_aXYSDuEzQbB7etE2z3Hw8RzSOOjOcw8j_u2epcXZTaMkkUSmqYdw6_O_A_3P8CgHHTlSeCvWT3V3W/s640/blogger-image--255344385.jpg"></a></div>Dear beach: I love you. Always, Sarah</div><div><br></div><div>When we got home, we cleaned up some and went to my folks house for a while, then came home because friends were coming over for trivia night. Friends who kick ass at trivia, mind you.</div><div><br></div><div>Sunday, we had a great church service, then went for a sail, then drank beer and watched little kids swim. We stopped to eat, then did that some more. It was awesome.</div><div><br></div><div>Today is the actual birthday. I snoozed a little until I realized my gd baby kitten didn't wake up in a timely fashion so he had an accident. In my bed. In which I was lying. Eff that.</div><div><br></div><div>Got dressed, then we went for a boat ride, followed by more swimming. I went home and relaxed a bit, and now I'm at this concert, after which my dad said he would take me out to eat fancy. In New Orleans.</div><div><br></div><div>I like chorale music but I can't freaking wait for this concert to be over so I can go eat. Can't. Freaking. Wait. My date- my dad- is in a tux. FuckinA.</div><div><br></div><div>I hope y'all had a good weekend. God knows I did. I'm a lucky girl. A lucky birthday girl!</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-48482205872747898952014-05-08T13:13:00.000-07:002014-05-08T13:13:21.843-07:00Pee and Mother's DaySo remember last week, the poop incident?<br />
<br />
That's a preface.<br />
<br />
At work, I wear a badge on a landyard around my neck. That badge has a key card in it, so that I can get through locked doors. Magic.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, we had Big Accounting here to work with us on a new process. That's fine and dandy, I get it, and so forth. While she was here, as our Big Accountant of the day was a lady, I had to go make a tinkle (shut up), so I did. While sitting on the commode, my lanyard twisted around, and there was a plop...<br />
<br />
when my key card slid into the toilet.<br />
<br />
Nice.<br />
<br />
I figured, okay, I can deal with this, but first, let me stand up and fix my britches and what-all.<br />
<br />
Only we have self-flushing toilets. So the minute I shifted my weight, the toilet flushed.<br />
<br />
So I go, "nonononononono" and had no choice but to fully immerse my hand in pee to grab the card before it was sucked into the plumbing.<br />
<br />
Immersion. In. Pee.<br />
<br />
It's been a week of waste products, folks.<br />
<br />
In other news, with the pending Mother's Day, it's been decided that the boys will get me a (free) kitten. Which I think sounds like a good plan. Although I dearly, tremendously adore my girl cat, she's a total bitch and this might mellow her out some. Maybe. Or else, she might eat a kitten. One thing or the other.<br />
<br />
In the process, I've been searching for a freebie that is a cutie. Note, I am fine with paying a little adoption fee, especially if that means the new baby will be neutered and chipped and de-wormed and shot.<br />
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At first, I really wanted this baby:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sNq6lTVKsWwGJ22YreM_LqJo3gZm1gFdIQhN0GJFst37TsMIOjWir2-YLUQnZFtmWVYF761lhCGmq7AE81eqf2Hul8prqEAUwr-Cxc5z27vR1zaii-A2QYKachtxSNQNXeObFzJZFrHF/s1600/001.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sNq6lTVKsWwGJ22YreM_LqJo3gZm1gFdIQhN0GJFst37TsMIOjWir2-YLUQnZFtmWVYF761lhCGmq7AE81eqf2Hul8prqEAUwr-Cxc5z27vR1zaii-A2QYKachtxSNQNXeObFzJZFrHF/s1600/001.PNG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIdebO-ZJsUBTwk5ePOayLkpjQ92LBvq7M4C_tMg0364q5HUBiYMdnQ7NVIXGXb6OP6v1poFU4q6tx5q2m4GKUe271d6wtqxbULLe28kYA1EpoEJq3VcZZsNn3VUTngeHuL7tBwrTF_eSc/s1600/002.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIdebO-ZJsUBTwk5ePOayLkpjQ92LBvq7M4C_tMg0364q5HUBiYMdnQ7NVIXGXb6OP6v1poFU4q6tx5q2m4GKUe271d6wtqxbULLe28kYA1EpoEJq3VcZZsNn3VUTngeHuL7tBwrTF_eSc/s1600/002.PNG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1As7B4eZZhzYtTN6cNqz7R2pttNAvM7TdYNDzriEvmkozf_6k8LDtuorR_0hJnmgAWNdg0oBTz25nHw9KiZ5l8BKA1cGZf7pSYHbhocXR4AZuhzh09fTxVQu3UMXyNmTP6SZ8JVgXiaP/s1600/003.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1As7B4eZZhzYtTN6cNqz7R2pttNAvM7TdYNDzriEvmkozf_6k8LDtuorR_0hJnmgAWNdg0oBTz25nHw9KiZ5l8BKA1cGZf7pSYHbhocXR4AZuhzh09fTxVQu3UMXyNmTP6SZ8JVgXiaP/s1600/003.PNG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Because, Ohhhh MAH GAH, right? Right.<br />
<br />
But he has already been taken to a new home. Sad, frownie face.<br />
<br />
So today, I started looking at the shelter (nothing, seriously, nothing, but they said they will have kittens tomorrow), and then I called our vet, who has a couple of babies.<br />
<br />
Look:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCwDwC_Zn7PfnWZaF-aGJLzv5xAwsXlj_fwOZsklBAdJM0UpEIldDw8Bw0hmp4lwFOYcB6f7JlNEINYTvr7eAI2a1pnlxI1qHhSytypPMwVfSiXgx2jIvPHgwAu68KtpbaIMWiSbx74PI/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCwDwC_Zn7PfnWZaF-aGJLzv5xAwsXlj_fwOZsklBAdJM0UpEIldDw8Bw0hmp4lwFOYcB6f7JlNEINYTvr7eAI2a1pnlxI1qHhSytypPMwVfSiXgx2jIvPHgwAu68KtpbaIMWiSbx74PI/s1600/002.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwghv4Vcz0g40lANBzvh4cfFJrKh7hU9NdVG1_NhjHMu-imD4q2oBQJ6yD1WnetvYh2nekxFi1NpuV_tp6L0iU6ISa8kEFnZ2CjmZxNrpGjn7BG7OhkC5WzmlK7efaKfH0WXgr-2j9lk3i/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwghv4Vcz0g40lANBzvh4cfFJrKh7hU9NdVG1_NhjHMu-imD4q2oBQJ6yD1WnetvYh2nekxFi1NpuV_tp6L0iU6ISa8kEFnZ2CjmZxNrpGjn7BG7OhkC5WzmlK7efaKfH0WXgr-2j9lk3i/s1600/001.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5TR6TQBHbyLo1LiqL3GiDE5qGesSMea50FG2mlGW3lIZzZyT_Md09OFuhi128ZmuYkyx_0tobv5Mmhr11YiTJSes_THGnHCmpuQWuVjVqSAAQs5gpLgrOGU3QMknubJXB7Wi4hS_T8Jm_/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5TR6TQBHbyLo1LiqL3GiDE5qGesSMea50FG2mlGW3lIZzZyT_Md09OFuhi128ZmuYkyx_0tobv5Mmhr11YiTJSes_THGnHCmpuQWuVjVqSAAQs5gpLgrOGU3QMknubJXB7Wi4hS_T8Jm_/s1600/003.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Oh. Mah. GAHHHHH.</div>
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He's cute, but I would never pick a black and white cat. I'm used to special kitties with fancy colors. All black, say, or siamese-ish, like Rosie.</div>
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But still, look at his face! And his smile (which was accompanied by constant MEW MEW MEW MEW MEW MEW MEW) (which I swear is precious since Rosie pretty much never cries, ever.)</div>
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Also, he looks like Edgar Allan Poe, thus making it easy to name him:</div>
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We will go look again tomorrow. If I get one from the pound, it will be cheaper because the free babies at the vet come with nothing but one free set of shots. So that's not totally awesome. And he still has his little 'nads.</div>
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But one way or the other, it looks like we are getting another boy around the house. Doodle will be happy, because he will no longer be gender-outnumbered.</div>
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I love kittens.</div>
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Happy Mother's Day!</div>
<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-30249318590417801242014-05-01T12:27:00.001-07:002014-05-01T12:27:44.539-07:00Don't You Poop On Me...I like dogs. I really do. Like 'em. Loves 'em.<br />
<br />
But I don't have one, which is why this is particularly disturbing.<br />
<br />
Let's start like this. For the last few days, I have occasionally caught a whiff of eau-de-poop in my bedroom, but I checked for cat poop in the bathtub (happens) and all was clear. Couldn't spot any logical culprit, so I didn't worry too much about it. Besides, last weekend, I drank a whole pot of Raspberry Coffee, and I'm allergic to raspberries, so it was a quick weight-loss (and water-loss) scheme for me. But it was good. So there.<br />
<br />
Anyway, so this morning, I got dressed and came to work, where I sat at my computer for a little while, doing worky things, then I got up, and got myself some coffee. Then I came back to my desk and sat down again for a little while, then I got up and decided to get more coffee. I didn't even realize that there was an inch or so of coffee still in my cup, which I swung around like a drunk college kid with a party cup full of pink champagne (true story), resulting in a significant splash of coffee on the leg of my pants and on my foot.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
So I got to the kitchen and I pulled some paper towels to mop up my foot area, when I noticed a bunch of mud on the side of my shoe, which is weird, since it hasn't been raining.<br />
<br />
And even weirder, it wasn't mud.<br />
<br />
After much yelling of "EW," and a good scrub of the shoe in question, in the bathroom, it looked like everything was going to be okay.<br />
<br />
So I proceeded with my day, and then, maybe an hour or so later, I kind of realized my chair had something on it...<br />
<br />
which was poop.<br />
<br />
ON MY CHAIR.<br />
<br />
(I tend to fold my leg under me while I sit.)<br />
<br />
And this means, there was poop...<br />
<br />
On my butt.<br />
<br />
!!!<br />
<br />
Let me repeat - I do not have a dog. This is unfair, truly.<br />
<br />
I still don't know what the source of the dog poop was. It's been remedied, but I'm still smelling phantom poop, and I really cannot wait to change out of my pants.<br />
<br />
I keep telling myself that, if this is the worst thing that happens today, then it's a good day, but still. Poop. On. Me. Argh.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-87445615728137002362014-04-21T08:42:00.002-07:002014-04-21T08:42:27.906-07:00Go Boston.The Boston Marathon is happening right now. I'm such a nerd, I keep frantically clicking "refresh" for minute-by-minute coverage.<div>
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<div>
I used to wonder how my brother could watch the Tour de France. How is watching people riding bikes exciting?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I bet there are a whole bunch of people who could not fathom watching a marathon, but I would pay real dollars to be able to watch live coverage. Here's what I'd be watching:</div>
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<br /></div>
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1) Form- I know I'm not a natural athlete, so if I could just stare at these folks for an hour and change, straight, and figure out what I could do to be more like them, that would rock.</div>
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<br /></div>
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2) Clothes- let's face it, running garb is adorable. </div>
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3) Signs on the side- dudes, the signs. Always ready to make you laugh, when you are running.</div>
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4) Heart- bottom line, you are going to see some sweat. Some blood. And I'm going to guess that, this year, there will be some tears.</div>
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I'd be crying, if I were at the finish line.</div>
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Please note, I would definitely not hesitate to be at the finish line. </div>
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Boston Strong.</div>
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Go Meb. Go Shalane. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Go Boston.</div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-62413853688403821702014-04-14T21:46:00.001-07:002014-04-15T19:19:15.287-07:00Tales From The CourthouseIt's very late, and I'm writing this on my phone, so y'all gonna hafta forgive typos and shitty grammar and whatall.<div><br></div><div>I spent the day in court, child support court, because my state handles my child support case, which I think is pretty awesome of them. </div><div><br></div><div>They usually, I'm gathering, encounter some of society's rarest specimens of The Crazy, and they have a tendency to be, well, fucking <i>mean</i>, but I understand where they are coming from. The crazy, I tell you. So high.</div><div><br></div><div>Today was different in that they were really very nice to me, this after waiting for NINE HOURS to be called from the anteroom into the chamber.</div><div><br></div><div>But it's the anteroom that deserves a blog post.</div><div><br></div><div>My mother, god bless her amazing soul, came with me, as she usually does, to offer moral support and snarky commentary and, also, so she can make friends with strangers, as this is muchly her favorite thing to do. After driving me to the town where court is, about 30 miles away, she parked her very badass little Volvo, and we started to walk into the courtroom. We both quickly noticed that she was hobbling, and so she stopped in the plainly marked "do not walk on" grass, to look at her shoes. The tops of the shoes were fine, cute, even, a birkenstockish, bohemian basket-weave mule, with a strap around the ankle. I also want to note that she's finally learned not to wear pantyhose with this kind of shoe. Atta girl, Cathy!!</div><div><br></div><div>The bottom of her shoes, where normally one has an inch or so of sole, consisted of rocks jammed into loose styrofoam. </div><div><br></div><div>Really. Rocks.</div><div><br></div><div>Which fell out, taking chunks of black shoe bottom, as she walked. Into the courthouse.</div><div><br></div><div>And oh, we laughed. </div><div><br></div><div>Hansel and Gretel need a lesson from my mom, because, 9 hours later, her path through the courthouse was clearly marked.</div><div><br></div><div>Note: she said they didn't hurt, but I offered to swap shoes with her, and I also suggested she run to the Walmart and get some new shoes. But she didn't. Forty bucks says she will put these shoes, now pretty much completely bottomless, into her closet, and six months from now we will have this exact same experience again.</div><div><br></div><div>Please God, let me be just like my mama when I grow up.</div><div><br></div><div>Next, let's talk about the anteroom. The majority of folks waiting were individuals, sometimes with a buddy, who were formerly matched to somebody else who sat across the room and refused to look at them. This makes a fun game, usually fairly predictable, but sometimes downright shocking. "Oh SHE goes with HIM??" You think. "Good for her for upgrading, that new guy is much better looking," and the like.</div><div><br></div><div>There was one couple near me who provided nonstop entertainment for me for over an hour. He was still sooooo into her, and he was trying to convince her to plea down his support amount. She smiled prettily and said, all super ghetto-voiced, "I gave you the bess gif you will evuh have, a precious chile, so you can just stop right theyuh." And he DID. I was like, well, go 'head, honey bunches. While I took notes. </div><div><br></div><div>Well not really, but for sure in my head.</div><div><br></div><div>There was another girl who was really twitchy and wanted to talk? To everybody? And ask questions? With everything she said? Only then? She would prove, like, how she was super duper smart? Especially about how her kid needed to be spanked? And how pitbulls are awesome?</div><div><br></div><div>And the whole time she was questioning people, she was undoing and re-doing a sloppy bun in her hair, the kind you make with a pony tail holder, and she always left a straggly piece out that she twirled on her finger. By 3 this afternoon, it looked like a dreadlock sticking out of a donut.</div><div><br></div><div>There was Sweater Set Lady, for whom I felt very bad, as she was the last to go before me- and I was dead last- and came out in tears. Get this- I offered to hug her (by then, we were friends, I could tell you where her kid goes to school, what grade he's in, where she works...). I. Offered. To. Hug. A. Stranger.</div><div><br></div><div>Mercifully, she declined.</div><div><br></div><div>There was Tiny Baby (also the name of my favorite doll when I was a child of no imagination who named her babies literal things like tiny baby, tall baby, sick baby- her hair kept falling out, and dolly), who was maybe 4'10" and had yellow curls to her ass, who, at 2pm said, "fuck this shit" and curled up across three chairs for nappy time. The tiny baby of my childhood's eyes ALSO closed when you laid her down. Weird.</div><div><br></div><div>There was the saddest old, and deaf, and rather forgetful man, in a wheelchair, who came out of the area where divorces are filed. What appeared to be his grandson pushed his chair, and frequently, the old man started carrying on about not being sure what was going on, what happened in there, and why, after loving her for 65 years, was this happening.</div><div><br></div><div>(I think it was about her giving money to indulged grandkids, and him not being happy about it, but she gets to keep the car...). (Also, this guy had the makings of a good second husband for me, until he said, about one of the indulged kids, "he's a real drunk, I tell you, a regular old drunk," and I knew he was out.)</div><div><br></div><div>It was one of those surreal, strange days, where you kinda think, this isn't real life.</div><div><br></div><div>But it is, I have proof, there is a track of bits of my mom's shoes that finally, eventually, led back to her car.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-47424651027420469162014-03-28T18:19:00.001-07:002014-03-31T07:21:42.822-07:00Product Placer<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhsLfchNfCp4KUUmzLsLIZeXaMfmQ3KB611b-ynkYKlcdzPSg8hKwmpMYKwUzaRM9fXfajfVaRhLWxhYFjJcB05gsHkZzC_A5IHHEJCBAyjow6t2dChzITPasM-n-k1hxVn4T4n4psNw_/s640/blogger-image--2114832477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhsLfchNfCp4KUUmzLsLIZeXaMfmQ3KB611b-ynkYKlcdzPSg8hKwmpMYKwUzaRM9fXfajfVaRhLWxhYFjJcB05gsHkZzC_A5IHHEJCBAyjow6t2dChzITPasM-n-k1hxVn4T4n4psNw_/s640/blogger-image--2114832477.jpg" /></a></div>
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Just spent a half hour there, drinking that (amazing) beer.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I just have the best life. That is all.</div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-51953529758621498572014-03-27T05:40:00.001-07:002014-03-27T05:40:33.164-07:00Censored Facebook UserI have a mean Aunt. Maybe everybody does, but mine, well... She is something.<div><br></div><div>She came over to my house on Sunday, and it would have been wise to enjoy an Ativan, but I didn't, and instead I listened to her tell me things like, oh, I shouldn't paint the floor of my patio red, I should paint it blue. And that she doesn't like my Our Ladies of Guadalupe (which she calls The Blessed Mother.)</div><div><br></div><div>This entire time, I'm trying to explain to my mother how I will not be putting corn out to feed squirrels (I mean, seriously!), and then my dear old auntie starts to fuss at me about something I put on Facebook.</div><div><br></div><div>Namely, that I look like Eleanor Roosevelt.</div><div><br></div><div>Which is true, both that I said that once, forever ago, and, that I do. She agreed that I look like Eleanor, she just thought it was wrong of me to say so on Facebook.</div><div><br></div><div>Now come on. </div><div><br></div><div>There are lots of things I don't put on Facebook. My drinks of choice, how my ex-husband doesn't pay child support, when I would rather be home than at work*.</div><div><br></div><div>Eleanor? THAT is what she is going to bitch about?? </div><div><br></div><div>Imagine what she would say if I put anything down about my Aunt.</div><div><br></div><div>*pretty much always.</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-59529703289640340232014-03-24T13:28:00.002-07:002014-03-24T13:28:28.696-07:00Post Party Depression<br />
First off, the party was awesome. I had 40 people in my home, and I'm pretty sure that everybody had fun, and oh, glory, there was food (SO MUCH FOOD) and drinkies (SO MANY DRINKIES) and there is a lot left over.<br />
<br />
I get it, why people throw parties.<br />
<br />
I will never* have to buy alcohol again.<br />
<br />
My friends all rock and brought me presents and they all seemed to have fun. It was nice to have them all there, to look around and think, "these people? They like me. That's a good time." But then, later on, I was glad when they all left and my mom helped me to load the dishwasher and put things into tupperwares and stuff.<br />
<br />
It was a good party, and I'm pretty sure that I haven't thrown a party (other than a birthday party for the baby) in my own home, since New Year's Eve 1998. I thought it was 99, but then I remembered that we played "1999" on repeat and that I had to work Y2K in 1999, so it was definitely 1998. Oh, good times.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm also glad it is over. I haven't fully recovered yet, and I also haven't vacuumed the floors, so it's time, now, to get back to normal.<br />
<br />
In other news, I had a dream where the artist formerly known as my husband had told his sisters and mom that he was paying child support (he's not) and they found out he wasn't and got all sorts of mad at him, and in the meantime, I took my kids and two of his cousins for a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving, at the Holiday Inn, using the $57 I found in a pocket while doing laundry.<br />
<br />
So that was weird.<br />
<br />
In other, other news, I think the floor of La Hacienda is getting painted today, and I'm excited to see what it looks like. I also hope my kid hauled my lawn mower to the lawn mower fix it shop today. Good, exciting times, here.<br />
<br />
And we sang a gig on Saturday and it went okay. So there's that.<br />
<br />
Lord, I'm boring. Here's something fun.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/cgi-bin/seigmiaow.pl">http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/cgi-bin/seigmiaow.pl</a><br />
<br />
<img src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/t1/1503231_735425963135905_1289650706_n.png" /><br />
<br />
Because cats that look like Hitler are funny, indeed.<br />
<br />
*by "never," I mean, "until the summertime, or three months. Whichever comes first.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-79674383852268057862014-03-20T09:43:00.005-07:002014-03-20T09:43:46.277-07:00Party HostI'm throwing a party.<br />
<br />
I don't do this, the throwing of parties. If I DO decide to get my friends together in one place, I usually choose a place that is away from where I live. Caretta's. Or Copelands. Someplace with alcohol and somebody else who can clean up afterwards. <br />
<br />
This is a "There Goes the Neighborhood" party. Aka, a Sarah-Moved-In-And-Really-She's-Quiet-And-Well-Behaved-But-We-Like-To-Pretend-We-Are-Rowdy party.<br />
<br />
I've invited everybody that I know that lives within 100 miles of my home.<br />
<br />
I keep squashing the little voice inside my head that says, "hey, your house? not that awesome."<br />
<br />
It is too. It's fucking great. It might be little and old and goofy looking (especially on the outside). It might be not new and fancy and have hardwood floors. But it IS clean, sweet, and very, very Sarah. It has fresh paint and touches of red and granite countertops and a goddamn HACIENDA, so beat that.<br />
<br />
BEAT THAT.<br />
<br />
And if you don't like it, well that's all right. Nobody else HAS to like my home, just so long as I do, and so long as the baby does. And we do. We like it fine. <br />
<br />
So there's that. A party.<br />
<br />
It starts at 7:00 (tomorrow), and so I hope that it's clear that I'm not providing actual supper-type food. I'm going to have munchies, and I'm going to have drinkies. And music. That's pretty much all I am doing. Munchies and drinkies and musicies. Anything else will have to spontaneously happen, or somebody else will have to plan it. No pin-the-mustache-on-the-bandito. No dancing. Maybe dancing. We'll see.<br />
<br />
I'm nervous, but I'm excited, too, if that makes any sense. Why is it so intimidating to invite people into your home? Nobody judges homes, right? I mean, maybe if it isn't clean or if it smells like cat pee, but otherwise? Shit, now I'm feeling insecure. I have a cat. I know the house is clean but what if it smells like cat pee...<br />
<br />
Anyway, the good side of it is this. I'm taking tomorrow off, so I get to have a special extry long weekend, like extra-crispy, and the baby just happened to be off school tomorrow (not part of the original (recipe) plan), so that's good. Good for my mom, who doesn't have to keep him. Good for him, who gets to wear pajamas most of the day. Good for me, in theory, who gets extra time with the baby, although I have lots and lots of things I want to do tomorrow, some of which involves coffee and alone time with Dexter*, but it's all good.<br />
<br />
I'm having a party. People are coming. It's going to be fun. Or not. But who cares.<br />
<br />There will be drinkies.<br />
<br />
And possibly dancing.<br />
<br />
You should come.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-17093763370682760932014-03-18T15:18:00.000-07:002014-03-18T15:18:22.481-07:00LurchOh, my God. I nailed it. I FINALLY figured out why the new sales manager is driving me so batshit crazy.<br />
<br />
He just called his wife back, ostensibly having missed a call from her.<br />
<br />
"you RANNNNNG," he said, a la Lurch from the Addams Family.<br />
<br />
MOTHER FUCKER MY EX HUSBAND USED TO SAY THAT EVERY FUCKING TIME HE WOULD CALL ME BACK.<br />
<br />
And we all know how that worked out.<br />
<br />
Mystery, solved. Now I'm off to find a missing airplane. Obvs, I am on a roll.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-74746652428985864762014-03-17T20:54:00.001-07:002014-03-17T20:54:20.864-07:00Jeopardy WatcherTonight, I watched three dvr'ed episodes of Jeopardy. One of the categories was announced for Double Jeopardy, by Alex, just as I switched to "play," from "fast forward" (having skipped the commercials.)<div><br></div><div>A-freaking rivers.</div><div><br></div><div>Or, African.</div><div><br></div><div>God, I love Jeopardy. That's all. </div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-82894028557955245492014-03-12T13:48:00.003-07:002014-03-12T13:48:38.031-07:00Grown-ass ManGoddamn Lent is killing me, smalls. I gave up <i>negativity</i>, and you know, I might as well have given up, I don't know, smoking, or drinking wine, for all the ability I have to stick to it. Week one went well until a blow-up at work, more of which I will feed you in a minute, but this week is balls. I don't know what my problem is. But balls, I tell you.<br />
<br />
The thing at work was as follows, and it doesn't translate to paper well, because it sounds so fucking STUPID, but we'll give it a whirl, anyway. I may or may not need to preface this with the following fact:<br />
<br />
I'm not a hugger. I have strong need for people to respect my personal space. I have three (yes, three) bottles of hand sanitizer on my desk. I don't hug. I <i>barely </i>high-five.<br />
<br />
Okay. So let's give you a little back story. We hired a new sales person about six months ago, and I am having a tough time being friends with him, some of which stems from the fact that his predecessor is a freaking amazing person, and he is... not.<br />
<br />
But really, he's fucking irritating. He doesn't do a great job at his job, and he doesn't take accountability, which is REALLY the thing that makes me nutso. He gets his panties all up in a wad and says things like, "I'm a grown-ass man." That's a quote, folks. You know what makes you sound NOT like a grown man? Calling yourself a "grown-ass man."<br />
<br />
Anyway, one of his favorite things to do is to pester people. Like most grown-ass men, he doesn't know what he can get away with it, and when he needs to not, like, say, when a client is here. Or ever, when it comes to pestering me, if said pestering involves touching me or otherwise invading my personal space.<br />
<br />
Weeks ago, he started doing some magic evil thing where he buzzes his fingers really close to my ear, and it sounds like a mosquito in my ear. He's done this several times, once leading me to losing my absolute total shit and beating my fists on his arm, saying DON'T DO THAT over and over again. Good times.<br />
<br />
On Friday, we were in a casual meeting, with four or five of us sitting at the table, discussing shit. And he did that buzz thing to me. I said (and I swear to God, I used my polite voice): "Would you <i>please</i> not do that. Seriously? I need you to respect my space."<br />
<br />
He lost his mind, blew up at me - and everybody, really - right there in the meeting, fussing at all of us.<br />
<br />
My boss went and had a Big Talk with him, telling him that I will never, ever respond in the positive when someone invades my personal space, and blah blah blah. After I cooled off, I went into his office. "Can we talk?" I said. "I'm sorry for fussing at you in front of everyone. That was unprofessional of me. That being siad, I have asked you to not do that before..." and on and on.<br />
<br />
He apologized, and said (yes, I quote), "Look, I don't care if anybody here is my friend or whatever. I'm a grown ass man and I can handle it." I made nicey noises like, "well I do care, I want to be friends, but I need you to respect my boundaries" and what-all.<br />
<br />
And that was that, and we are ok, but then...<br />
<br />
I spent the whole weekend thinking about all the things he SHOULD HAVE said. Things like this:<br />
<br />
1) "It's never okay for me to invade someone else's personal space at work. I should have know that, being that I am a grown-ass man."<br />
2) "I'm sorry I created a hostile work environment for you. It's wrong of me and I won't do it again. I am a grown-ass man and I should have known better."<br />
3) "You are the greatest person I have ever known, and I could not respect you more. Being a grown-ass man, I still aim to strive to be more like you in every aspect of my life."<br />
<br />
Fucker.<br />
<br />
Let's find the positive. I think I can safely say that, if that tool gets in my personal space again, I can both beat the shit out of him and threaten lawsuit. Because, I, too?<br />
<br />
Am a grown-ass (wo)man.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-9952652147725736392014-03-06T11:14:00.002-08:002014-03-06T11:14:35.294-08:00Lessons from Rocky - III & IVThe other night, I was clean worn out, due to having been to Bacchus the night before (because, fuck it, I live in Louisiana, my kids weren't in town, and it was time to party), and then having to work that day. It was the night before a holiday, though, so I allowed myself to wander around in the twilight land of sooooo-sleepy-but-not-asleep, flipping through channels on the tv.<br />
<br />
ROCKY II was on. And it was just starting.<br />
<br />
So I watched it, loving it so much, half rooting for Apollo, but just in general, being all enchanted.<br />
<br />
And then they started with Rocky III. I knew I wouldn't make it through that one, so I ran out to the living room and tuned up the DVR to record it, as well as Rocky IV. I did NOT record Rocky V. It sucked.<br />
<br />
So the next day was Mardi Gras, and it is a holiday for us, and it was raining, cold and disgusting, so I didn't go down to any parades. I cleaned my house, scrubbed the bathrooms and the floors, did all my laundry (which is to say, both loads). And then I sat down on my couch to spend some time with the Itallian Stallion from Philadelphia.<br />
<br />
<b>Things I learned from Rocky III:</b><br />
1. Clubber Lang, aka Mr. T, really DID say "I pity the fool." He was talking about Rocky. Who's pitying whom, now, Clubber? HUNH?<br />
<img src="http://storage.canoe.ca/v1/blogs-prod-photos/4/d/1/4/3/4d1432ef93b5cedea9c4ca0945d231c9.jpg?stmp=1286421282" /><br />
2. Clubber Lang wore clip on feather hair extensions a long time before the hipster kids got ahold of them.<br />
3. I still want a feather hair extension but my hair is short so it would look weird.<br />
4. No way, in real life, would any Rocky fight not be called on a TKO.<br />
5. For that matter, why the fuck doesn't Rocky guard his face? WHY? That's Boxing 101, folks.<br />
<br />
<b>Things I learned from Rocky IV:</b><br />
1. Russians are all crazy blonde and icy-blue-eyed, and they want to kill us. Because Americans are assholes.<br />
2. Rocky looks better with a beard, but I'm still not sure why anybody found this man attractive.<br />
<img src="http://application.denofgeek.com/pics/film/confused.demo/08.jpg" /><br />
3. Talia Shire is fine, but it's hard for me to understand why a mob boss family girl would hook up with a loser from Philly.<br />
4. "I Must Bldreak You" is my favorite line in the movie.<br />
<img src="http://31.media.tumblr.com/71274c29d7e502a916bf1ba0284b902a/tumblr_mli484ivZZ1ryio6wo1_500.gif" /><br />
5. ALL RUSSIANS ARE LYING CHEATING STEROID-SHOOTING BAD PEOPLE who KILL LANDO CALORISIAN.<br />
<br />
Note: I recognize that I'm mixing media, here, but that's the way my brain works. Also, I'm not at all sure how ol' Lando's name is supposed to be spelled, and I sure as shit am not looking it up.<br />
<br />
Note: All generalizations are, of course, ridiculous, and I happen to be madly in love with two small russians, one of whom is a blonde but who, I think, does not want to kill me. Usually.<br />
<br />
Seriously, what I want to note is how freaking <i>Amer'ca</i> Rocky movies are. Oh, we are going to insinuate that Russians are evil, because it is 1987 and we have been thinking they are going to hit the red button any ol' day for 30 years? That's cool, because we have a pet robot who can talk. And who might or might not jerk off the loser Uncle Paulie.<br />
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApvjvzNOWgxwSWrvjl91lWSkpY8W_40w3xSX9kIGcOzM0br-QVDr56FF2qrePEFCwL33Lz9tLfvYt5zqpW4JImdwn7SbSSYbrxPES0nNxzVNhMZ6J6Dxa_A81Sf-3SvQpFic7pStSKwA/s320/rocky4.jpg" /><br />
<i>(nice product placement, Baskin.)</i><br />
<br />
WHAT. THE. FUCK, Amer'ca? I hate how freaking sanctimonious we come across in that movie. It's embarrassing. I kinda wanna be like, hey guys? This? This is why they hate us.<br />
<img src="http://www.rotatingcorpse.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/usa3.jpg" /><br />
Well, this and Rambo.<br />
<br />
Sylvester Stallone single handedly cost America its reputation.<br />
<br />
I jest. But it sure didn't help.<br />
<br />
HOWEVER...<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/yL3lJfpenAc" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
And not just because of the amazi-crazy good Survivor Song <i>Burning Heart</i>, Rocky IV remains my favorite Rocky Movie. I love the little guy beating out the giant. I love Amer'ca beating the commies, I admit it. I think maybe this movie helped spur on the fall of the iron curtain. I love the lesbian-swimming-champion-wife-who-is-a-prized-athlete-herself-but-who-smokes (ALL EVIL PEOPLE SMOKE). <br /><img src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2010/10/12/article-1319971-0B96A78E000005DC-369_468x286.jpg" /><br /><br /> I love Beard Rocky Running Up a Mountain.<br />
I love Rocky. And I learn stuff from it.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067415925656251244.post-8271573334531395302014-02-26T13:24:00.004-08:002014-02-26T13:24:51.872-08:00Thunderstorm ComplainerThe weather today is SHHHIIIIIIIIITTTTTTYYYY, and I'm super exhausted, because it started last night. At about 9:00, I'm like, "Oh, wonder what is that rumble sound I'm hearing," and the cat was acting like an alien, and then suddenly the sky fell out and a massive thunderstorm rolled through.<br />
<br />
"This is nice," I thought. I could hear the rain (falls, angry) on the tin roof, and I thought, how soothing, and I went to bed.<br />
<br />And then I went to sleep, but at around 10:00, with a crazy cat all up in my face, there was a whole nother round of KABOOOM and FLASH FLASH FLASH, and so I woke up. As did I another hour later. And one after that.<br />
<br />
It was the lightening, primarily, which woke me up, rather than the thunder, which I find interesting.<br />
<br />
But the end result is the same, which is to say, I'm a big fat tired sumbitch.<br />
<br />
And my cat is afraid of thunder.<br />
<br />
And I didn't run, because it was raining and disgusting. <br />
<br />
But you know what?<br />
<br />There's always bacon.<br />
<br />
Happy Wednesday. Let's hope it gets a little drier. And warmer. And less sleepy.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09184384813797220194noreply@blogger.com0