Greetings from the dark side

Hello blog-o-sphere!!!

I apologize for my extended absence. Forget about the great crash of '29, let's talk about the great crash of '08. I'm speaking of course about my computer. Yes, after so many semi-faithful years my desktop has bit the big one.

I'm so anxious to get back and talk about all the ridiculous goings-on of my absurd life. Hopefully my tax return will prove large enough to purchase a fancy schmancy new desk top (or dare I say... a laptop...).

Until then peeps!

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.