My inadvertent John Voight-a-thon

They say good things come in three's (or is it bad things?). Perhaps that explains how I found myself nestled into the third installment of a weekend long John Voight Trilogy. I know what you're thinking "Sarah, with all the wonderful movies Mr. Voight has given us how could you choose just three?!" Well the answer is I didn't choose them, they chose me.

Yesterday I was watching my Netflix. After polishing off Shrek: the Third I moved on to Bratz: the movie. Can it, all of you. This brings us to act one of our J.V. saga. Although he only had a small supporting roll (with an inexplicable prosthetic nose) he did not disappoint. Whilst I was watching this great cinematic accomplishment I received an invite to see 4 Christmases at the movie theatre. I was excited to see this fine holiday flick, but I was even more delighted to discover Reese Witherspoon's father was played by none other than *drumroll* JOHN VOIGHT! Twice in one day? Christmas had come early!

The two events individually meant nothing, it wasn't until tonight that the trifecta was complete. I decided to toss in a movie for some background noise. Having recently purchased National Treasure 2 I thought this would be a nice choice. The previews didn't even run their course before I realized what I'd done - that's right. John Voight... you omnipresent bastard. As my findings began to soak in I experienced a whole 'nother kind of enlightenment....

Jack Skellington danced before me, his big black eyes staring through the tube....

As I glossed over the preview I was flooded with memories of the first time I saw The Nightmare Before Christmas. I was 10, and I had just been released from the hospital (true story, although it does add a nice dramatic effect). In the children's hospital patients are allowed to choose their menu in an effort to make things just a little more exciting. Unsure of what to order I turned to my mom for guidance. Chicken strips or meatloaf? Jello or ice cream? There were plenty of acceptable options, but one I didn't recognize. I asked my mom what "chicken teriyaki" was. All of the sudden the room grew dim and a spotlight beamed down over my mother. It's as if God himself were describing this delectable dish..... the brown rice was nestled all warm in it's sauce while visions of snap peas danced in my head...That's sounds good. I'll have that. I grabbed my orange crayon and drew a thick circle around the words. Crayola approved, and so did I.

The next day I was released... without warning, and without my chicken teriyaki. At this point I should've been happy I was going home, but all I could think about was my taste of the Orient lost. That weekend my mom, being the grand mother that she is, allowed me to venture out of the house. Still fragile and worn by my two-week stay in the hospital, Nan and I went to Movies 16 to see The Nightmare Before Christmas, but first we grabbed some lunch. There was a new restaurant in the mall called "Mandarin Express". It was there I tasted my first chicken teriyaki; it was there my love for fine Asian cuisine was born.

...Jack Skellington danced before me, his big black eyes staring through the tube... What did it all mean? Was it Tim Burton that lead me to one of the great loves of my life, or was it my mother who lead me to John Voight? It all flowed together in a David Lynch-ian sort of way, and it tasted good.

The road goes on forever and the - sunshine never ends?

It's not easy being green, or so Kermit thought. Well that may be, but for me it's not easy being nice. My natural (or nurtural) inclination is rather negative and biting, but I try to always take into account how blessed I am. Every reaction is a choice. I can choose to be positive or negative, and then I tie on my rainbow apron and bake sprinkle joy cupcakes for all my talking animal friends =)

But seriously kids, it's hard to keep what I like to refer to as the "Sunshine Tank" running on full. Do you ever have those days when it feels like somebody syphoned your sunshine tank? I know I do. Today was one of those days.

All we can do is eat another sprinkle joy cupcake and keep on trucking. Just don't miss your chances to fill up.

Just for that, I'm changing both of the TVs to Dr. 90210

Gym story #398.5

This lady straight up took my treadmill tonight at the gym. It was a little crowded tonight at the ol' B. Works so I didn't get my usual treadmill, but I adjusted and chose one further down the way. One of the greatest things I enjoy at the gym is the cable. So rather than parking myself in front of one of the many tvs featuring C-SPAN or ESPN, I borrow a remote and choose something shallow, like The Real World or Kimora Lee Simmons: Life in the Fab Lane. So I find my treadmill and am immediately faced with the task of "saving" it. Luckily gym math is universal:

Water Bottle+Magazine=Reserved

Universal, or so I thought. I quickly bounce over to the front desk for a remote, and when I come back - there she is. I was gone for literally 10 seconds, tops. She had to see me marking my territory with said water bottle and back issue of Entrepreneur magazine (swiped from the rack). So what was she doing?! She was gettin' her work out on..... on MY treadmill. I saw my magazine tossed on the floor behind her and my water bottle sitting next - wait. That wasn't my water bottle! Mine was still in the little cup holder thingy. Could this lady be any more blatant with her hostile takeover of my treadmill? I think not. I had to reach around her and take it out myself.

Nothing. She did nothing. She didn't even flinch. No apology, no embarrassed expression. She was just running. Running with her short hair, and her Nike shorts and her iPod arm band thing, and her old, but not as old as it should look b/c she works out all of the time b/c she's married to her career and probably doesn't have any friends skin. Bleck!

She can have the treadmill, I'll keep my youth... and my friends... and my manners. Hmph.

He ain't heavy, he's my brother

It occurred to me tonight as I watched the intro to the Saturday Night Live Presidential Bash that I knew John McCain. And not just knew him as a Presidential candidate, but knew him. I then realized it was because he is a perfect hybrid of my father (pictured below with the family hound)...

... and my old Superintendent Peter Dahlstrom (sadly this was the best picture I could find of ol' Peter, but if you know him you'll understand)

Is this possible? Maybe my dad and Mr. Dahlstrom are long lost brothers, and McCain is their freakazoid triplet or something. Probably not though

GO VOTE!

Ohhhh, Wham Bam Thank You Maam

Early voting began yesterday in Texas and I insist that you vote. I don't even care who you vote for, my political passions don't run that deep. The thing I care about is that we all realize what others have been through so that we have this opportunity; more specifically, I'm talking about women.

To make a long story short, a lot... A LOT of seriously hard core ladies worked long and hard to earn us (women) the right to vote and to be heard. Some women have bought into the lie that our vote doesn't really matter. If someone was voting on what you should name your child, or how you should cut your hair, or what man you should marry then wouldn't you want to give your opinion? Would your vote count then?

Susie B. didn't work her whole life so that we could "forget" to vote, or be too lazy to register ourselves. Our opinion, whether it be deeply informed or mildly misguided, matters. We all make a difference. ALL OF US.

So let us (women) celebrate our 88th year of voting!!! Vote now, and take your place in our Country's history.

My jeans are haunted

I bought a nice pair of jeans at American Eagle a few months back. I had finally come to grips with the fact that I couldn't squeeze myself into my size 8s and still maintain a professional look, so I took the plunge and spent $50 and some change on a pair of dark wash beauties. While I wasn't too keen on the size of them, they were working well with what they had (me).

Now, I am under the impression (because Oprah and all the fashion magazines have told me so) that dark wash jeans look fancier, thus making them a prime candidate for work week circulation. I figured I could starch them and maybe give-em-a-lil crease down the front and be good to go. No one will wonder why Sarah has been wearing jeans all week to work, they'll just ask themselves how she manages to look so effortlessly striking... this was my plan anyways.

It didn't take but a few days to realize something was - off. I wore them fresh from the store (because that's one wear minus a wash, which by my calculations puts me ahead of the laundry game). After their first wash and dry I left them crumpled in a basket for a little while (so they can mingle with my mismatched socks, wal-mart panties and Old Navy 2 for $10 tee's) before I liberated them for a pressing. I cranked the iron up to "melt your hands with the steam" which is one notch up from "burn your house down" and went to town with my spray starch to ensure a crisp, clean look for the office. Perfect. Or so I thought...

The next morning I noticed an unsightly wrinkle along the backside of the leg. Hmmm, no worries. The hanger must have mussed them up. I gave them a good steam and laid them back out. I went to put them on.... still wrinkled. Huh? So I ironed them again..... no luck. I turned them wrong side out - wrinkled. I actually set the iron on the garment for as long as I thought I could get away with..... WRINKLED. I tried to put it out of my mind, but everytime I go to wear the jeans, there it is mocking me. I have washed, ironed and starched these jeans several times since, but that one spot will. not. stay. ironed.

There is only one explanation: my jeans are haunted. Apparently my $50 bought me a pair of jeans and a wrinkle ghost. If anyone knows of a good exorcist, I'm in the market.

Billy likes Bueno

Years ago a friend of mine introduced me to the term "Billy". The origins of the word are unclear (perhaps she can clarify) but the message remains true. I saw "Billy" this weekend at the Taco Bueno in Weatherford as he drove away in his 20 year old muscle car while 'Danger Zone' played from his tape deck and the fuzzy dice dangled from his rear view. I was inspired to share with you some of "Billy's" finer attributes.

In no particular order...

You Might Be A Billy If:

-You grunt excessively while lifting weights.

-You own one or more gold chain necklaces

-You drive any model of Mustang GT (especially models dating from the late 80s or early 90s)

-You have a tribal band tattoo

-You list James Hetfield, Trent Reznor, Fred Durst, and the like as your 'Hero', 'Inspiration' or 'People I'd Like to Meet'

-You wear a wife beater and faux leather jacket in 90 degree weather

-You wear a wife beater and faux leather jacket in 70 degree weather

-You wear a wife beater and faux leather jacket in 50 degree weather

-You shape your sideburns...

-...You still have sideburns...

-...You don't understand why sideburns are included on this list...

And the list goes on and on. I urge to concoct your own list of "Billy"isms so that you may more easily spot a Billy in your community.

This is Billy

Vintage Billy

Ultimate Billy

Sex, Lies and Videotape or The Legend of Zelda

We've all played The Legend of Zelda, a game made popular in the late 80s by the wonderful people of Nintendo. It occured to me over the weekend (somewhere between the 4th and 7th hour of playing Zelda) that this was no child's game. In fact, it's filled with all sorts of evil and negative examples. Allow me to elaborate:

When we begin the game Link is a fugitive, wanted for the kidnapping of the princess. The storyline operates under the impression that Link is in fact innocent. Right. Tell it to the judge.

He quickly sets out on his journey to "save" the princess, who I'm assuming at this point is his girlfriend. No specifics are ever mentioned about their romance, but I think it's implied. The only problem is Princess Zelda is hidden somewhere in Hyrule under lock and key. Link has no idea where to find her or how to contact her. Some people call this the "Witness Protection Program".

Blinded by rage, and driven by his insane love for the princess Link sets out on a killing spree. Other characters in the game will contact Link "telepathically" but in all seriousness I think he's just schizophrenic. Throughout the game he murders dozens of (security) guards and countless creatures native to the land. As he takes their lives he also strips them of their rupees and other possessions. On several occasions he has eaten the hearts of his victims, and has been known to rummage pockets until he finds bombs and arrows. It appears that Link is now a master of explosives as well.

As the game progresses Link's twisted desires sink even deeper. He quickly grows tired of cannibalizing his prey, the kill no longer whetting his appetite. We are then introduced to a handful of sorcerers and wizards who offer Link advancement in return for payment. He obliges and falls deeper into the Occult.

Link remains passionate in his search for Zelda, terrorizing known associates in an attempt to see her once again. The game calls these associates "Dungeon Bosses" but the word "Dungeon" and "Mob" can easily be interchangeable. He knocks off these thugs one by one pausing only to burglarize homes and demolish the landscape.

How could we have been so blind? It appears Link is nothing but a common thug. If you don't believe me then consider this: Some 73% of serial killers are white males with a history of animal abuse and mental illness. I rest my case.

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND

And by "popular demand" I mean the one anonymous comment inquiring to where I have been. Thank you anonymous. Your identity matters not, for your sentiment is enough to prove my infinite awesomeness. SO, while I wait for my veggie dip to do it's thing in the fridge I'll enlighten you with some of my recent goings-on.

A coworker of mine recently joined the Junior League of Lubbock. She (in true Jr. Leaguer fashion) invited me to attend the first meeting of the season and enjoy pre-meeting margaritas. I obliged, partly b/c I enjoy this coworker... mostly because I heard the word "margarita". I had my opinions about the Jr. League just like everyone else, so I was excited to sit back and enjoy the night under the seductive influence of my Sangria Swirl. After drinks we headed to "headquarters" for the meeting. I'll skip all the boring details, but ultimately the whole scene was pretty cool. There is the fair share of 'ladies who lunch" but there were also a lot of normal women. Some women so normal even I thought to myself "She's in the Jr. League?" Yes I know, I'm a snob... I'll fit right in. Not to mention the fact they provided beer (pitchers in fact) nachos, brownies and other junky goodies at the meeting. Toss in some door prizes and some fancy women with potentially hunky sons and I'm sold. Where has the Jr. League been all of my life?

In other news, today at work I was calling customers with back orders and encouraging them to add to the shipment. I called a customer in Florida. For those of you who weren't made aware, Florida hates me. The entire state, they all hate me and wish I were dead. So I call this company and listen to the message header for my contact name: Joann Shorum. After cycling through all the names I opt to transfer to the receptionist where I'm transferred to an unfriendly women named Blanca:

Me: Yes, may I speak with Joann Shorum Please?
Blanca: Uhh ...(frustrated sigh)... She died a couple of years ago.
Me: Oh! ....ummm, I am SO sorry..... I'll update our records.

Thanks Florida! You've been great.

You're gonna need a bigger boat...

I distinctly remember this scene from Jaws scaring the crap out of me when I was a wee lass. It still holds true. Tonight as I was watching Jaws (one of my all time favorites) I prepared myself for the scare and still choked on my Double Dave's. Take a look, the money shot's at 2:44.

...Bachelor dandies, Drinkers of brandies, What do I know of those...

Just a lil something to keep you warm tonight.

Important Life Lessons, brought to you by Ferris.

Make the most of your life
The question isn't "what are we going to do," the question is "what aren't we going to do?"

Life is all about your perspective
Sloane: The city looks so peaceful from up here.
Ferris: Anything is peaceful from one thousand, three hundred and fifty-three feet.
Cameron: I think I see my dad.

Always believe in yourself
-Ism's in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon, "I don't believe in The Beatles, I just believe in me." Good point there. After all, he was the walrus. I could be the walrus. I'd still have to bum rides off people.

Eight perfectly good dollars - wasted!

Do not see Kiefer Sutherland's new film 'Mirrors'. If you'd like a more detailed explanation then allow me to elaborate.

***** WARNING!! MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS *****

Do not see Kiefer Sutherland's new film 'Mirrors'!! That is all.

A Priest, a Rabbi and a Moose walk into a bar...

I have turned into a punch line. I don't really know when or how it happened, but I am a joke.

I try not to take myself too seriously. What's the point? We all fall and have to get back up. We're all weird and akward. We all search for someone or something to make us whole. We might as well have a lighthearted attitude about it, right? The trouble is when I am being serious, and wish to be taken that way, nobody gets the joke.

I know I'm weird, but I don't mind. Everyone else is weird too, but most of us are polite enough to keep it to ourselves. We wouldn't want to call the Kettle black, now would we? It has long been my understanding that "normal" people are often boring people, and within the realm of "not boring" people are many levels of peculiarity. I unknowingly crossed over into Normalville, and let me tell you -- they don't make it easy. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between lame and old, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his social knowledge. This is the dimension of squares. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

I so desperately want to stand out in a positive way, not because I'm the weird girl. I try to be normal around them. It is exhausting. I don't like it. I decided it better long ago to just be myself..... but myself seems to be the butt of all the jokes lately. Perhaps I'm just being too sensitive. Maybe I'll let it all out with a good cry, b/c nothing goes better with Punch Line than her good friend, Drama Queen.

A Few Words from Eric...

Eric is the proprietor of Cafe Rio in Ruidoso. I've had the privilege of sampling his cooking a time or two, and basking in it's gut busting deliciousness. Think of Cafe Rio as the New Mexico equivalent to One Guy's (for all you locals out there). In my previous post I asked for everyone to share what their favorite sweet treat was. Eric took the challenge by the horns and responded with the words below. They offer a whimsical glimpse into the Americana we all hold in our core, and exemplify the great importance of family and tradition. With his permission I've posted his words as a follow up. Here is what he had to say:

Over the years I've gone from being a sweet fiend to not really having that much of a sweet tooth. When I was a kid I loved Banana Flips, a processed confection made with so much sugar in the crème filling that they crunched, and through high school raspberry Zingers were often lunch, at least until I started working and had money for food and Galaga. In the army, after a seven-mile run, nothing recharged the batteries like a pack of raspberry jelly filled and powdered sugar covered doughnuts along with a quart of chocolate milk and a Marlboro. Following this diet I had an enviably low amount of body fat and was able to run for hours.

At some point in the past few years I have somehow lost this love of sweets except for two days of the year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. On those two days (of which Thanksgiving is my favorite, hands down) I almost always bake pies, they are nearly always custard pies, and there are always at least two of four old standbys: chocolate, coconut crème, butterscotch and buttermilk. The wife of a friend made the buttermilk pie years ago; I got the recipe from her not long before she committed suicide. Every time I see buttermilk pie on a menu I try it and I’m happy to say that my friend’s has never been bested and I think she would approve of mine. The butterscotch is the newest; I started making it maybe ten years ago, as my then wife loves all things butterscotch. Two years after our divorce I was able make and enjoy it again. The chocolate and the coconut crème go way, way back. From the time I was a little boy, my mom and grandma would make these pies. They were slightly different but equally good. The only problem I had with grandma’s was that she put meringue on her pies, while mom left hers bare so we could add Cool Whip. Grandpa called meringue “calf slobbers” and from the time I was small I hated it and would scrape it off my slices of otherwise wonderful pie.

When I first married, my mom gave us the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, you know, the one with the red and white checkerboard pattern on it, it used to come with a fondue set at every wedding. Might still, I try to stay away from such affairs these days.

Being in Germany, and not having been home for over two years, I had missed out on four holidays worth of my favorite pies and decided that since I now had the recipes (my mom and grandma, at least to my knowledge at that time, had never used any cookbook but the BH&G), I could now make my own pies. And I did, and they weren’t the same. They were close, but different.

Over the years I continued to make them, changing only my crust recipe, and always thought they just tasted…different, good, but not as.In 1999 my grandma had a stroke and died within a few days. Grandpa followed her four years later. During the time between arriving home after grandpa died and his funereal there was the miserable chore of going through…stuff. My dad and his siblings had already secured photos and papers, now, as oldest grandchild, it was my turn. I have to admit that though I hated it, wishing with all my heart I wasn’t going through this house that I once loved to visit, but now hated to be in, I experienced a tiny thrill at what I found. I took only an old black Stetson, my grandpa’s worn out leather wallet that I had given him for Christmas a decade or more before, his pocket knife and a pair of cockroach killer cowboy boots (so called because of the wearer’s ability to get into a corner with the pointy toes to dispatch any varmints). From the kitchen I took a percolator, an ancient boning knife, a cast iron skillet, and the crown jewel, grandma’s own copy of the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, its pages falling out and filled with her own handwritten recipes and those cut from magazines or torn from can labels. Later, my dad insisted that I take a microwave and a chainsaw that I didn’t really want, but that I would “be able to use.” The microwave, yeah, the chainsaw, not so much.

For years my mom had greeted my insistence that my pies just weren’t as good as I remembered hers and my grandma’s with mild (and I have to say, seemingly feigned) consternation. She doesn’t want mine to be as good, I often thought, and just let it go. But there in the pages of my grandma’s cookbook was the answer. The Thanksgiving after grandpa’s death I decided to use grandma’s cookbook. Thus far, I had only glanced through it, now I really looked, at the colorized pictures of 1950s haute cuisine like pineapple ham, then at the recipes, and then I knew why our pies were all different, mine drastically so. Grandma’s book called for an entire hen house worth of eggs in its custard pies, my mom’s (I confirmed later) a few less, and my “modern and healthy” ‘80s model uses the fewest of all. “Not as rich,” I remember telling my mom.“Hmmmmm,” she would respond. Yeah.

I still bake at least some combination of two of these four pies at the holidays, though last year I thoroughly enjoyed letting a local BBQ joint cook our Christmas dinner, and I now use Grandma’s recipes every time, and, in spite of now rarely eating sweets, I will still eat coconut crème or chocolate pie until I am sick to my stomach, and the leftovers ‘til they are no more.

These days, I am much more likely to crave salted snacks, chips, I do love trail mix with a little bit of chocolate in it, in fact, I really do enjoy that salty-sweet combination, as well as spicy-sweet. My friends, Caz and Jerod picked up some apricot-habanero jelly at the Tularosa farmer’s market last weekend that was fantastic. But if I do find myself at home, late at night, craving something sweet, I almost always make a PB&J, or have a couple spoonfuls out of whatever ice cream carton the kids have in the freezer. Half a package of Nutter Butters also makes a fine snack.

Oh, though I don’t make it often for my pies, if someone else feels like putting calf slobbers on a pie I don’t slide it off anymore.

I like candy when it's wrapped in a sweater.

Like a werewolf in the full moon light, I am succumbing to the call.... of chocolate. I can not, will not resist. I'm two shakes shy of bolting out the door to make a midnight wal-mart run. I prefer twix, but when I get to this point I'll take anything I can get my grubby little paws on.

So my question tonight is what is your favorite sugary treat? Is it chocolate like me? Or perhaps you're a pie/cobbler fan. Does a warm batch of cookies suit your fancy, or do you turn to the sweet comfort of hard candy? Let me know peeps. This world is to cold for a sugar addict to travel alone. Let's keep each other warm.

4 8 15 16 23 42

A little over 8 weeks ago my brother Mark gave me an ultimatum. Either start watching Lost, or be excommunicated from the family. FOREVER. I believe his words were "I could forgive you, Sarah. I'm just not sure God could."

Fine.

He has been prompting me to watch for years, and since it is summer and there hasn't been much on since the writer's strike I obliged.

I started watching LOST 56 days ago. There are 83 episodes in the first 4 seasons. With each episode running roughly 43 minutes that's approx. 3600 minutes of Lost. That's an average of 64 minutes per day.

In true Lost fashion, I'll leave you to ponder those numbers.

An Ode to Working Late:

I've realized that anything and everything can be avoided or excused by working late. I came to this realization in the last few weeks b/c I have indeed been working late. How can you be expected to carry out your personal day to day work when you put in so many hours at the office? Right? Right.

Working late allows you to engage in several levels of irresponsibility that might otherwise be frowned upon. Just add the phrase "since I worked so late today" to the end of any sentence and be amazed as people's faces go from cynical to sympathetic. I'll give you a few examples:

"I didn't get around to washing the dishes, since I worked so late today"

That's alright! You don't worry about those smelly ol' dishes. You probably didn't even have time to use a dish seeing as how you worked so late!

"I didn't make it to the gym, since I worked so late today"

Sat around on the couch instead of hitting up that kickboxing class? Don't worry about it! You worked off your lunch by running back and forth to the accounting department. Besides, Diet Coke and Starburst don't have that many calories anyway.

"I'm sorry I never called you back...since I worked so late today..."

This one's a little trickier. I recommend adding a pause before you throw in the chosen phrase to add a dramatic effect. Throw up your hands and shake your head in bewilderment while you lower the bomb. This way people won't consider you a bad friend or a workaholic! They'll simply think you stayed so late at work that you temporarily lost all control of your faculties. You were lucky to even make it home, much less call to chat with them.

So next time you're in a sticky situation try it out! Let the laziness begin!

2 bones for an avacado?

I just went to the store and got the shtuff to make some delicious sandwiches.

mmmmmmm. sandwicheeeeeeeeeees.

Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take, I said Doctor, to relieve this bellyache?

I write to you a damaged woman. I will use my nine good fingers to explain:

Wednesday night I received a coconut. Eager to enjoy my snack I promptly went to work on it. The nut had already been removed from it's outer crust (see diagram) in traditional grocery store fashion. It was up to me to do the rest. First I drilled a hole into one of the coconut's "eyes" to drain the milk. My drill and I were both pretty excited (the drill doesn't see much action these days). Then I used my brute force to break the subject into several medium sized pieces. The next step was to cut the meat from the softer inner shell, but this would have to wait until tomorrow.

Which brings us to Thursday. Never being one to rise early enough for excessive tasks to be completed before work, I chose my lunch hour as the prime time for coconut meat removal. Unfortunately to explain my lengthy bouts of bad luck with knives and extreme heat would just take too long, so you'll just have to trust me. I knew I would have to move quickly and with great purpose. The longer you meddle with things like knives the greater opportunity for disaster. I grabbed the largest knife I owned. Now I know what you're thinking because I was thinking it too, but the large knife was absolutely necessary. You can't ask a boy to do a man's job. The events that followed were disastrous..... and typical.



I had made it down to the last piece. Maybe it was the sound of Tina Knowles voice in the background, maybe it was the Accident Prone gods smiting me. I dug the knife into the meat and applied full force to ensure a clean cut. Then the coconut buckled landing my left middle finger straight in the path of the blade. I dropped the knife and looked at my finger in disbelief, screaming at a level that was totally unnecessary (see video).


I was able to catch a glimpse of my finger nail hanging off just before my hand was encased in blood. I frantically and aimlessly wandered about the house for a moment, wondering what to do. I then realized I had no choice. I had to drive myself to the ER.

Now I don't mind being single, and I like living on my own. However, when a twenty-five year old, single gal has to do something like drive herself to the emergency room it can be quite traumatizing. When things like that start happening I'm pretty sure you get a complimentary membership to E-Harmony.com and 10 cats are delivered to your house within the next 24 hours. There's just no coming back from something like that.

So I'm speeding down 4th, calling work with one hand, bleeding with the other (I'm a good knee driver). I jog into the emergency room holding up my bloody hand (loosely wrapped in a lime green hand towel) like the Olympic Torch as if to say, "Here it is! Here's my quick ticket into this place!" Of course, this didn't happen. First the nurse had to order her steak fingers basket for lunch, THEN I got to see the Doctor.

I did eventually see a nice lady doctor (not a lady doctor... a lady doctor) who glued the hanging stump back onto the rest of me. They tell me there's no reason why my finger won't go on to have a perfectly happy and healthy life. Sadly I don't own a digital camera, so any actual sitings of the finger will have to happen in person. But it does look something like this:

Okay, not really. But it is pretty gross.

Monday Night Smack Down (Tuesday Edition)!

Tonight's Smack Down is between the great Warren Zevon and the not so great Kid Rock.

It has long been a petpeeve of mine when struggling (or not) artists take a slightly lesser known classic and whore it out just to make a dime. Take Kid Rock's recent taste of success with "All Summer Long". By sampling Zevon's hit "Werewolves of London" and poorly referencing Lynyrd Skynyrd's timeless "Sweet Home Alabama", Kid earns his place as a two time offender. Perhaps someone's bank account needs a little beefing up. It seems that pride wasn't the only thing Mr. Rock lost in his divorce from Pammy.

But don't let me decide for you!! Take a gander at the clips and decide for yourself. I will award KR a few points for the righteous party boat featured 1:06 in (I give credit where credit's due) but Lynyrd Skynyrd takes the ultimate prize with the sexy crowd footage ;)

*Warren Zevon's 'Werewolves of London'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhSc8qVMjKM

*Kid Rock's 'All Summer Long'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwIGZLjugKA

*Lynyrd Skynyrd's 'Sweet Home Alabama'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHsDa9_HSlA

In the AM

This is how I feel some mornings...

Another year older, another guy wiser.

Forgive me for my neglect. It was never intentional.

In recent news, I turned 25. I am now 1/4 of the way toward my goal of living to see 100. In reaching this milestone of a birthday I have attempted to do some soul searching of sorts. Of course I'm always attempting to soul search, but a birthday gave me a legit reason to do so. In the grand tradition of searching ones soul, I decided to buy a book. Through the course of wading thigh deep through my soul I have finally decided to come to grips with my situation with Apples.

Apples is just not that into me.

It's alright, I can embrace this. After all, I am 25 now and living with the false hope of a Happily Ever Apple isn't doing anyone a lick of good. So I swiftly settled on the book of the similar title "He's Just Not That Into You". Aside from selling millions this book is supposedly a jolly read on top of a good gut check. After casually looking (that's a dirty lie, I tirelessly scavenged) around Walmart and Target I came up empty handed. It was time to consult the professionals: Barnes and Noble. So Wednesday, after an exhausting session of kickboxing, I hit the hip book store to purchase my new view on dating and relationships. I knew they would have it, they have everything.... and this was a best seller!

As I walked in I briskly scanned over the displays down the middle aisle. Ahhh yes, the coveted middle aisle display. Where all the popular books with hip, colorful jackets sit. It's like the cafeteria at school. You have your New Arrivals greeting you like president of the student council while the New Fiction and New in Paperback arm wrestle at the jocks table. The Bargain Books cheat off of the Bestsellers' homework while the Children's Books furiously text away in the back corner. And then there's that new kid, Beach Reads. Not really sure about that guy. I looked everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

I even slowly skulked past the help desk hoping the hidden location of my book might somehow be transfered through osmosis. I could've asked an employee where to find it, but the only thing more ridiculous (and by ridiculous I mean sad and pathetic) than me asking a book to explain my relationships to me was asking someone to help me find the book.

Nothing. Where could it be? I had exhausted all possible locations......... except......... the Self Help Section (cue lightning and shattering glass). Hmmph! I smuggly "wandered" through the aisles just "casually" letting my eyes "glance" at the covers. Way of the Peaceful Warrior: A Book that Changes Lives and Just Who Will You Be?: Big Question, Little Book, Answer Within constructively judged me as I walked by. All of these books, but not mine.

I finally gave up and went home. Perhaps I'm not meant to read the book. I ate an orange in the car.......... that Orange was definitely into me.

Monday Night Smack Down!

It has recently been brought to my attention that Ashley Tisdale has redone Rick Astley's timeless hit "Never Gonna Give You Up". It seemed like a good idea, and although it picks up at the chorus the music's a little too menacing for this hopefull tune. Not to mention the poppy, pre-fab beat that sounds like it came from my brother Matthew's old Casio:

Maybe it's an omage to the original's Era; maybe it just sucks. But don't let me turn you off the Tiz...decide for yourself...

Ashley's Version
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ceukjOzxZM

Rick's Version (pop-up video version for extra awesomeness)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HrSN7176XI

Deep Thoughts......from John Tesh!

~SIGNS YOUR MARRIAGE WILL LAST~

Depending on which “study” you believe, the secret may be to make a lot of money, have more sons than daughters, and NOT live in Oklahoma – which has the highest divorce rate in North America! Not exactly advice that applies to everyone, right? So with help from the Wall Street Journal, which analyzed hundreds of studies, here are four truisms that work for ALL long lasting marriages.


The first sign your marriage will last: You take life’s big steps in the right order. Of the 57% of couples who DON’T get divorced in North America, most took the time to graduate from college before they got married. Then they waited until after the wedding to start having kids. However, the divorce rate climbs any time couples reach these milestones out of order.

Another sign your marriage will last: You’re both treated fairly on the job. Studies show that people who are overworked and underpaid often bring their job stress home with them. That stacks the deck against their marriage, because they argue more over things that have NOTHING to do with their relationship. So even if your job is to be a stay-at-home Mom, make sure there’s no resentment about it from either of you.

The 3rd sign a lasting marriage: You tie the knot before you sign a lease. Statistics show that couples who wait until after their vows to move in together last longer than couples who rush to cohabitate. Why? Researchers believe that people who live together before marriage place less value on lifelong monogamy.

A final sign your marriage will last: You share the wealth evenly. Stephanie Coontz, wrote the book Marriage: A History, and her research shows that couples who both have a job, yet share housework and child care evenly, have the lowest risk of divorce. It’s important that both partners are happy with that arrangement because working people will walk away from a marriage faster if they’re unhappy – since they believe they can leave and support themselves.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Walnuts dying in the flood.

Today we celebrate the life of an old friend.

It was almost twenty years ago that a rosy faced, six year old girl sat in class. With the supplies in front of her she was presented a task: to make a Christmas ornament. She cut with her safety scissors and glued with her Elmer's creating what was quite possibly the greatest Christmas ornament ever. She made Walnut Santa.

With his cotton ball beard and his Crayola eyes of bright blue (b/c everyone knows that Santa is a W.A.S.P.) Walnut Santa hung proudly on the tree, year after year.

After Christmas of 2006 Walnut Santa was wrapped tight in his paper towel and packed up for a year of rest. Sadly he was not given the chance to grace the tree in 2007 b/c Sarah's parents were too lazy to put up the tree.

Walnut Santa closed his eyes to a long winter's nap in 2006 and opened them to God in 2008. Sadly his life was cut short at the young age of 19 when he was destroyed by the flooding of Tim and Nan Hadley's baesement. We mourn the passing of our close friend, but celebrate the life he had. He brought joy to so many and sat proudly on the Hadley's Christmas tree for many years. He will be missed.

R.I.P. Walnut Santa

I Sing the Body Infected

My finger is messed up. My right index finger to be more exact. Friday afternoon it started to hurt, y'know like when something pokes you under your nail? The only thing is that I don't recall anything poking me (that's what she said). I think it all really went south when I had my manicure on Saturday followed by a pool party with my niece. Now it's infected. Swollen, pussy, tender.....infected. They might have to take the finger (this is me being dramatic). Luckily I made a Doctor's appointment tomorrow for unrelated reasons. Two birds with one stone I suppose.

So if I am an amputee next time you see me please don't point and stare. You can stare, but pointing would just be a mocking cruelty.

It just got a little pitchy for me, Dawg.

The finale of American Idol was last night. Almost one hundred million votes were cast....ONE HUNDRED MILLION. Hopefully I don't need to explain what's wrong with that situation.

But I will remind you about the time I had the PG13 dream about Simon Cowell. =)

UGH.

**Insert Homoerotic Rap Lyrics Here**

Outing Hip-Hop
In a new memoir, a former MTV staffer dishes on the rap industry's persistent "down-low" culture. He doesn't name names, but it's a fascinating peek inside hip-hop's last taboo.

http://www.newsweek.com/id/137380

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't

Let's talk about Apples.

Apples are great. I really like Apples. Over the years Apples have been seen in many different forms: Pied, Candied, Raw, Rotten. You name it and Apples have probably been there. In an attempt to make the Apple better, it has been paired with several things over the years. Perhaps one of the most significant is Peanut Butter...or so Peanut Butter would like to think.
Different dips have come and gone but peanut butter has always been there. Packed in lunches, presented at gatherings or just quietly enjoyed at home, Peanut Butter has been faithful. Now the history of the Apple is no secret. We've all heard the stories about the Lemon Juice and gossiped about the long term love affair with Caramel. Peanut Butter's heard it all......Peanut Butter doesn't care. Peanut Butter knows there's something different about Apple.

But that's all in the past. Let's fast forward to the now...... Fruit Dip. Yeah, we all know about Fruit Dip. It's creamy and delicious, how could any Apple resist? The coupling of Apple's tart, healthy goodness with the sinful sweetness of cream cheese and marshmallow creme is almost undeniable....... Fruit Dip. Peanut Butter's worst nightmare realized.

Peanut Butter is classic! Peanut butter and Apples go way back. They have history. So maybe Peanut Butter is a little chunkier than the blended mess that is Fruit Dip...... some people prefer Chunky to Smooth. Y'know, it's not like Peanut Butter doesn't have other successful venues to navigate. I mean there's always Jelly. But it's just not the same.......

Peanut Butter has a long shelf life. Let's all hope the Apples figure out what's good for 'em before it's too late.

This post is partly about Wal-Mart, so you might just want to hang yourself now.

Wednesday nights is choir practice. Typically I don't eat dinner before I go (just a snack, or 2, or 5) so by the time it's over (8:30ish) I'm pretty hungry. This usually results in me stopping at the grocery store for some lovin'.

Well tonight I decided to take advantage of Wal-Mart's low low prices!! I'll skip over the things that consistently blow about Wal-Mart, b/c you've all been there and you already know.Tonight's visit was pleasant. I scammed on some guys with my "I'm so beautiful/fabulous I just drifted into this place" look; it was good. I made a vane attempt to play the "what are all these processed foods and where do I find my sprouts?" card, but that scenario flew out the window once I loaded the Blue Bell pint and Tia Rosa chips into the basket. Maybe next time. The trip was topped off nicely by the tall drink in the green shirt. He chatted on his cell phone (with his grandmother I presume) and carried a jug of milk (insert 'Milk, it does a body good' joke here)


Since I was at choir I recorded America's Next Top Model on my VCR. Now if you'll excuse me...

The 75 things every man should know how to do:

This is fabulous. A must read for both sexes (don't worry it's not long.....or porn)

http://www.esquire.com/features/essential-skills-0508

I sing the body Electric, I celebrate the me yet to come

So I just got back from the gym and I'm floating somewhere in that realm of caffeine headache and dillusion. Whenever I come to this place I start thinking how much I wished I looked like Heidi Klum (or atleast had her body) and then I convince myself that it's totally possible....I just have to do a few more crunches...... tomorrow. Somebody pass me a Diet Coke.

Bitch stole my silver snake skin bikini.

The follies of my youth

I often compare the things kids do today to the things my brothers and I did when we were younger. It really is amazing how times have changed in just the last 20 years. I realize that I had a slightly unconventional upbringing. We weren't gypsies or anything (I wish), but by the time I, the third child, came along my parents were...let's just say...slightly more lax than maybe they should have been.

So today I give you a list. A list of things that were totally normal to me as a kid. Here, in no particular order, is a rundown of things that today would get me and my brothers taken away by CPS.

#1 Bike Riding. We used to ride our bikes everywhere....and I do mean everywhere. When I was about 8 or 9 we used to ride our bikes to the Dairy Queen on 19th and Frankford (we lived at 30th and Chicago) and play the memory game. We also used to ride to Putt Putt at 29th Drive and Brownfield and collect the golf balls that people had hit outside the course. Over the years we gathered a nice little collection. When I was ten I would leave my house at 11 in the morning (b/c I had to watch The Price is Right while I ate my cereal) and I wouldn't come back until dark. DARK! There was no cell phone, no low-jack....my parents just let me go.

#2 Hide and go SHOOT. Yes......shoot. I know parents today that won't even say the word "gun" around their kids, let alone let them have one for a toy. Our guns looked real and sounded real. There was a pretty large group of us within a 5 block radius that would get together and play hide and go seek....with guns. It worked a little bit more on the honor system, b/c in order to "tag" someone all you had to do was have good aim. Needless to say I "missed" my brothers quite a bit...or so they'd say.

#3 Playing on the roof. We got the ladder out and used the drain pipe/basketball goal to boost ourselves up on the roof. From there we would use--you guessed it--our guns to "shoot" passing cars. Are you kidding me? Why didn't we fall off and break something? It probably would've served us all right. I also seem to remember us throwing water grenades at anything we thought we could hit...including the neighboors dog......

#4 The next door neighboors dog! This thing was a beast. You know the dog in Sandlot? Yeah. This dog hated us almost as much as it's owner did. The husband was friendly, the wife.....not so much. To this day she still doesn't like my brother Matthew. That could have something to do with the way we treated her dog. I guess they thought it was a good idea to build it's house in the corner of our adjoining fence. We'd step foot in our backyard and that dog would hang halfway over the fence, mouth foaming, and scream at us. It was so much more than a bark....so much more. My brothers would throw rocks at it. I remember just standing, stairing at it. Silently mocking it. At one point my mother put me on a dairy free diet which provided me with little juice boxes of soy milk. I hated it, I wouldn't drink it. So what else are you gonna do with your sisters unused soy milk boxes? We shot them at the dog. We stuck the straw in the carton....and squeezed.

#5 Rated R movies. I have been to adult themed movies where parents have brought their children. Scoff! What are they thinking? Don't they know you're supposed to corrupt your kids in the privacy of your own home? When I was six my Papa babysat us. He quickly fell asleep in the recliner, and my brothers quickly took advantage of this situation. We watched Friday the 13th and it scared the six year old crap out of me. My closet light was burnt out that night, so I had to sleep in the dark. Terrifying. When I was not much older we watched The Terminator...the whole family sat down and watched The Terminator. My brothers teased me and told me Arnold was going to come kill me b/c my name was Sarah (they assured me that it didn't matter that our last name wasn't 'Connor'...he'd find me anyways) I was too young to make the distinction between Hollywood and real life. I lived in fear for months. Then there was the time that I begged Matthew to teach me how to braid my "My Little Pony"s hair. He agreed, but only if we could watch Commando. Commando is Rated R for strong violence, language and nudity...I couldn't have been more than 8. We watched Predator, regularly....perhaps my mother's judgement was skewed by her intense love for Arnold Schwarzenegger....

All things considered, I think we turned out pretty well.

Cross over children. All are welcome. All welcome.

Hello Everyone!

I am pleased to debut my new blogging home! The days of MySpace blogging are (mostly....hopefully) OVAH!

Thanks to everyone who has been kind enough to actually read my blogs over the years. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them. I promise there is more to come, but for now I must follow the beat of my heart.....to the Flea Market.

The limonada and pan is calling my name. The "hot" merchandise needs a home and I've got a wad of ones in my purse that are begging to be spent on a bootlegged movie. So I'm off! I will see you all soon (I hope).